This is true. Nora isn’t afraid of people, no matter what they’ve done, because their actions usually make sense. On a normal day they would have done X, but on this day they chose Y instead. And they chose Y because of Z. There is a logic to misbehavior, no matter how twisted. The math works out and that makes criminal behavior comprehensible to her. That’s what she wants. The XYZ of it all.

There are exceptions, of course. Every once in a while she comes across somebody for whom the math doesn’t work out. These people have no thresholds. She doesn’t know what to call them—sick, evil. But they’re wired differently than the rest of us. They’re the ones hardest to pin down because there’s no causality, no straight line, no cause-and-effect reasoning. The clues they leave behind are less like a trail of bread crumbs and more like a dozen jigsaw puzzles scrambled up in a windstorm. That’s who Nora’s scared of.

People like Albus Crotter.

So far she’s held off on mentioning his name. She’s still not sure she’s ready to go there. Although it feels like the first thing she should have asked, she can’t help but push it to the last. So she eases into the possibility by calling up some photos on her phone. The photos of the corpse. Close-ups of the cuts crosshatched into the victim’s skin.

She scoots the cell across the table, the screen giving off a white and red glow.

“So I’ve been talking, and now I think it would be great if you did the same. Maybe you could start by telling me about these markings, Ashley? What do they mean?”

Something happens then. Ashley blinks rapid-fire. Then her face creases and she cries out and shoves away the phone two-handed and it clatters to the floor. “No,” she says in a small, rusty voice.

Nora retrieves the cell and finds Ashley looking at her, truly looking at her for the first time.

“No,” she says again.

“His name was Nat Campbell.”

“No.”

“You were sharing the tent. You appeared to be sharing a life. Can you describe your relationship?”

“No.”

“One eye was carved out. His mouth was hewn open. And his skin was etched with markings. And you were found carrying the knife that did all this.”

“No.”

“Can you tell me what happened? Just a few quick details.”

“No.”

“Did you do this to him, Ashley?”

“No.”

“Then tell me who did.”

“No.”

“Have you ever heard the name Albus Crotter?”

At this Ashley stops breathing for a good thirty seconds. Then her eyes search every corner of the room and she says, “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

Her eyes continue to dart wildly about. “The whispering.”