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which he wanted most.
    Alyssssa …
    He knew he was going to have to be patient again, he was going to have to wait longer. Maybe the husband would die, or maybe he’d live—either way Savannah would eventually return and he’d proceed as he’d long planned. He’d kill Savannah, and Alyssa would come.
    Still, his chest was so tight and the roaring in his ears so loud, he knew he needed to find relief.
    But it couldn’t be now, and it absolutely couldn’t be here. It had to be far enough away, and it had to be different—no long, lingering terror, no teeth.
    Somehow he walked home.
    Maybe … one tooth, broken as if accidentally, perhaps from a tire iron to the face.
    Somehow he changed his clothes, changed his appearance, changed his very identity.
    He knew how to not get caught, how to not get noticed, and he rented a car using a credit card he kept on hand for emergencies like this one. The camera behind the counter recorded the transaction,but its grainy images wouldn’t help them find him, even if they got as far as connecting his rental to that which was to come.
    He was more calm now, knowing what his immediate future held.
    He left the garage, careful to obey the speed limit, careful not to cause gridlock, or to otherwise break the law.
    He drove for hours, heading south through Jersey, almost to Baltimore. There was a mall in White Marsh, upscale and sprawling, with vast parking lots that became deserted at night—except for the areas near the movie theater. It had a Sears, and as the sun began to set, he parked and he went inside and bought a tire iron with cash.
    And she was right there, behind the counter, as if waiting for him, a little worn around the edges, older than he usually liked and stinking of stale cigarette smoke. But she was blond and blue-eyed like Savannah—and as different from Alyssa as night was from day. So he smiled at her and she flirted with him and there was no one behind him in line, so he lingered.
    She was working until nine-thirty, did he want to go out and get a drink … ?
    It was that easy.
    He went to his car to wait, and to look at his pictures—he’d taken a dozen with him for this trip—and to dream.
    Of blood on his hands.
    And of Alyssa Locke.

C HAPTER
O NE
F OUR M ONTHS L ATER
M ONDAY , 26 J ANUARY 2009
    T he police detective was not impressed. “What is it, exactly, that you would like us to do?”
    His name was Michael Callahan and he was young and not quite handsome, unless you went for the vaguely Popeye-esque, third-generation New York Irish cop type. Strawberry blond with blue eyes that could twinkle on command or look flat and bored, as they did right now. Lean face with sharply chiseled angular features, and a wiry, compact body. He played shortstop in the local softball league, Jenn would’ve bet her turkey-on-seedless-rye on that.
    She answered his question with a question, aware that the interns were watching her. “What is it you usually do in situations like this?”
    Situations in which a computer-printed note—obscene and rambling, but not quite a death threat—had been stuck to Assemblywoman Maria Bonavita’s New York City office door with a sharply bladed knife, while Jenn and the interns had all been out at lunch.
    Truth be told, Jenn hadn’t expected the death threats to start
quite
so soon. Cranky e-mails were one thing, but this … ?
    It was only Maria’s second week in office, and wasn’t there supposed to be a so-called honeymoon period for an elected official?Perhaps a solid month, maybe two, before they’d have to make a call to the police?
    “What we usually do is waste valuable lab time examining the fingerprints on the weapon,” Callahan said, “and confirming the fact that everyone here touched it before calling us.”
    Ron and Gene looked abashed, and Jenn stepped to the interns’ defense. “The note contains offensive language. There’s a pediatric dentist’s office right down the hall—”
    “So you tear the