Frank made a face. “He came down here swinging his dick around. I told him to get the hell back to his cave. Matt’s checking the security cameras, but there’s no way this guy parked on campus. He must’ve come up the other side of the woods. Maybe the fire road.”

“She’s been missing for over twenty-four hours.” Jeffrey took in his surroundings. The woods were dense. Ivy kept tangling around his shoes. “Why do you think she was here all night?”

“I didn’t see any ligature marks on her ankles or wrists. She’s fit, young. She would’ve fought back. He would’ve tied her up.” Frank horked up some phlegm, then spat it out. “I’m not a coroner, though. And I damn sure ain’t a medical examiner. What happened yesterday, there’s no way I would’ve said Caterino was anything but an accident.”

Brock said, “We’re lucky you were there, Sara. I’m not sure I would’ve asked the right questions, either.”

Jeffrey hated that he was thinking about the lawsuit Gerald Caterino might file, which meant that none of them should be tossing around what ifs that they might later be compelled to explain in a deposition.

He directed his thoughts back toward the case, remembering something Tommi Humphrey had told him, a detail that connected her attacker to Rebecca Caterino’s.

He asked Frank, “Did you see anything blue on Truong, maybe around her mouth or on her throat?”

Frank stopped walking. “How did you know?”

Sara was paying attention now. She asked, “Know what?”

“Her lips had a blue stain here.” Frank pointed at his mouth. “Reminded me of when Darla was little and she drank too much Kool-Aid.”

Sara caught Jeffrey’s eye again. The stain wasn’t from Kool-Aid. It was likely from blue Gatorade. That would explain why Truong’s wrists and ankles showed no ligature marks. As with Tommi Humphrey, she had been drugged during the attack.

Frank asked, “What am I missing?”

Jeffrey nodded for him to lead the way.

They formed a single-file line as Frank took them deeper into the forest. Jeffrey readjusted the tent poles to get a better hold. He silently reviewed what he knew about the attacks on Tommi Humphrey and Rebecca Caterino. He wanted to have the details at the forefront of his mind when they reached the body.

The blue Gatorade. The woods. The university. The hammer. The attacker had used bleach on Humphrey. They were guessing that he’d used unscented wipes to clean up Caterino.

That was a lot, but it wasn’t enough.

Jeffrey ran through the differences. Caterino was gay. Humphrey straight. One was a freshman. The other a junior. One kept to herself. The other had been surrounded by friends. The photos along the Humphreys hallway had given him a good idea of what Tommi had looked like before the attack. She had been slightly on the heavy side. Her blonde hair was cut in a bob. In the group shots, she had appeared shorter than her friends.

Caterino was very slight, almost too thin. Her brown hair was shoulder-length. Her approximate height put her around five-six. She was physically active where Tommi had appeared to be more sedentary. As far as they knew, Rebecca hadn’t suffered the same internal damage during her attack.

Then again, maybe Leslie Truong had interrupted Caterino’s assailant before he’d been able to mutilate her. Jeffrey needed to look at Lena’s notebook again. She would’ve taken down the details from Leslie Truong before releasing her back to campus. Jeffrey had read Lena’s official report, but her notebook could have a piece of information that might offer a lead.

He was done giving her the benefit of the doubt.

Jeffrey heard the soft murmur of Brad Stephens’ police radio before he saw the young patrolman. Brad had cordoned off the area with yellow crime scene tape, the same as yesterday morning. A few students were milling around in the distance. They seemed to be inching forward. Some of them had cameras. Brad was keeping an eye on them. He looked more pale than usual. In the last two days, he had been exposed to more violence than he would likely see in his entire career.

If he was lucky.

“Chief.” Brad squared his shoulders. “Scene is secure. Three of us verified her status as deceased.”

“Yesterday, did you check Caterino for a pulse?”

“No, Chief.” Brad was clearly struggling to look him in the eye. “I assumed she was dead.”

