Suzanne walked briskly toward her car. "What can I do about it? No one talked to her after the murder, no one knew to ask her if she'd seen anything."

"But she was at the same party her cousin was murdered, but didn't go to the police on her own."

"I can't tell you how many cases I've worked where someone doesn't cooperate because they think they're going to get into trouble for a minor crime. The party was illegal, there were illicit drugs, some people think they'll be culpable. Murder trumps trespa.s.sing, but people can be d.a.m.n selfish. Only think about their own situation."

That was certainly true in many situations, but Sean had great disdain for such selfishness. He'd gotten his hand slapped any number of times when he'd admitted to breaking the law to expose a greater crime.

"Where to now?" Sean asked.

"Back to headquarters. It's time to call it a night."

TWENTY-FOUR.

The three-story redbrick building stood alone in a vast cement field. It was silently guarded by construction equipment that twenty-one-year-old Sierra Hinkle doubted was operational. She stood on the top floor, where each window had been broken, leaving only empty holes looking out on the Upper Bay that was laid out before her like a black pit. The rain that had threatened all day now gushed from the sky in endless sheets of water. She stood at one of the openings, her long curly brown hair damp from the weather and her own sweat from hours of dancing.

Holding the wall for support, she looked down. It seemed too far. Would she die if she fell? Three stories? No, but she might break something. Sierra was so stoned she wouldn't feel it, and then she might die from the cold. Would anyone even see her tumble off the ledge? Would they even find her body, or would she float away in the bay? Would anyone care?

Pounding music from below shook the building, but there was no one except the four hundred of them to hear. She smiled at the illogic. But it was true; to the north was open s.p.a.ce, then another abandoned building; to the south was open s.p.a.ce, then a road that led to a shipyard in Gowa.n.u.s Bay. At least, she thought that's where she was. She hadn't come to the party alone.

Sierra enjoyed the peace up here on the third floor, though it was so much colder without hordes of frenetic bodies moving to the music. Still, she'd nearly pa.s.sed out from the heat and sweat and wet dog smell as people ran inside to get out of the rain. Even an umbrella couldn't keep anyone dry. While downstairs the windowless walls protected the dancers from the rain, up here, the wind pushed the rain through the broken windows.

She laughed out loud, stoned, but she could still think. She didn't remember what had she taken. Pot and some pills-something that made her see colors and rainbows and slowed down time. And a delicious drink someone handed her, even though she knew better than to drink anything but bottled water.

Up here on the third floor, people got a little privacy. Here they could do anything. Sierra laughed again. Privacy in this large, open room with forty people here and there? A guy and girl were f.u.c.king in the center, as if they were onstage, and some people watched. In the corner a group of seven was sitting in a circle holding hands and pa.s.sing around a pipe. Off to one side another group was dancing completely naked, eyes closed, moving to the music that came up from two stories below. She watched them and considered joining. Naked and free.

She wanted to escape.

Downstairs, where it was wild, she'd screwed two guys. She'd never done that before, not two in one night. She'd enjoyed the physical sensations that had been enhanced by whatever drugs she'd consumed, the freedom of being someone she wasn't. But in the back of her mind, the deep inside part she pretended didn't exist, she chastised herself for her reckless behavior.

You're letting him hurt you when you do things like this.

And she lied to her inner voice, told it that though her stepfather had hurt her and stolen her innocence, she was now in control. She could f.u.c.k who she wanted and when. He no longer had power over her.

Why was it, then, that she always thought about him when she was partying? Did he still have such control over her that even though she'd escaped, she lived wild to punish him? Wasn't it she who was being punished?

Self-hate flowed through her veins.

I hate you I hate you I hate you!

Maybe she should jump.

She held her arm out the opening and let the rain pummel her flesh. It felt wonderful. Suddenly, the need to be clean overpowered her. She didn't want to jump, she didn't want to die; she wanted the rain to cleanse her, to make her whole and complete and fully alive again.

Sierra jumped off the ledge and skipped across the floor, down two flights of stairs, b.u.mping into people but no one cared and neither did she. She ran out the back exit, toward the open field that led to the bay she'd seen from the window. The rain soaked her before she'd gone twenty feet.

