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He said it without artifice, and she realized, for all the seriousness of the conversation, she enjoyed talking to him. You’re out of your mind, Jackson.

“Something else is bothering me. They’re all so different. I mean, Jordan Blake was supposedly trouble on a stick, and her parents are quite absent. Shelby Kincaid was the extreme opposite, with overprotective parents and a reticent personality, super focused on her studies. Jill Gates is in between, and her parents certainly sound like they’re attentive, at the very least. Would one man be drawn to three wildly different personalities? I thought serials went for the same type.”

“The different personalities are interesting to me as well, but they all have similar physical characteristics. I think what makes them alike in looks attracted this man, not what made them different. What’s bothering me is the mixed presentation. Leaving semen and fingerprints tell me this is a disorganized killer. Multiple victims in a short time frame, staged scenes, the herbs, all point to a very organized offender. In other words, these could be his first crimes and he doesn’t know any better, doesn’t know how to clean up after himself. Or he could be very much in control, is building up to something bigger and splashier, thinks he’s smarter than us and will get away with it, or doesn’t care if he’s caught. Because he’s exhibiting hallmarks of both, that tells me he’s decompensating. He’s making mistakes now. I’m inclined to think he’s a disorganized offender, and there’s something else going on.”

“How do you do this? Profile, I mean. Quantico is on everyone’s radar right now. What y’all do up there is fascinating. Everything you just told me makes perfect sense, but how does it help us catch him?”

He tensed, and she mentally kicked herself. When he answered, his voice wasn’t as easy. “There’s a science to it, no doubt, but for most of us, it’s the ability to trust our gut. We rely on experience and instinct. Years and years of instinct. If you’re a good investigator, it rarely leads you wrong, until…” The unspoken words hung in the air. Until it does.

He was no longer relaxed, stood and started to pace. Taylor sighed to herself. And you were doing so well. Good job upsetting him. Another thought hit her, this one more immediate.

“Hey, Price? Do you think the generators came on in the jail?”

She could barely see the alarm on her boss’s face; the batteries were running down in their only flashlight and the light was fading quickly.

“We better hope so. All of those locks are electronic; the doors would have swung open if the lights went off for more than five minutes. Last thing we need, a bunch of half-cocked prisoners wandering the streets. How long have we been in here anyway?”

A small light glowed on Fitz’s wrist.

“’Bout a half hour, Cap. Think it’s cool to get out of here yet? I’m getting a little claustrophobic.”

“I think we’re good. Let’s go see what’s happened.”





Thirty-Nine



Mary Margaret was sitting on her hands, which were tied low behind her back. She had managed to scoot around a little in the confines of the confessional, but only enough to wedge her fingers under her butt.

The events of the past hours were all a blur. She remembered the man picking her up, their quick exodus to St. Catherine’s Church. She was so relieved to be indoors, away from the fury of the storm.

Father Xavier had greeted them, obviously relieved to see she was okay and thankful that her friend had delivered her safely to his door. He guided them into his office. The man she was with asked for something to drink, and the priest poured them steaming cups of his aromatic tea. She could vaguely recall the taste of the tea: amazingly bitter, despite the three spoons full of sugar she had dumped in. Regardless, it was warm and she was safe within the confines of her mother church.

Almost immediately, her mouth had gone numb and her stomach felt violently upset. She vaguely heard Father Xavier remark that he wasn’t feeling well either, and then all was black.

It seemed like hours later when she came to. She didn’t know immediately where she was. Her stomach felt like it was filled with knives, her hands were going numb. She thought hard and realized she was still in the church. In fact, she could tell that she was inside the confessor’s side of the confessional.

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