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Hours later, Stella still couldn’t take her attention off the writing on the wall.

Once again, she was reminded that the marks of Akkadian cuneiform in the previous case had looked like bird feet or badly drawn fish. The short lines and dots and triangles were the sort of thing a giant chicken might’ve left behind after walking across the floor of a slaughterhouse.

There had to be a better way of getting across a message. Standing outside a Walmart with a placard and a pile of fliers would have been a lot more effective.

Disappointment soaked into Stella like a puddle-splash from a passing truck. She thought she’d seen the end of this stuff. Certainly, she’d hoped she’d seen the last slashed throat and the last blood-soaked floor. And yet, here she was again, so soon after the victims in Claymore Township, investigating a crime that looked eerily similar.

On the bright side, at least she was no longer standing shin-deep in snow.

There were some differences between this scene and the scenes in Claymore Tow. Unlike those murders, there were clear signs of a struggle at Otto’s apartment. In the living room, chairs were overturned, lamps smashed to pieces on the floor. In the kitchen, shards of broken glass and ceramic peppered countertops. Drawers hung open, including one filled with sharp knives used for cooking and other miscellany.

Considering the depth and brutal nature of the cut on Otto’s neck, Stella suspected the killer had used a serrated kitchen knife. In fact, calling it a cut wasn’t quite right. Rather, his head was almost sawed clean off.

The crime scene photographer took a position in front of the wall and snapped a picture. As the flash flooded the room, the sharp light forced Stella’s eyes closed. The gore was still there when she reopened them, though.

Stella waved a finger at the marks. “Make sure you get clear shots of all that stuff. And send copies straight to me. I want someone working on them right away.”

The photographer checked the screen on the camera and gave her a thumbs-up. They were never the chattiest, crime scene photographers.

An MNPD officer strode out of the bedroom holding an evidence bag containing a laptop. As he swung the bag, the laptop bumped against the wall.

Stella winced. “Be careful with that. And get it straight to Agent Mackenzie Drake. Did you find a cell phone?”

The officer hugged the computer to his chest and shook his head. “Wasn’t on the victim either.”

Stella let him go. A missing cell phone was unusual. And very annoying.

But the day was almost over. The photographer was taking his last shots, and the victim was on his way to the forensic center to join Patrick Marrion. A couple of forensic techs were carting the sofa out to the parking lot, while a third ran a box cutter around the edge of the carpet.

They were almost done, and by the time they were finished, there’d be little left of this place.

Not that there’d ever been much.

The bedroom contained a twin bed and a small pile of laundry. These items filled most of the space. The living room had held a two-seat sofa, a cabinet with a television, and a single sideboard with a lamp.

That lamp, its shade ruined by a single spray of blood, was now also sitting in the forensic box truck, together with the cabinet and the laptop.

Otto’s apartment was basic. Smaller even than the studio Stella had once lived in a lifetime ago.

The forensic tech tugged on the edge of the carpet, which came away from the floor with a loud rip. He swore quietly. Blood had soaked into the floorboards, and they’d need to take those as well.

“Mind your backs.”

Anja moved out of the doorway, stepping in front of Stella as one of the forensic techs returned from the parking lot. Despite the cold air, sweat dotted his forehead, the combined result of his Tyvek suit and the effort of moving a small sofa.

The rest of the team had already left, Stacy to report to Slade, and Hagen and Ander to join the police to inform Otto Walker’s next of kin. Stella and Anja stayed to oversee the site, direct the techs, and make sure the photographer got clear shots of the marks on the wall.

They’d need those shots.

Stella would have to contact the expert on the Akkadian cuneiform they’d used in the Claymore Township cases to find out if the marks were the same. Maybe a difference in the style or the handwriting or the meaning could yield a clue. Some of the marks did look different, but Stella wasn’t sure whether those changes were made intentionally, or if they were the result of bad copying from the photographs in one of David Broad’s articles. A forensic document examiner might help as well.

Someone—say a copycat—might’ve just seen this stuff online or read a description and not known what they were doing as they marked up Otto’s wall with his blood.

That didn’t feel like the most likely scenario, however.

There were very few people who knew what cuneiform meant, and far fewer of them were killers. In fact, for Stella, there had only ever been one person who fit that description—Maureen King.

But she was dead.

Her husband and coconspirator, Sheriff Douglas King, fit that description as well.

But he was also dead.