Jeffrey assumed Lena had told Brad that Caterino was dead and that there was no need for him to check. As the junior officer on scene, he would’ve obeyed her. “You saw Leslie Truong yesterday. Did you speak to her, or was it just Lena’s decision to let her walk back to campus on her own?”

“I was—” He stopped, unable or unwilling to run Lena down. “I was there, too, Chief. I didn’t say anything. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Here.” Jeffrey handed him the tent poles. “Get some more yellow tape. Push the crime scene perimeter back another fifty feet. Call in two more officers for crowd control. Then start putting this tent together.”

“Yes, Chief.”

Sara knelt to place the tent stakes and rope on the ground. Jeffrey slipped the strap for the crime scene kit off her shoulder. He cupped his hand under her elbow so she wouldn’t trip on the uneven terrain. The undergrowth was thick. Ferns and woody vines and sticker bushes picked at their clothes. The mud sucked around their shoes. Jeffrey could hear squirrels chattering at each other.

He looked at the ground. Puddles from yesterday’s rainstorm filled the dips and depressions in the soft earth. During his search the night before, Jeffrey had noticed the ground was saturated. His shoes had been caked with mud.

The only footprints he could see now were the ones they had just made.

Sara was looking down at the ground. She had noticed, too.

Yesterday morning, the clouds had broken open while they were waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Either the killer was a ghost who didn’t leave footprints or Leslie Truong had been attacked while she was making her way back to campus to see the school nurse. That left a thirty minute window. The same amount of time Rebecca Caterino had lain helpless in the woods.

Fucking Lena.

The wind shifted. The pungent smell of blood and shit assaulted his senses. Jeffrey put the back of his hand under his nose.

Brock said, “Her bowels must’ve released.”

Jeffrey took the face mask that Brock offered. He knew that the funeral director dealt with the dead on a daily basis. Brock was trying to make sense of the scene, but this was nothing like tending to the body of an elderly nursing home patient who had soiled herself as she’d slipped away.

Jeffrey put on the mask, but the odor still chewed at the air.

Leslie Truong was lying flat on her back. She looked very young. That was Jeffrey’s first impression. She had that childlike softness in her features that only age could wear away. Her eyes were open, staring blankly into the sliver of blue sky showing through the tree canopy. Her lips were parted. The blood in her face had started to drain to the back of her skull. Her skin was the color of parchment. The blue stain Frank had told them about stood out against the pinkish-white of her lips.

Sara checked for a pulse. She rested her hand on the side of the girl’s cheek. She checked the flexibility of the joints in her fingers and elbows. “Peak rigor mortis generally occurs at twelve hours, then dissipates by forty-eight. The temperature has been on the low side, which impacts the process. I need to take a liver temp, but my guess is that she’s been dead for several hours, at least since yesterday morning.”

Since yesterday morning. Since Lena let her walk back to campus. Since a hammer-wielding psychopath had followed her through the woods.

Jeffrey inhaled to calm himself, but coughed it out before his lungs could fill. The putrid smell had permeated the cotton mask. He focused his attention back on the victim in front of him. He was having trouble separating what Sara had told him about Tommi Humphrey and what he assumed had happened to Leslie Truong.

The similarities to Beckey Caterino were there, too.

Based on the position of Truong’s body, you could make the assumption that she had stumbled in the woods, landed on her back, slipped into unconsciousness, then eventually died. Her clothing looked undisturbed. She was wearing a Grant Tech sweatshirt with the collar cut out. Jeffrey could see the straps of her white sports bra underneath. Her white yoga pants were pulled up to her hips. They were Lululemon, the same as the brand that Sara wore. Truong’s sneakers were blue Nikes. She wore ankle socks.

That was where the similarities ended.

Blood had flowed like a river between Leslie Truong’s legs.

Her white pants had been soaked through. The volume was such that even the rain could not wash it all away. Leaves and twigs had been blackened by the surge. She was not lying on a slope. The blood had poured as her heart frantically pumped out its last beats.

Still, Jeffrey needed verification. “Is this the murder scene?”

Sara asked, “Are we assuming the window for the attack was roughly half an hour to forty-five minutes?”