Bennett glared at Greene. “There was a time I really believed in that guy. I still want to. But when I think about those kits under the carpet, I question everything I knew about him.”

“And he lost because of what he did. But for now, don’t alienate Greene,” Macy said. “He knows this county better than anyone. One day soon he might come in handy.”

Hank Greene approached Nevada. The old sheriff was grinning as he extended his hand. Nevada gripped the old man’s hand, but didn’t smile as Greene leaned in slightly and spoke. Nevada released his hold and shook his head.

“Nevada has dealt with dozens of men like Greene before,” Macy said. “If Greene thinks he’s going to do an end run around Nevada, he’s sadly mistaken.”

The news crew moved toward Nevada, who made a brief statement before excusing himself. As he strode back toward them, Greene tugged off his white Stetson and held it over his chest, like a humble public servant. The boom light snapped on, a reporter’s microphone was thrust in his direction, and the questions started flying.

Greene was at ease and serious all at once. He turned toward the crime scene, seemingly explaining his take on the scene. His views might or might not have been right, but that didn’t really matter if the sound bites for the morning news were good. Perception was everything.

“Why didn’t you talk longer to the press, Sheriff?” Bennett asked.

“Talking to the reporters feeds into this killer’s ego. It’s news blackout until we have DNA. We control the narrative.”

“They’ll want a statement,” the deputy persisted.

“Let the reporters, the public, and the killer wait.”

Nevada surveyed the crowd and then brought his focus back around to Macy. “Do you think he’s watching?”

“Killers often return to the scene of their crimes to witness the carnage.”

“Agreed,” Nevada said. “Deputy Bennett, pick two deputies and make sure their dashcam and vest cameras are on and rolling. I want film of who’s here.”

“Will do,” she said.

Hank Greene approached the crime scene tape and, out of habit or arrogance, appeared ready to duck under it. Nevada stopped him.

Greene frowned briefly and then recovered with a smile. “Special Agent Crow, good to see you again.”

Macy nodded. “Couldn’t stay away, I see.”

He grinned. “I’ve been sheriff of this county for almost thirty years. You know if you don’t get hard leads in the first forty-eight hours, the investigation can drag on for months or years.”

“Like the Turner case?” Macy asked.

His smile dimmed, but before he could answer, a helicopter’s blades cut through the air above them. She looked up to see a television station logo. The story would be statewide, possibly national, by midmorning, putting her successes or failures on a bigger stage.

Energy tingled through him as he watched the telecast of the gathering crowd along the street where he’d dropped Beth’s body.

He’d left clues at other murder scenes, expecting the cops to pick up on him. But so far, no one had linked his crimes. However, it seemed Macy Crow was sharper than most, and she was fitting together some of the pieces.

He smiled as he replayed the broadcast. He’d expected attention, but this kind of notoriety was more than he had ever dared to hope for. This crime wouldn’t be forgotten anytime soon.

He should have relaxed and bathed in the prickle of excitement, but already he wondered how he would up the stakes. Go big or go home.

As he’d watched Macy and Brooke, he’d known killing one of them would bring down heaven and earth on this town. Each was strong and would put up one hell of a fight. Taking one of them might be his undoing, but the challenge was too tempting to resist.

The only question was, which one?

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Wednesday, November 20, noon

Not everyone stayed to watch the crime scene being processed, but Macy did. Most onlookers left, and news crews returned to their television stations to file their reports. Greene sat in his warm vehicle enjoying hot coffee while Nevada remained leaning against his vehicle watching. Always watching.

The evidence-collection process wasn’t like it was on television. It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t exciting. It was a tedious, slow process, and it took weeks—if not months—to analyze it all. Smoking guns were rare.

Plaster of paris was poured into several footprints and tire tracks found near the body. Later, the technicians would begin the monotonous process of eliminating the footprints left by law enforcement and analyzing the ones that possibly belonged to the killer.

