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them a reason to. She hadn’t proven herself. She had only one homicide case under her belt, and that was as a member of a task force. She was well aware that some people—particularly the older guys—thought she’d only been promoted to detective because she was a woman. It was possible they were right. But she’d worked her ass off, too. She’d put in a lot of long hours and she’d aced her detective’s exam, and now she was determined to show she could handle the job as well as any man.
    She thought again of Mark. When she’d first met him, he’d been cool and detached, but at the bar last night he’d loosened up. She pictured him across the table from her with his sleeves rolled up, his hand settled comfortably around his beer. He’d looked relaxed as she’d sharedwhat little she knew about the case, but she got the impression that really, he wasn’t relaxed at all.
    Allison skimmed through the ME’s findings. He described an arc-shaped cut from the victim’s left ear to her right. Sharp force trauma was listed as the cause of death. Manner of death, homicide. Scratches on the inner thighs. Signs of sexual assault. A rape kit had been collected, but the results weren’t included in the report. Probably not back from the lab yet, if the kit had even been sent. She’d check the status with Jonah. No mention of her hair.
    Allison flipped to the next page and looked at the sketch. The ME, or maybe his assistant, had drawn little lines out from various wounds on the body and scrawled notes in the margins: abrasion, lower left forearm. Missing, upper right incisor. Contusion, right temple. Allison frowned. Bruises would mean her attack had been prolonged. Allison read one of the notes scrawled beside the head: Cut.
    That was it.
    She flipped through the remaining pages in the stack. She reached the end and found a Polaroid clipped to the final page. Not an official crime-scene photo, but something taken indoors, with Stephanie Snow lying atop a steel table, her sightless eyes staring up into space. A bright rectangular light—in the autopsy suite, presumably—was reflected in both of her irises.
    Allison picked up the picture and examined it. A chill skittered down her spine as she studied the jagged angle of Stephanie’s brunette locks. She’d been wearing a ponytail when she died.
    The killer had cut off her hair.
     
    The 7:50 to Washington Dulles was full, but the 9:15 wasn’t and Mark was able to get a row to himself. Now he sat in 26C with his computer balanced on his lap and his knees crushed against the seat in front of him. The seat beside him was occupied by a stack of files containing photos and descriptions that would have caused even the most seasoned homicide detectives to look away. Not yet noon and Mark had been through them twice already. He’d studied the pictures coolly and objectively, looking beyond the brutalized bodies for clues he might have missed all those years ago when he’d first joined the investigation. He’d gained experience since then, and he hoped something important would jump out at him now, but nothing had, so he’d set the photos aside and turned to his computer.
    Alone in his room last night, Mark had gone through the old files and transferred his key case notes to his current laptop. It had been something to do to keep his mind off his insomnia. And his wife, who wasn’t his wife anymore. And a slender brunette who drove a pickup truck older than she was.
    Mark scrolled through the document entitled UNSUB CA -39. He’d originally named the file DEATH RAVEN , but then thought better of it. It was the sort of moniker that would look good in a headline if some reporter should ever get wind of it. Better to keep it private.
    The dread that had been building for days now settled heavily in his stomach as he reviewed the notes. He wished he was wrong, but he knew that he wasn’t. And he wished he’d managed to convince a provincial Texaspolice lieutenant to take