“Yes. This video was taken three nights ago, and the flowers are still visible beneath the snow and ice on her lawn.” The video ended with the figure finishing up and walking out of camera range. “Would you have your team search all CCTV in the area to see if we can catch sight of him again?”

Huck nodded. “No problem. This is a coincidence I don’t like.”

“Me either.” She tapped her fingers on the old door and studied him. “Do you mind walking me through the facts? Sometimes it helps to hear facts instead of writing them down.”

He flattened his broad hands on his jean-clad thighs. “Two women, both gifted with black dahlia flowers. One after death and one before. I don’t like that to start with, and I really don’t like that your recently discovered sister is one of the women. You’re the new profiler in town, your sister is involved in your second case after also being very involved in your first? What are the chances?”

Laurel shook her head. “I don’t know. Much of this depends on the identity of the victim we found. Did she know my sister? If so, it’s more likely that Abigail also knows the killer. If not, then what? Could Abigail have killed this other woman and made herself a victim to . . . what?”

“To get your attention?” Huck asked. “She’s a malignant narcissist, or a psychopath, or a sociopath, or one of those many labels that just don’t make any sense anyway. Is she that nuts?”

“I can’t answer that question,” Laurel said, her mind spinning and her stomach cramping. “She might suffer from one, none, or all of those conditions. I don’t know her.” It would take years to counsel and study a person to make that determination, and with somebody as brilliant as Abigail, even longer. Abigail would know how to answer test questions to fit any condition or label she wanted. Including perfectly sane. “I don’t see her as having killed the woman in the woods merely to gain my attention.”

“Why not?”

Laurel breathed deep. “Because there was so much . . . rage. The way the victim’s face was obliterated. That was ferocious.”

“It also prevented us from identifying the body easily. That was strategic.” Huck scratched the stubble over his chin.

“No.” Laurel shook her head. “It was more than that. To keep hitting a face, a body, after death . . . that’s pure fury. Primal hatred.”

Huck looked at the worn door serving as a desk. “Do you mind working with me on this?”

She stilled. “No. Why would I?” It was an important case and he’d be very helpful.

His smile was slightly lopsided and unintentionally charming. “Why would you? Okay. I forgot that about you.”

Curiosity had her head tilting. “What about me?”

“That you don’t play games and are unbearably logical.” His broad shoulders visibly relaxed.