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She’d shaken her head almost immediately afterward, the intense red of her hair a shock of color against the gray winter’s day. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It must be terrible for you, to see our people experiencing life without emotional chains only to be unable to participate in it.”

Eleri hadn’t had the words to tell Saffron that she hadn’t been offended by the other J’s words. It was easier to live this life if she couldn’t feel the pain of grief at all she’d lost before she’d even had it.

My name is Adam.

Prior to the numbness, their encounter had haunted her.

Not only what had happened in the courtroom, but what had taken place in the hallway earlier that morning.

The boy she’d met, the open smile he’d given her, the way her entire being had resonated with him on a psychic frequency of which she’d never previously been aware…

the dreams she’d dared nurture for a heartbeat in time.

Those dreams were gone, buried with her ability to feel.

Nutrients finished, she sat down in a chair that she’d moved so it faced the hotel door and pulled up the latest letter on her secured organizer.

It had been sent seven days prior to her arrival in Raintree, an actual physical letter like all the others, the prepaid envelope dropped into a postbox across the border in California.

They’d all been like that, the letters routed to the task force office from different cities and towns in California. Though such postboxes were no longer as popular as they’d once been, they weren’t rare, either, used as they were mostly for dropping off prepaid packages.

Due to centralization when the volume of physical mail dropped below a certain threshold half a century earlier, there was no way to track a letter back to the actual box in which it had been posted, not after it ended up in the sorting center for that region, but Eleri and the task force had tried nonetheless. And failed.

A resident of Raintree could reach the closest California postbox within ninety minutes.

Push it an hour further, and their choices expanded many times over.

There was no way to put all of them under surveillance, but Eleri had paid out of pocket to place subtle computronic surveillance on the three closest boxes.

She’d already gone over all the footage from the relevant time, with a wide window on either side, and come up with no one with a link to Raintree. The Sandman must’ve driven deeper into the state to send the letter.

She looked down, began to read.

My dearest Eleri,

It’s been too long since we conversed—and I do think of it as a conversation. After all, you always respond to my letters. This time, however, no response is required. I haven’t chosen a new sleeping beauty yet; I just missed you, wanted to drop you a note.

I thought I’d tell you about my work. The media is full of that profiler bleating on about how I’m a drifter who picks up odd jobs. I’d have strangled him by now if I was you. He has annoying piggy eyes and I can just imagine how they’d bulge out of his head as I squeezed and squeezed.

I’m no drifter. I have a home, family who love me, even have neighbors who invite me over for drinks. I’m good at my job, considered an asset by my team. Just like you, Eleri. We have that in common—we both work hard, though I admit I put more energy into my passion. As you put your energy into me.

We’ll talk again soon. I hope one day, face-to-face.

With love,

The Sandman

Eleri moved on to study the “first glance” notes of their profiler on this letter and found she agreed with them for the most part.

The task force profiler was a Psy woman of seventy who never appeared in the media, the one with “annoying piggy eyes” a talking-head academic whom Tim had already reached out to warn.

“He’s angry at what he sees as being denigrated,” the task force profiler had written, “but that doesn’t mean he isn’t Psy.

He’s clearly always been a maladaptive personality, so none of the norms of our race can be expected to apply.

And the method of the Sandman murders makes the point moot regardless.

“As for his claims about his work and general life, none of that can be taken at face value. He is an excellent liar given that he’s escaped detection this long.

My previous profile of a male in his twenties or early thirties who has a stable job that allows him at least some flexibility, and no wife or children, still applies. He could not move as freely otherwise.

“However, it appears his obsession with Specialist Eleri Dias has grown in intensity. I strongly suggest a protective detail for her.”

Tim hadn’t even bothered to raise the latter option—they’d had this discussion and he wasn’t technically her superior, couldn’t order her to work under protection.

Sophia wouldn’t step in on that point, either; she might argue against Eleri’s desire to spend her time in the shadow of evil, but she understood Eleri’s need for freedom as only another J could.

Leaving the organizer on the desk, Eleri got up and walked out the front door to stand in the middle of the parking lot.

The world was silent and cold, the moon a luminous globe high above…

and she could just glimpse the edge of the Canyon from this position.

No wings flew out of it, no lights glowed in the small section she could see.

What would my life be like now if I’d spoken up that day in the courtroom?