There was another aspect of Otto Walker’s murder that troubled her—the fact that his throat had been cut with the same kind of violence as had been afflicted on the victims in Claymore Township.

Whoever killed Otto Walker did not share the same level of technical and anatomical skill as the killer of Patrick Marrion—most likely Otto himself.

All the signs led back to Claymore Township. But again, therein lay the issue. They’d solved that case.

Still, Stella needed to contact Claymore Township’s new sheriff. She looked at the time. It was almost half past five. She hoped he was still in. Especially since his time zone was an hour ahead of Nashville’s.

She stepped outside to make the call. On the landing, she took a deep breath of the crisp late-afternoon air. There was something dirty in the atmosphere of a crime scene. A hidden stain always seemed to cling to the walls and stick to the fittings, even after the place had been stripped.

Stella looked up the number and phoned Pennsylvania.

After a few rings, a gruff voice sounded on the other end of the line. “Sheriff Deacon. Speak.”

“Hi, Sheriff, it’s Special Agent Stella Knox.”

“Yeah, how can I forget? The celebrity.”

That wasn’t worth responding to. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up. We’ve got another murder down here in Nashville.”

Deacon actually chuckled. “I’m sure there’s lots of murder in Nashville.”

This was going to be like pulling teeth. “I’m standing at a crime scene right now with that strange writing, the cuneiform, painted all over the walls. The same stuff that was on the victims in Claymore Township.”

“So what? It’s probably a copycat. That writing’s been in all the papers.”

“Very true. But we need to cover our bases here. I’m concerned we might’ve overlooked something.”

There was a big sigh on the other end of the line. “What do you want?”

“I need you to take another look at Maureen King.”

“And what am I looking for?”

“Anyone who might’ve shared the same interests. Anyone she might have spoken to online or in person. Anyone she might have met in a grocery store. We’re looking to see if she had an accomplice besides her husband. See if Maureen was close to someone who’s not currently in town.”

There was another deep exhale. “So, basically, a fishing expedition.”

“If you want to call it that, sure. Anyway, let me know if you find anything.”

After Stella hung up, she poked her head back inside and flagged down Anja. “Let’s go talk to the neighbors.”

The boxy ERT truck stood open in the parking lot at the bottom of the stairs. A neighbor with bad eyes, who didn’t look too closely at the furniture inside, might be forgiven for thinking Otto was moving on to a better living situation.

Stella doubted that was true. If he’d been involved in the murder of Patrick Marrion, Otto’s soul wasn’t anywhere good this evening.

The cold breeze blowing along the outdoor hallway cleaned her lungs.

Anja knocked on the door of number fifteen. “I’m Special Agent Anja Farrow. This is Special Agent Stella Knox. We’re from the FBI.” Her voice was soft, caring.

“I’m Lydia O’Donnell.” The older woman Stella and Hagen had spoken to earlier looked Anja up and down. “So? Is he deaf?” Tiny and skinny as a broomstick, Lydia rested both hands on the doorframe, the toes of her faded pink slippers poking over the edge of the apartment threshold.

“I’m afraid he’s dead, ma’am. Not deaf.” Stella braced herself for the woman’s reaction.

Anja stepped in to take Lydia’s arm when she swayed a bit. Although she was a good six inches taller than the elderly woman, Anja seemed to shrink in height so they were almost talking eye to eye. When she closed the space between them, the woman didn’t pull back.

“How are you holding up with all this going on? You’ve been very brave.”

Lydia poked her head around the doorpost. A forensic tech headed down the stairs, a rolled-up carpet over one shoulder. “It wasn’t a movie?”

Anja patted her hand. “It wasn’t a movie. It’s very tragic. Did you see or hear anything unusual today? Maybe around eleven this morning?”

The old woman blinked. “Yes, I told that one.” She pointed to Stella. “I heard a horror movie playing. I banged on the walls, but it went on and on. After ten minutes of banging, it stopped, though, just before I was about to call the super.”

“Did you see if Otto Walker had a visitor this morning? Before the…altercation?”

“I’m sorry, darlin’.” Her voice wavered. “You’ll have to speak up. My hearing isn’t what it used to be.”

Anja pointed over her shoulder. “Why don’t we go inside? Sit you down.”

When Lydia nodded, Anja took her elbow and guided her into the living room. After the chaos and destruction in Otto’s unit, Lydia’s apartment looked as ordered as a model home. Or at least a model home in a retirement community.

