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hairs stand out straight on her forearms. Kendal stopped; something she never did when walking to the quad. Then she cautiously looked over her shoulder.
    There.
    Down the street.
    A dark cargo van with tinted windows.
    Half a block away, moving much slower than the 25mph speed limit.
    Almost as if it was stalking Kendal.
    The vehicle stopped a moment after she did, taking up the whole lane. Kendal could hear the engine rumbling, probably a bad muffler or a hole in the exhaust. A car behind it honked, but the van didn’t move.
    Kendal tried to take a step forward, but had a momentary brain freeze because she’d lost her step count.
    What’s my count?
    I forgot my count!
    Kendal had once tried to explain counting to a friend, back in junior high. As the syndrome described, Kendal was obsessed with counting her steps, and the need to do so was irresistible. It was impossible to hold your hand over an open flame, even if you wanted to. Reflexes would make you pull it away. In the same way, it was impossible for Kendal to stop counting. It wasn’t a question of willpower. Without counting, Kendal was overwhelmed by fear and dread, convinced she’d done something wrong. This led to shaking, crying, holding her breath, and eventually passing out. She couldn’t control it. The fear of not counting was stronger than any other fear.
    Including her fear of that black van.
    Kendal’s mind seemed to bisect, half thinking about some creepy driver intent on doing her harm, and the other half struggling to remember the number she’d left off at.
    Her hands trembled. Her bladder clenched. She couldn’t breathe, and felt helpless just standing there, waiting for bad things to happen, unable to get away.
    Wait! It’s 612! I’m at 612.
    She blew out a stiff breath. Then Kendal stared at her feet and willed them to move, somewhere between a brisk walk and a jog.
    640, 641, 642, 643…
    Kendal chanced another look behind her at step 666—a number she loathed due to her strict, religious upbringing—terrified that the van would be right next to her.
    But that wasn’t the case.
    The van was gone.
    Leaving Kendal to wonder if she’d imagined the whole thing.
    Am I seeing things again? Having a relapse?
    Kendal couldn’t worry about that now. She couldn’t be late for class. Being late gave her panic attacks.
    She got to the quad in 1231 steps, but felt no relief. It always took 1252. Always.
    Already flustered, Kendal risked looking stupid and spent thirty absurd seconds walking in a circle until she hit the number 1252, and only then did she step onto the quad and hurry to the Herschell Building, unaware that the person in the van had parked up the street and was watching through binoculars.

CHAPTER 7
    The witness was a tall, sturdy woman in her late teens or early twenties. She had pale skin, high cheekbones that sported too much rouge, a strong jaw, and thick black hair with severely short bangs, like she’d taken a picture of Bettie Page to her hair stylist and they’d gone too far. She sat across from Roy at his desk, her shoulders slumped forward, her posture betraying depression, or exhaustion, or both. But her eyes were bright and alert, and they darted to Tom, locking on him as he approached.
    “Detective Mankowski, this is Tanya Bestrafen,” Roy said.
    Tom offered a hand. Though her expression was meek, the handshake was strong, confident.
    “Nice to meet you,” she said, in a throaty voice a lot like Tina Turner’s.
    “Thanks for coming in.” Tom took the chair next to Roy.
    “You guys are in charge of this case?” Tanya asked.
    “We report to our superior, but we’re the lead detectives, yes.”
    Tanya lowered her eyes. “I saw what happened to that girl. On the news. The Snipper murder. Why do they call him The Snipper?”
    Tom mentally thanked the media for being so helpful in giving serial killers such delightful names. On the backlog, Tom and Roy were investigating an ongoing series of scalpings that