But, no, no, no … It was just that Billy was getting off her, rising, grabbing the box cutter and lifting it.

He was going to slash her throat.

He was mouthing something. She couldn’t hear.

But she clearly heard the two, then three, huge explosions from the front doorway of the apartment building. She saw that the sun was the source of the light: the sun pouring onto her west-facing building. And saw two silhouettes, men holding guns. Looking then toward Billy she watched him stagger back, stumbling, clutching his chest. Torn mouth opening wide.

He looked down at her, dropped the box cutter, settled awkwardly into a sitting position, then eased to his side. He blinked, surprised, it seemed. He whispered something. His hands twitched.

Then the officers pushed into the hallway and had her by the arms, lifting her to her feet and pulling her toward the front door. Pam shook them off, though, apparently surprising them with her strength. ‘No,’ she whispered. She turned back and kept her eyes locked on Billy’s until his gaze went unfocused and the pupils glazed. Inhaling hard, she waited a moment longer and then turned and stepped outside, while the officers advanced to Billy’s body, pistols forward and ready – which was, she guessed, procedure, even though it was clear, unquestionably clear, he was no longer a threat.

CHAPTER 73

The medics had finished tending to Pam Willoughby, who walked outside her town house onto the chill, bright street.

From a spot on the curb, where he sat in his rugged Merits wheelchair, Lincoln Rhyme noted that Amelia Sachs started to step forward, arms extending slightly – to embrace her – but then slowed to a stop. She eased back, lowering her hands, when Pam gave no response, other than a formal nod of greeting.

Rhyme asked, ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Getting by,’ said the somber-faced young woman – Rhyme could no longer think of her as a girl. He heard how she’d fought the unsub and he was proud of her.

For some reason Pam kept brushing at her legs – the front of her thighs. It reminded him of the compulsive way Amelia Sachs sometimes touched or scratched her own body. She noted him looking and stopped. ‘He tattooed me. But it wasn’t poison. It was a real tat. He had part of his name and mine on his legs, he did the other part on mine.’

Splitters, Rhyme recalled TT Gordon telling them. Lovers who mark portions of their names on each other.

‘I’m …’ She swallowed. ‘I feel pretty creepy.’

‘I know somebody who can get them removed. I’ve got his number.’

If TT Gordon knew how to ink he’d surely know how to de-ink.