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The first plate numbers appeared on her phone screen within five minutes of her call to Dahlia, and she started doing her end of the job.

Ten minutes. Fifteen. No suspicious hits.

Every single one of the departing vehicles belonging to women, or to men at least two decades outside the profiled age range of the Sandman.

It was possible the profile was off or the Sandman had a female accomplice, but they had to start somewhere. As it was, she was sending the names back to Dahlia to see if any of them—all locals so far—threw up any red flags, but the second was also batting zero.

To ensure nothing fell through the cracks, Eleri also forwarded the names to the task force, to be run through every database the team could access. Could be a local had moved in fifteen years ago and kept their nose clean but had a record in another distant jurisdiction.

When her private line rang twenty minutes into the search, she picked it up without looking at the ID code onscreen. Not many people had her number—Adam, Dahlia, Sophie, the three local cops, the Quatro Cartel, the task force, and a very short list of other people with whom she worked regularly.

“Eleri Dias,” she answered even as she ran the vehicle plate Dahlia had sent her just prior to the call.

“Eleri, it’s Malia.” The fledgling’s voice was thick, sluggish, but recognizable.

“Malia, where are you?” Eleri was already at the station’s comms desk, her fingers entering the passcode Beaufort had given her to access their systems.

“That’s enough proof of life.” A genderless computronic voice. “I assume you’re about to contact someone. Don’t. Or I’ll slit her throat. Shame to finish the game so quickly, but oh well.”

Eleri froze.

The game.

No more doubt. This was the Sandman.

“Don’t try the PsyNet, either,” he said. “Any hint of anyone other than you heading this way,” he continued, “so much as a fucking feather in the air, and she dies.”

Why was he using that redundant computronic voice?

The task force might not have his DNA, but all circumstantial evidence said he was male.

He’d confirmed it in his third letter to her, when he’d referred to a childhood version of himself as a “sad little boy.” While continuing to doubt the veracity of his claims about himself, the task force profiler had been firm in the belief that the serial killer was too concerned with his image to refer to himself by the incorrect gender.

My mother used to call me her sad little boy because I’d just sit in corners staring off into space.

She had me tested for neurodivergence, but the doctors said I was normal, probably only trying to act up for attention.

But my mother kept asking why I was sad.

I wish I could show her how happy I am now—all it took was a murder.

He had to believe she’d recognize his voice.

Eleri tried to think who on the list of people she’d spoken to during her time in Raintree fit the profile—there were too many. She’d been active, had made it a point to talk to all Psy in their twenties that she could reach.

“And no trying to get cute with a teleporter just in case you know one,” the Sandman continued. “I’ve rigged the little falcon’s place of captivity to blow at any unauthorized movement—don’t worry, I’ve already put her to sleep so she doesn’t accidentally move and blow herself up.

“Honestly, she’s nowhere near the perfect game piece for me—a bit too young, and—not to be a bigot—but I prefer my women without talons or claws. Still, I knew she’d bring you to me, so I suppose she was perfect for this special game.”

He had to be lying about the explosives—that kind of rigging took time.

But what if he’d prepared it much earlier?

Eleri couldn’t risk Malia’s life on a hunch.

And while she knew people who she could contact on the PsyNet who wouldn’t put Malia’s life at risk, would help get word to Adam, she couldn’t do it fast enough.

Her bruised brain needed too much prep time, might even overload and break if she attempted to enter the Net.

Her eye fell on a pen one of the officers had left lying around. She’d write a note, leave it here—

“Put down the pen.” A computronic laugh. “I can seeeeeee you.” Singsong, a taunt.

Eleri looked out through the large glass window in front of her, but it just faced the wall of the building next door.

Which left a single possibility. “You hacked the station’s systems.” He’d also managed to get her private number, she thought with a frown.

She was missing something. “What do you want?”

“You in exchange for her. You ruined the game by coming here, and now you have to pay the price.” A hint of petulance, of the lack of emotional maturity their profiler had predicted.

He was mad at her for not acting as he’d planned for her to act, for not being the perfect game piece.

Eleri had no qualms about making the swap, her for Malia, but she knew it couldn’t be that easy. “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

“You don’t. But at least this way you tried.” Another laugh. “She ends up dead and you could’ve helped her, how will you ever face Adam? You two seem cozy.”

Eleri’s mind raced. Not only did he have her number, he knew about her and Adam.

Was it possible the Sandman was a falcon?

They flew vast distances, and changelings were used to keeping caches of clothing in multiple locations.

He could as easily keep caches of supplies he needed for his murder fantasies.

No, the report from the pathologist had been unequivocal:

Their brain injuries are inconsistent with any type of external trauma. Even a sound wave wouldn’t do this. The only references I’ve discovered to similar trauma relate to those who’ve died as a result of a powerful telepathic assault.

A falcon couldn’t kill that way. Neither could a human.

“After we end this call,” the killer said while she was still calculating her options, “I want you to leave your phone under the desk, where it won’t be seen, then walk to the back door of the station. There’s a closed drink container sitting inside to the left of the door. Drink it and wait.”

Inside?

Knowledge of her direct call code.

Access to the cameras at the station.

Able to take Malia, an intelligent young woman who wouldn’t trust just anyone.

Beaufort, Whitten, Hendricks, were all human.

Who was she missing?

Her memory was her greatest asset, and today, it flashed with a snapshot of a little girl she’d met only for a minute, a girl who’d wanted to telepath to her to practice.

Sascha Duncan’s child.

Half-Psy. Half-changeling. Not in the PsyNet but a telepath all the same.

A man who was half-falcon, half-Psy would be a predator more deadly than anything the world had ever imagined.