He glanced at the huge, near-empty space that housed the Clarion. Charity was in San Francisco, and, of course, Seamus O’Day wasn’t at his desk at this hour. Seamus might not show up at all, preferring to work “at home” or “in the field,” which usually meant the stool next to the video poker machines at the Brass Bullet.

Earl should really fire him and give Charity his stories.

The phone was still vibrating as Earl wondered about Charity. She’d been practically rabid to work on the Megan Travers story, all amped up about James Cahill being behind the girl’s disappearance, but when Earl had refused to cover an all-expenses-paid vacation in San Francisco, she’d gotten really pissy and said she’d go on her own dime. He hadn’t believed her, but she’d been MIA ever since, and he figured if she came back with something worthwhile, a sensational story, then maybe he’d comp her for her gas or motel room or meals. Then again, maybe not. He’d wait and see, but in the back of his mind, he wondered if she ever would return. She had big plans, Charity Spritz did, and he didn’t think it included writing human-interest stories for the Clarion for the rest of her life. She’d said as much.

Again the phone caught his attention.

Well, speak of the devil. Charity’s number popped onto the screen.

Earl Ray scooped up the phone just as it disconnected.

“Shit.”

He returned the call.

No answer.

What was that all about? He left a message. “It’s Earl. Call me back.”

He clicked off and immediately heard the sound of chimes indicating she’d texted him.

Good.

He hated to admit it, but he kind of missed having her around here.

She was a spunky thing. Full of fire. Even if she did rub O’Day the wrong way. But at least she had life. His gaze wandered to the door, where his son, in sloppy jeans and a T-shirt, his hair wound up in that stupid man bun, slowly sauntered to his workstation. Probably stoned out of what was left of his mind.

Irritated, Earl Ray glanced down at his phone as the text message came onto the screen. “What in fuck’s name is this?” The picture was of a naked woman lying in a bed, her eyes staring upward, her mouth rounded as if in surprise, a pistol pointed at her head. Her hair was black and braided, the plait falling over one pale shoulder to curl at her breast.

He’d seen her, he thought, but couldn’t place her. What was Charity doing? The message accompanying the photo was simple:

ANOTHER VICTIM.