She laughed and spun around. She didn't know how long she danced alone, drenched but giddy. All she knew was that this was true freedom, standing in the rain in the middle of nowhere, black all around, no sound but water hitting the broken ground.

She tripped, caught herself, then stopped and looked around. She didn't hear the music anymore; the lights were way far away. And she was freezing.

How long had she been standing in the rain? Her short hair was plastered to her head and she was shaking so violently her teeth chattered.

Her vision blurred, but she stared at the lights until the building came more into focus. Wow, she'd run a long way! Hugging herself, she headed back and hoped Becca hadn't left. She wouldn't do that to her, would she? Make her walk to the subway alone?

Now she heard it. The party was still going full blast. She had sobered up some, and had a headache and a nasty taste in her mouth. She was starving. She hoped she could find Becca and they could head back to their apartment in Brooklyn, hitting an all-night diner on the way.

She pa.s.sed a bulldozer that had been stripped of everything but the metal body. The music got louder; she was close. How foolish she'd been to run outside, alone, in the rain! What drugs had she taken? Her mouth was so parched, all she wanted was to drain an entire water bottle. She stopped walking and tilted her head up, opening her mouth to quench her thirst.

Sierra felt something on her forehead and put her hand up thinking it was a bird, but that was silly in this weather. Then the rain stopped, because no more water was falling into her mouth. Something was on her face, and she realized with panic that a plastic bag had been pulled over her head.

She stumbled back, trying to grab the bag that was wrapped around her neck. She b.u.mped up against someone and opened her mouth to scream. She stayed silent; she had no air. Hands flailing, she tried again to grab the plastic around her neck, but it was slick and wet and smooth and she couldn't get a grip. She scratched herself, then thought, break the plastic!

She clawed at it, but it would not break. Her eyes were open, but she couldn't see. Was she already dead? So dark, no air, she reached behind her and touched a raincoat, tried to pull it, but her fingers couldn't hold on to anything so slick. She was cold and hot at the same time, and she couldn't breathe.

Someone was standing right behind her! Touching her. Holding her. Holding the plastic over her head.

You're going to die.

Her chest burned as her heart raced, faster, faster, using the last of the oxygen in her body. The carbon dioxide her body created couldn't be expelled, and it poisoned her. Her blood burned. She'd been so cold before; now she was combustible.

In her panic, she had one clear thought. Play dead.

Against all instincts, she fell to her knees and relaxed her body.

"Good try, but I know that game," a harsh voice whispered in her ear, distorted through the plastic.

The bag pulled tighter. Sierra fought, adrenaline surging even as her consciousness began to fade. She tried to turn around, to face her attacker, to push back, anything to loosen the hold on her. Her neck rubbed painfully against the edge of the plastic, but that was minor compared to the pain in her chest as carbon dioxide filled her lungs and flowed through her bloodstream. She half turned, fighting for her life, knowing this was her last chance. She pushed, and kicked and hit something while she tumbled down, arms reaching out for someone to save her. She grabbed on to something and pulled; her attacker grunted.

"f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h!"

A sharp pain stabbed her head as she hit the ground; then she was numb; then she felt nothing.

A full two minutes later, the killer yanked off the plastic bag, removed one of Sierra's shoes, and slowly walked away.

TWENTY-FIVE.

Sean heard Lucy cry out at the same time something hit his chest. Waking instantly, he reached for his gun on the nightstand, but quickly realized there was no intruder.

Lucy was writhing next to him, her hands swatting the air in front of her, eyes squeezed closed. She hit him again, and he switched on the hotel room's light. His heart raced, but he spoke calmly. "Lucy. Lucy, wake up."

Was he not supposed to wake someone in a nightmare? He didn't know, but he couldn't let her remain in this terrified state. Sweat coated her face, but her skin was ice cold. Every muscle was coiled; she was in full panic.

"Lucy! It's Sean! I'm right here." He spoke right in her face, hoping she would hear him through whatever torment she was suffering. He desperately needed to break her out of her dream.

Suddenly, she jumped out of the bed and backed against the wall, eyes wild, clearly not remembering where she was.

