Now, as he drove toward the station, he hoped Spencer had identified the victim. The snag of traffic irritated him more than usual because he was anxious to hear what Spencer had to say. Fifteen minutes later, he walked through the front door of the police station.

The sergeant behind the desk, a bulldog of a man with a thick mop of gray hair, looked up. “That special agent just arrived. She’s in the conference room.”

Vaughan straightened his tie. “Thanks.”

“This about the head case?” the sergeant asked.

Dark humor might have offended some on the other side of the blue line, but it was how cops coped with very grim realities. “That’s what she tells me.”

Vaughan climbed the stairs two at a time and pushed through the second floor door to find Spencer sitting in the conference room. Her head was bent, and her gaze was on her phone as she quickly typed a message.

Spencer had a long lean body suited for her trademark black suits and tall heels. Auburn hair was always plaited into a french braid, emphasizing her sculpted cheekbones and vivid blue eyes. She wore minimal makeup, but as far as he was concerned, she did not need it.

Vaughan cleared his throat. “Special Agent Spencer.”

Her pensive expression slipped away as she raised her gaze from the phone. “Detective Vaughan.”

As she began to rise, he motioned for her to stay seated. He took the chair across from her. “I’ve texted Hughes. She’s stuck in court.”

“I know she hates that.”

“No doubt.” He didn’t want to talk about his partner. Spencer had been working a case in Nashville the last couple of weeks, and he wanted to tell her how much he had missed seeing her. Instead, he asked, “You have an identification for me?”

“I do.” She opened a file. Her fingers were long. Graceful. Like her legs. She had mentioned something once about being a ballerina but had never explained how a dancer transitioned from the stage to the bureau.

“As you know, I’ve spent most of the summer working on a facial reconstruction project,” she said. “We believe we were able to identify the subject. Her name was Marsha Prince.”

Vaughan sat back in his chair, his thoughts pivoting from her legs to business. “I had just joined the force, and the case made a real impression on all of us. Marsha Prince vanished after visiting a local nightclub.” She had been underage and had used a fake identification. Unlike the Jane Doe back at the motel, Marsha’s case had dominated headlines. “Where in the World Is Marsha Prince?” had been one article. It hyped theories ranging from her being buried in a shallow grave in the Shenandoah Valley to working as a sex slave in Mexico.

“It appears Ms. Prince didn’t make it more than five miles from her family home.” She laid out a picture taken of Marsha Prince her freshman year of college and then beside it a photograph of the bust she had sculpted.

He was struck by how sweet the girl looked. Thick blond hair swept over an oval face sporting a bright, wide smile. She had earned straight As her freshman year while balancing a part-time waitress job and volunteering at a food bank.

“Shit,” he muttered. He picked up both pictures. “The faces look identical.”

“Even I was surprised by the accuracy.”

“It’s one hell of a job, Agent Spencer.”

“Thanks.”

“As I remember, Marsha Prince’s family appeared squeaky clean. Younger sister, Hadley, was a cheerleader and a senior in high school. She was also slated to follow in her sister’s footsteps to Georgetown. However, during the investigation, the cops learned of the father’s financial troubles.”

“Her father, Larry Prince, owned Prince Asphalt Paving Company, and her mother’s illness put the family on the ropes.”

“The mother had multiple sclerosis,” he said.

“That’s right,” she said. “Father was not particularly beloved by his neighbors because he was so particular about his yard. He hated it when anyone walked on the grass. But the family overall had no issues that anyone really noticed. And then his daughter vanished.”

“Marsha stayed on the FBI’s missing persons list for a long time.”

“She was removed just today.”

Vaughan tapped his finger on the faux-wood-grain tabletop. “Nikki McDonald said she received the original tip via her website. We tried to trace the sender but had no luck.”

“Not surprising. The killer isn’t ready to be caught.”

“But he could be?”

“I’m betting when the identity is made public, he’ll want more attention.”

“Why now?” Vaughan asked, more to himself.

“He needs recognition and validation to fill some kind of void in his life.”

Vaughan nodded. “He’s suffered some loss or upset in his real life. Lost a job, underwent a divorce or breakup, or maybe even his health.”

“Those are the primary triggers,” Spencer said.

“I discovered that Marsha Prince’s surviving sister now lives in Alexandria,” Vaughan said.

“After Marsha disappeared, Hadley married her high school boyfriend, Mark Foster, and they moved to Oregon. The couple has one child. In January of this year, Mark Foster accepted a new accounting job in Alexandria, and the family moved back east. Hadley is a fitness instructor. The daughter, Skylar, is a senior in high school.”

“You’d think after the pain of losing her sister, Hadley would never have returned to Alexandria.”

“Promotions are hard to turn down, I suppose.”

“I owe her a death notification, unless you’ve done that already,” Vaughan said.

“I have not. This is your jurisdiction. I’m here strictly to inform you of my findings.”

He glanced at his watch. “No time like the present. Care to join me? I know you’re as curious as I am about this case.”

She placed the photos back in her folder. “Actually, I would. I’ve spent six weeks molding Marsha Prince’s face, and I’d like to see this girl find justice.”

“We can take my car.”

Wild Blue: My mother and father always fight.

Mr. Fix it: Parents can be so selfish.

Wild Blue: I know, right? They always put themselves first. I hate the shouting.

Mr. Fix it: You shouldn’t have to live like this.

Wild Blue: I don’t want to live like this anymore.

Mr. Fix it: How about we grab dinner?

Wild Blue: I’d like that.

Mr. Fix it: When?

Wild Blue: Always easiest to sneak out on Mondays. Both my parents are always out until late.

Mr. Fix it: Tonight then.

Wild Blue: You keep me sane.

Mr. Fix it: Remember, you are very special.

CHAPTER FOUR

Monday, August 12, 4:30 p.m.

Alexandria, Virginia

One Day Before

The faint scent of french fries still lingered in Vaughan’s car as he watched Spencer click her seat belt into place. The dark interior radiated the day’s heat, but she managed to always look so cool and collected.

“Excuse the fast-food smells. I just dropped my son off at college. The kid was eating like there was no tomorrow.” He had mentioned his son in passing, but she had not asked him any questions about the boy, and when he’d inquired about her personal life, she had confirmed little beyond the fact that she was single.