A glass-fronted cabinet took up much of one wall, its shelves lined with decorative plates and brass knickknacks. A cane rested against the side of one of the room’s two armchairs. Their backs were protected with white doilies, and they faced a small television mounted on an antique cabinet. The varnish on the wooden coffee table had long lost its shine, but a pile of coasters next to a remote control stood ready to protect what was left.

Stella watched as Anja helped Lydia into her seat. “I’m sorry, did you know Otto Walker well?”

“What was that, hun?”

“Did you know Otto well?”

“Otto? No, not really. He was a lovely young man, though. He used to help me with the shopping sometimes.”

“Did he? That’s good of him.”

“Oh, yes. He’d see me struggling up the stairs, and he’d come down and carry the bags. Even put everything away for me. That’s why I couldn’t believe about the movie playing so loud. I guess…it wasn’t a program after all. So sad what’s happened to him. Just terrible.” She started shivering.

“It really is.” Anja patted her hand again. Hagen hadn’t been kidding. Even from this short conversation, it was clear to Stella that Anja was a skilled interviewer. “So did you and Otto talk much? Did he ever have any friends over?” She placed a nearby afghan over the woman’s shoulders.

“Friends? No, I don’t think so. He was a quiet young man. I know he used to go to church. Saint Aloysius’s, I think. He mentioned once that he volunteered at the soup kitchen there, up in Idlebrook Can’t think of the name. The priest runs a little homeless shelter next to the church and feeds the poor. He was a good boy. I’m sorry he’s gone.” Lydia sighed. “Such a terrible thing. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”

Anja rose. She’d already had business cards prepared, and she left one on the table next to a teacup in a saucer. “Thank you very much, Lydia. You’ve been a big help. If you remember anything or if there’s anything you need, you just give me a call, okay?”

Lydia smiled up at her. “I sure will, dear. You can see yourself out, can’t you?”

They could.

They learned nothing more from Otto Walker’s other neighbors. The residents either weren’t home or didn’t know him. One slammed the door in her face when Stella identified herself as FBI. Another resident, standing in the cold in shorts and a stained undershirt, wanted all the details about Walker’s death—how he died and who’d done it—but contributed nothing useful.

His curiosity roused Stella’s suspicions, though, and she could see herself coming back to this apartment complex one day.

By the time they’d knocked on the last door, the forensic techs had sealed off Otto’s apartment and were climbing into their box truck.

Stella waved them down as they prepared to leave. “Make sure you get the computer straight to Agent Mackenzie Drake, okay?”

“Uh-huh.” The tech wound up the window and drove out of the lot.

If they were lucky, the computer would be sitting on Mac’s desk first thing in the morning. If they were unlucky, Mac would have to make calls, nag, and threaten to go down to the lab and snatch it.

They climbed into the remaining SUV. Stella took the wheel. “You were good in there, Anja. Had that old dear eating out of your hands. You’ve got a way with people.”

Anja smiled. “You just gotta figure out what they want and give it to them. Before they ask. Ideally, before they even know they want it.”

“What do you think Lydia O’Donnell wanted?”

Anja was silent for a moment. “When I told her to go back inside, I saw she lived alone. Now, what do old people who live alone always want? Company. Someone to sit with them for a while, hold their hand. Listen to them.” She folded her arms and lifted her chin. “Give them that, even for five minutes, and they’ll tell you everything.”

Stella didn’t reply. There was a degree of self-satisfaction in Anja’s response that bothered her.

“So how long have you and Hagen been together?”

That question came out of nowhere. Stella almost hit the brakes. She maintained her speed as they turned onto Briley Parkway. “Not long. Couple of months or so.”

“Got it.” Anja nodded knowingly. “Must be a record for him. Good for you.”

“Yeah. Good for me.”

They drove on in silence. The journey back to headquarters would take less than fifteen minutes, but each minute was starting to feel like an hour.

Anja broke the silence. “So you guys got plans for the night?”

Stella remembered they were supposed to meet Mac and her new boyfriend at a restaurant. But the sight of Otto Walker upside down on a sofa had pushed the thought of food completely out of her mind.

Her dad used to come back from work full of jokes and smiles. He’d wolf down a giant plate of home-cooked food, help himself to extra mashed potatoes, then wash it all down with a couple of cold beers as though he’d spent the day tiling a roof. Stella had no idea how he did it.

“Supposed to be going out for dinner.” The smell of wet carpet and blood drifted back to Stella. “Though I can’t say I’m really in the mood.”