The sick bastard had framed the picture like a head shot, capturing the ligature marks on her neck and the vacant stare of her blue eyes. On the back he’d written “Your next” in red block letters, followed by a number two. He should have written “You’re next,” but that was the least of anyone’s problems. “Yeah, that’s her, all right.” Vasquez’s expression was grim as he considered the photo. “Where did you say you found this again?” “It was shoved into one of my files.” Libby wrapped her arms around herself. Vasquez’s office was stuffy and warm, but she couldn’t seem to shake the chill that had settled over her in court. “That means that the suspect gained access to your office,” Nick said. “The D.A.’s Office is monitored by video surveillance.” “We’ll take a look at the videos,” said Vasquez. His face pinched with concentration as he turned the evidence bag that protected the photo in his hands.
