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time to bridge that gap; it was worth a try. She just wished she had someone else who was close enough to confide in; Auggie was there but he’d been undercover off and on, and therefore had been unavailable a lot of the time.
    No wonder she’d fallen for Jake Westerly when she’d been a senior in high school. No wonder she’d made a fool of herself that year, dreaming about him like a lovesick fool, making love with him only to learn from his vile friend T.J. that Jake had merely been trying to score with a virgin. Was it true? To this day, she didn’t know, and it didn’t matter anyway in the larger scheme of things. September had wanted to be with him and she’d gotten that chance. He’d actually been nice to her during that time—or she’d thought he was being nice, hard to say with T.J.’s reveal—which had been wonderful after all the years of teasing she’d endured from Jake throughout elementary school. Jake’s father had worked for September’s and there was a bit of the rich kid/poor kid thing that he’d needled her about. It was like a backward way of flirting she recognized now, but it had hurt when she was young, especially because she secretly liked him. And then everything changed in high school when Jake came into his own and money was no longer any factor in his social status, and for a brief moment he split with his longtime girlfriend, Loni Cheever, and he and September spent a night together.
    When he learned about it, T.J. had had a lot of unkind things to say about that. Embarrassing things. September had pretended to be immune as a means to get him to stop, but when Jake went back to Loni, she started wondering if some of what T.J. had said might actually be true. Did guys really want to score with virgins just to get that notch on their belts? Guys like Jake Westerly?
    It just was so damn lame.
    Shaking off the thought, September drove back the way she’d come, arriving at her apartment around seven-thirty. She’d barely parked when she thought of the empty contents of her refrigerator, so she started the ignition again and turned the Pilot toward the nearest fast-food restaurant, Subway Sandwiches.
    Twenty minutes later, pastrami sandwich in hand, she returned to her apartment, stripped off her clothes, ran through the shower, then placed her sandwich on a plate and went to eat at the sofa, in front of the TV Ever since she’d been interviewed about the Do Unto Others case a few weeks earlier, she’d set her DVR to record the Channel Seven nightly news at five-thirty and ten. Now she grabbed the remote and scrolled through the list of programs, punching up the recording of the five-thirty news as she took her first bite.
    She was staring at the screen when the thought she hadn’t been able to catch earlier came back to her: he’d seen her on the news. He had to have. The killer had seen her on the news and that’s how he knew she was a detective.
    And that very same night Glenda Tripp was murdered.
    And shortly thereafter September had received the “bloody” message.
    She set the sandwich down, and put the recording on PAUSE , catching Channel Seven’s newswoman and resident muckraker Pauline Kirby’s feral face in a really unbecoming moment where her eyes were half-shut and her mouth was opened in a snarl.
    Was she making connections that weren’t there?
    No. It was too coincidental. He’d sent her that message and it was personal.
    With a feeling of dread—she hated seeing herself on video—she switched from today’s news to the interview she’d done with Pauline Kirby. She’d watched it once, horrified at how she looked. She didn’t know how actors and people like Pauline Kirby did it. Whenever she saw herself on camera all she wanted to do was close her eyes and groan at the flaws.
    Now, she exited the news program and scrolled through the lists on her DVR until she found the recorded interview again. It had been taken at the crime scene where Emmy Decatur’s