d of dread. Thirteen murders. Thirteen brutal, messy endings that had everyone l

dnight. A clipped, professi

police. There's been an in

was gone. A cold, empty space opened up inside m

ashing red and blue lights. Yellow tape cordoned off the building, and

ficer stopped

y husband..." My voice broke,

entrance. That' s when I saw him. Detective Mark Johnson. He was older, with tired eye

. I'm Detect

r condolences.

crowd cut through the air.

ouse, a figure stood silhouetted agains

dark shape against the city's glow. Then

inal, a sickening thud that echoed off the pavement. It splattered across the cle

out, grabbing the detective' s arm for support. Tears, real this time, streamed down my

picture of a woman

ooked down at my hand on his arm, then back up at my face. His

did t

d to stop spinning. My b

ispered, my

his eyes drilling into me. "The other thirt

certainty that was so absolute, so unexpecte

wildered grief. This was not part of the plan. N

t fury, began to tighten. This man, this stranger, was look

back as if I'd been burned. "My husband... my..

poured every ounce of my acting ability into the performa

oice shaking. "I was at my sister-in-law's house. All

e of pity directed at the poor, tragic woman being harassed by a callou

ere," a younger officer said gently, trying

it. They were

er officer off without looking at him. His gaze

, for my ears only. "I've been on this case from the beginning. Thirteen victims be

hadn't expected to hit so soon. He wasn't guessing.

with the scent of death hanging in the air, I k