The victim’s hands were covered in paper bags to protect any DNA that might have been trapped under her fingernails. Her temperature was taken, and her bruises and cuts were documented on a sketch pad and with a digital camera.

As the technicians gathered their bits of information, Macy took meticulous notes on all the evidence found, having faith that the random pieces she collected would join together into the composition of a killer.

Her phone chimed with a text and she glanced down. It was from Special Agent Zoe Spencer. The agent indicated she was at the station house, and Ellis Carter had arrived. Rebecca Kennedy had never shown, and despite repeated calls, they’d not made contact.

I’ll have a sketch in a couple of hours, Spencer texted.

Perfect, Macy texted back. See you then.

It was close to one when the ambulance arrived to take the body to the medical examiner’s office in Roanoke. Hank Greene climbed out of his vehicle, and the news reporters slid on their jackets and checked their appearance as the cameramen turned their lights on.

Cameras rolled as attendants lifted the body into a bag, laid it on a gurney that was wheeled to the waiting van. At least the woman no longer lay on the side of the cold, exposed road.

Bennett approached Macy. “Nevada has asked me to follow the van to the medical examiner’s office. With all this attention, he wants me to personally make sure there is no problem with the chain of custody. Autopsy likely won’t be until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Understood. When you get back to town, I would like to meet with Bruce Shaw again. I want to talk to him about Beth Watson and also get that buccal swab.”

“I can take care of both.”

“Good. I’ll talk to you when you get back to the station.”

As the van and Bennett’s car pulled out, the other vehicles followed in a procession down the narrow road out toward the main highway.

Nevada moved toward Macy as she walked to his car. Each step hurt, and she was anxious to pop a few ibuprofen.

Her phone dinged with a text from Spencer. We’re finished.

On my way, she texted back before saying to Nevada, “Agent Spencer and Ellis are finished. I’d like to talk to them both while the sketch is still fresh in both their minds.”

“Let’s go.”

Without a word, the two rode back to the station. He parked in the back, and they entered through the rear.

“Seeing as you’re her cousin and clearly worried about her, let me go first?” Macy asked.

His expression was a blend of annoyance and gratitude. “Take good care of her.”

“Of course.”

She stopped by the break room, downed a couple of ibuprofen, and chased them with water. She knocked on the door.

“Enter,” Spencer said.

Macy pushed open the door and found Ellis clutching a handful of tissues. She had red-rimmed eyes and was slightly pale.

“Are you all right?” Macy asked.

“I’m fine,” she said with a faltering smile. “For some reason, I just got emotional. I haven’t in years, but when I saw the sketch, I lost it.”

“That’s good progress.” Or so she’d been told.

“Cathartic,” Ellis said.

Macy turned to the tall, slim woman making the final touches on a sketch. Zoe Spencer was in her late twenties and had joined the FBI after graduate school. She was not only one of the best sketch artists but was also a leading expert on art forgery. She wore simple, fitted black pants, a gray V-neck sweater, and a silk scarf around her neck; her auburn hair was coiled into a neat bun. Her flawless skin required only red lipstick and mascara.

“Agent Crow.” Spencer rose. “It’s good to see you again.”

They’d crossed paths on a case last year, and Macy had found Spencer to be highly effective. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thank Agent Ramsey. He’s the one who authorized the visit. He said this case now takes the highest priority on his docket.”

“Did you make any progress with the sketch?” Macy asked.

Spencer’s stoic expression softened when she looked toward Ellis. “Ms. Carter did an excellent job. She has wonderful recall.”

“It didn’t do that much good,” Ellis said. “I only saw a guy in a mask.”

Spencer turned the sketch toward Macy. The pencil sketch, drawn with exacting detail, gave them all the first glimpse of Ellis’s attacker. The man had a long, lean face, a thick neck, and vibrant blue eyes that stared back with an unsettling sharpness. His lips were full, and his jaw appeared more pointed than square.

“It’s not a full likeness,” Spencer concluded. “But it’s a start.”