He leapt over the bed and stood in front of her, palms up, wanting to hold her but fearing that if he touched her she'd scream. "Lucy, it's me. It's Sean. You're safe."

At first, she didn't see him. The fear in her eyes was as real as if she were at that moment facing an attacker. Then her eyes widened in recognition and her lips trembled. She threw her arms around his neck, tears running down her cheeks as her body shook in silent sobs.

He picked her up and carried her to the couch on the other side of the suite. He sat with her in his lap and she gripped him tightly. "Don't let go. Don't let go," she repeated.

"Never." He rocked her until at last her body began to relax. Her heart was beating so hard he thought he could hear it. Or was that his? He kissed the top of her head. "I'm right here, Lucy. You're safe. You're safe," he repeated, as much for himself as for her.

Her breathing evened out as he held her. He didn't know how long he sat with Lucy cradled in his lap, holding her, stroking her hair, still damp from her panic, rubbing her back, not thinking. He couldn't think about anything. He just needed to touch Lucy. Every nerve in his body was raw with grief-coated anger from seeing the raw terror on Lucy's face in the moment between sleep and waking.

He thought she might have fallen back to sleep, but when he shifted position, she sighed and nuzzled his chest, her knees drawing up. He kissed her forehead and realized she was cold.

He started to get up but she said, "Don't go."

"I'm not going anywhere. You're freezing; I want to get you warm."

Sean carried her to bed, then lay down next to her and pulled the blankets around her. He reached over and turned off the light, hoping he could hold her until her heart rate returned to normal, until she fell into a dreamless sleep in his arms. He would cling to her the rest of the night, protecting her from her fears. His heart still pounded.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"You have nothing to be sorry for." He continued to touch her, as if to a.s.sure himself that she was safe. Her face burrowed into his neck, and he kissed her forehead. "How long?"

She didn't say anything and he thought she wasn't going to answer.

"Lucy?"

"They went away for a long time. But the last couple weeks ..." Her voice trailed off.

Sean bit back a profanity that Lucy didn't need to hear right now. Five weeks ago, her past had confronted her again when her rapist had been found shot to death only miles from her house. Why didn't he see that she was in pain, even now?

"It's not every night," she added.

"Even once is too often." He kissed her forehead again, and adjusted her into the nook of his arm. Her body curved against his. Her feet were cold. He pulled one of them between his calves to warm it.

Sean wanted to sleep in Lucy's bed every night. He wanted to protect her from dangers real and imagined and remembered. He wanted to hold her close, to make love to her, or just listen to her breathe in peaceful sleep. He wanted to make her smile and hear her laugh every single day of his life. He wanted to show Lucy how much he loved her. He dreaded returning to Washington knowing they'd be going back to their separate homes.

"Sometimes," she whispered, "I feel so empty. Like there's nothing left inside and I'm alone."

"Oh, sweetheart, don't." He found her lips and kissed her. "You're never going to be alone. I'm here." He kissed her again. "I love you, Lucy. I'm not going anywhere."

I love you.

Lucy's breath hitched when she tried to tell Sean she loved him. She couldn't get the words out. She wanted to, but fear stopped her, fear of losing Sean, fear of losing herself. Fear that she would never be normal, no matter how much she pretended that everything was all right. The nightmares, her past, her future-or what was left of it. She wanted to love Sean, she wanted to stay here with him, to forget that anyone else existed, to forget pain and sorrow so deep that if she thought about it she'd break into a million pieces and no one would be able to help her. She didn't want Sean to suffer her burden. It wasn't fair to him.

She was teetering on the brink. Her cool facade was just that, an act, a hard sh.e.l.l she'd erected not only to stop pain from coming in, but to prevent her emotions from leaking out. Sometimes she felt blank, without the capacity to love or hate, able only to exist. And sometimes the deep-seated fear and hate and regret and endless sorrow that simmered in her core threatened to boil over until she wanted to scream. How could she cultivate the ability to love someone, to hope for a bright future, when she didn't even know if she had love to give?

She couldn't speak, but she could give Sean a small piece of herself, show him that she needed him.

