One more case, Matt had said. It would always be one more case calling to her, one more case to be solved. But the killers wouldn’t stop. Psychopaths were born and bred, created from both nature and nurture. They would keep coming, and nothing she did could deter them from their destructive path.

She might make another mistake. She might miss an important detail. And then where would she be? Washing more innocent blood off her hands?

Except.

The Triple Killer was hers.

She’d hated then that she’d only been able to write a partial profile. Partial because there was far too much she didn’t know. Partial because local law enforcement hadn’t thought a serial killer was at work and she’d had to restructure each crime scene under a different lens, looking for patterns as proof—and differences as key pieces of evidence. Back then, she’d barely read and absorbed all the information before he took his sixth victim, then disappeared for another three years.

Until now.

She brought her wineglass to her lips and realized it was empty. It was too cold to stay out here anyway, no matter how lovely the view.

You barely noticed the park lights. You weren’t looking at the skyline. You were thinking about murder, violence, and why. What triggered the Triple Killer and who will he target now?

Catherine closed her French doors and poured a second glass of wine over the half-melted ice cube. Who was she fooling?

“Don’t lie to yourself, Catherine,” she said out loud. “Above all, don’t lie to yourself.”

She’d wanted the case from the minute Matt told her the Triple Killer was back. She’d opened Matt’s emails as soon as she received them. She reopened the files and read the case reports and worked her way back into the mind of this methodical butcher. And though her condo was half-filled with boxes, all she’d really done was pack up clothes she hadn’t worn in years, extra linens, and some of her books. She’d given a couple boxes of popular fiction to the local senior center, not because she regularly donated to them but because the center was located between her condo and her favorite coffee shop. They’d had a sign in the window asking for donations of books, games, magazines. It was, she thought, a sign for her to purge.

But she hadn’t touched her office. She hadn’t packed one file. Maybe, in the back of her mind, she knew that something or someone would draw her back in. That another killer would claim her time, her attention.

It was after six. She should think about dinner. Getting a good night’s sleep and looking at the cases fresh in the morning. But they beckoned her.

Help us.

She could practically hear the victims begging for justice.

Help me, Cat. Help me.

A faint moan escaped her chest as if she could hear her sister desperately calling out for her. She hadn’t been able to save Beth; she could save the next victim of the Triple Killer.