I’ve been dressed for an hour, fruitlessly reviewing surveillance footage and combing over police reports. Irritation must show on my face because his first words to me are, “Nothing, huh?” I shake my head. “Worse than nothing. I can’t find a single common thread to link these cases except the obvious—the physical descriptions of the boys and the way the first two were killed.” “Well, let’s get to the Andersons’. I told Taft and Biller we’d be there around seven thirty.” He doesn’t mention stopping for breakfast first which I take as an indication that he’s as exasperated as I am at our lack of progress. Once more, the cloud of guilt descends. Maybe if I have a chance to get one of the Andersons alone today I can conduct my special brand of questioning. It’s risky, but we’ve exhausted every other channel. Abigail, the Andersons’ housekeeper, pulls the side door open before the last echo of the bell fades. Her face seems to have aged in the short time since we’ve last been here.