Lucy felt for his unshaven face and held it between her hands, then kissed him. She kissed him until she felt as warm inside as she was outside, wrapped in his arms. His body temperature was always raised; he could wear shorts in winter and be hot to the touch. She kissed him until all remnants of the nightmare memories that had been plaguing her for weeks faded far away into the dark corners of her mind. She kissed him as if she were dying and he was her only hope for survival. And maybe he was. Maybe he could save her from shattering.

It was a fine line between commitment and obsession, a narrow path separating sanity from lunacy. She walked it every day, an acrobat on a tightrope, fearing she'd fall straight down and there would be no safety net, personally or professionally. Lucy knew she could lose herself in her past just as easily as she could lose herself in her future. She felt close to being a whole, normal person only when she was pursuing justice, focused on helping others.

Except now. Except with Sean.

Her hands were on his bare chest, and she pushed him onto his back, rolling on top of him, never letting his lips leave hers. His biceps flexed around her body as she straddled him. She felt a groan deep in his chest. She had no words, no thoughts, just a deep, extreme physical need.

Never had she been so forward, so urgent, in lovemaking. Sean's hands were on her back, holding her tight, as if afraid to let her go and lose this unspoken, overwhelming desire. She tossed her T-shirt and panties across the room and pushed down Sean's boxers, without breaking contact for more than a fraction of a second. She needed his hands, his arms, his entire body wrapped around her, inside her, filling her emptiness, completing her as only he could.

She gasped as she controlled Sean's entry, but slid down smoothly, firmly, without hesitation. She broke the kiss as her back arched up, sweat coating her body and his. She held still for a long moment, savoring this instant flash of pleasure so natural, so real, so primal. A wave of heat washed over her and she pushed the blankets off impatiently.

Sean pulled her back to his chest, his lips on hers, as their bodies moved in unison, jumping from first gear to overdrive. Lucy gasped each time he went deep, his hands pulling her onto him as he pushed himself into her. Their lovemaking was perfectly timed, as if they joined together like this every night and had for years, though it was all still new and fresh and exploratory.

Sean said something but Lucy couldn't hear over her rushing blood, as every muscle in her body tightened simultaneously, then released in a flood of ecstasy that surprised her so much she exclaimed Sean's name in a voice that sounded nothing like her.

Sean thrust in a final time and held her tightly against him, their bodies hot and thoroughly pleasured. He didn't let go when he was done, his hands moving from her b.u.t.t to her back to her hair. He grabbed it in his fists and pulled her face to his and kissed her again, just as pa.s.sionate and heated as before.

"Lucy," he murmured into her mouth.

Lucy felt languid and so relaxed she didn't think she could move. Sean sensed the shift inside her, and adjusted their position so she returned to the crook of his arm, but her head tilted so he could kiss her. She sighed contentedly, feeling like a lazy cat must when stretched out under a sunbeam.

"You're smiling," Sean said.

"I am." And like a lazy cat, she was satiated and tired. She sank into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

TWENTY-SIX.

The rain that had fallen in buckets half the night was now a light but steady trickle at seven o'clock Sunday morning. Suzanne had worn thick socks and rain boots, but her feet were the only part of her body that was dry.

The fifth victim of the Cinderella Strangler had been found outside an abandoned storage facility in Red Hook, where once again an underground party had been raging through the night. Jessica Bell had died practically a stone's throw away in Sunset Park just one week ago.

Because her primary suspect was locked up on Rikers Island, Suzanne wanted to believe Sierra Hinkle had been killed by a copycat. But she'd stayed up half the night reading the report Lucy Kincaid had prepared for Hans Vigo, and she now believed she'd been wrong.

Suzanne had half expected the name, address, and phone number of the killer at the end of Lucy's detailed a.n.a.lysis, but of course it wasn't there. And while Lucy had stopped short of providing a psychological profile of the killer, Suzanne read between the lines. Lucy d.a.m.n well had a psych a.n.a.lysis in mind, but she hadn't included it, whether out of deference to the a.s.sistant director or because she didn't want to go out on a limb.

Lucy had provided statistics regarding similar serial murders that gave information, but no conclusions. She'd taken Suzanne's methodical time line and added in the victims' Party Girl information, which Suzanne hadn't had before Friday, plus she'd incorporated the missing girl Kirsten Benton as a potential witness.