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and your thoroughness. If I pick up the slightest lead on Penny’s whereabouts, I’ll advise you immediately.”
    “Here’s my direct contact information.” Still scrutinizing her, Derek came to his feet, handing her the familiar Bureau card with the official FBI logo on it, along with his own private extension and cell-phone number.
    “Thanks.” Sloane responded in kind, whipping out one of her business cards and passing it across the table. “There you go. I doubt you’ll have any cause to reach me, but just in case, everything you need is on there.”
    Derek glanced down at the card, which had her office and cell-phone numbers on it, but was devoid of a street address, listing Sloane’s office only as a PO box in Hunterdon County, New Jersey. “You’re working out of your parents’ vacation house,” he surmised.
    “Living there, too. My folks retired to Florida. I bought the house from them. It’s perfect for my needs. Small, airy, with an extra room for my office, and four country acres to explore. My hounds like that. So does my archery course.”
    “You’re shooting again.”
    “Just recently. And just a bow and arrow.”
    “Why? Target practice is target practice. A bow, a gun—what’s the difference?”
    “About four pounds of trigger-finger pressure and a lot of dexterity and control. Right now I have none of those. It’s possible I never will.” Sloane walked around the table, passing Derek without a backward glance, and heading for the door. “But, like I said, it’s good to see you haven’t changed. Same empathetic guy. Always ready to cut a person some slack. I’ll be in touch.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    DATE: 24 March
    TIME: 2200 hours

    I crave my time in this room.
    Peace, solitude, fulfillment. There’s nothing but me, my thoughts, and her. Being here renews my focus and my strength. And it keeps the demons away.
    But only when I’m behind these doors.
    I spent hours with Athena tonight. As I suspected, preparing her is harder than the others. She’s young. Intelligent. An unwelcome obstacle. Especially now. I must finish. But it exhausts me.
    When I left her, I had to come here. I needed the relief—and the reminder. My resolve has to win out over my weariness.
She
reminds me of that. She reminds me that I have to channel my energy, even when
they
scream for justice. Justice delivered by my hand. And she’ll be my muse.
    I don’t want to leave here. I want to shut my eyes and breathe, inhale her scent, visualize her beauty. Then I’ll sleep—maybe for an hour or two. It’s the only time I do, the only place I can.
    The demons are lying in wait just outside. Once I open the door, leave this sanctuary, they’ll consume me again.
    And I’ll do exactly as they command.
    Hunterdon County, New Jersey
    March 25, 10:15 A.M.

    It was that kind of cold, drizzly morning that made you want to pull the comforter over your head and go back to sleep.
    Unfortunately, Sloane didn’t have that option. Not only was she buried in work, but her hounds, as she lovingly called them, wanted no part of sleeping in, or in allowing her to do so.
    The term
hounds,
albeit accurate, seemed like a misnomer when it came to Sloane’s three troublemakers. Moe, Larry, and Curly were three miniature dachshunds Sloane had adopted from animal rescue two years ago, as puppies. Moe—short for Mona—was long-haired and the sole female of the trio, Larry was wire-haired, and Curly was a sleek, bald frankfurter—the traditional smooth, short-haired variety. All three of the pups had boundless energy, strong personalities, and were loving and loyal—except when they were fighting.
    Today, like every other day, they’d leaped up at daybreak, badgered Sloane until she let them out to do their “business”—which they did as quickly as possible to escape the rain. They then raced through the house and jumped all over the bed, wreaking havoc with Sloane and her bedding until she relinquished any idea of going back