Page 6 of Return of the Spider

And so I shall study the masters of murder, the geniuses of homicide.

I lifted my head from the page and gazed at the initials on the bins. Standing in Soneji’s secret room holding his murder diary in my hands, I wanted to puke and cry at the same time because my gut was telling me that the bins on the shelves held murder kits, very specific murder kits, and my brain was telling me that a long time ago, Sampson and I might have made a terrible mistake.

In my mind, I saw a big man in prison proclaiming his innocence to me and Sampson before he died.

Deep in the pit of my stomach, doubt and fear grew, as did thestrange sense that I was being haunted by a ghost from my long-ago past.

I sat there, frozen by that idea, not wanting to push on in Soneji’s notebook but knowing I had to. With shaking fingers, I turned the page and fell back in time.

PART ONE

Profiles in Murder

Twenty Years Earlier

CHAPTER

1

Alexandria, Virginia

Gary soneji pulled hisblack 1985 Saab into the faculty lot of the Charles School, a private college-prep academy.

Before getting out, he paused to assess himself in the rearview mirror.

The balding dark brown wig flawlessly covered his naturally curly blond hair, which he’d cut short. His mustache was darkened with brown wax and shaped into a droop that swallowed his upper lip. Green-colored contacts, English-schoolboy glasses, and facial prosthetics he’d bought from a movie makeup artist completed a disguise that made him look at least ten years older.

Soneji smiled. His own dear wife, Missy, would not have recognized him.

His real name was Gary Murphy. But he had taken on a new identity—Gary Soneji—who so far lived only in his mind.

He stepped out of the Saab, opened the back door, andretrieved a faded blue blazer. He put it on over his blue button-down dress shirt and adjusted the knot of his blue and red rep tie to make himself look even more disheveled.

He slung his canvas messenger bag over one shoulder and checked his watch. Seven forty. Classes did not start at the Charles School until eight.

Twenty minutes. A chance to practice.

Soneji scanned the faculty parking lot. Two teachers were climbing the stone staircase to the verdant main campus. He spotted a tan Dodge sedan, empty, with a vacant spot next to it.

He walked in a loop until the Dodge was three rows in front of him, took another look around, saw the teachers were gone, and prepared his final stalk. Soneji imagined himself at night and studied the driver’s-side mirror until he had calculated how to come at it through a blind spot.

Then he crouched, hurried forward to the next row, and peered through the back window of the tan sedan to the rearview mirror, making certain he would not be seen. When he was sure, he checked all around once more.

Convinced he was unseen, Soneji moved quickly to the left rear corner of the empty parking space. He walked to within five feet of the sedan, raised his hand like a pistol, aimed it where a driver would be, and said, slowly and deliberately, “Bang. Bang.”

Not bad,he thought as he turned and headed toward the staircase to campus. He’d practice again later. And then he’d repeat it until he was sure.

A white Jeep Grand Wagoneer pulled into a space by the stairs.

Headmistress Jenny Wolcott.

Soneji cursed his luck. He didn’t like Wolcott. She was—well, nosy.

He pasted a plastic smile on his lips as he passed the Jeep and started to climb the stairs, hoping she’d have some rearranging to do before getting out. But her door opened behind him.

“Is that you again, Mr. Murphy, on this fine October day?” Jenny Wolcott called.

Soneji tried not to stiffen as he stopped on the stairs and looked back, smiling and thinking how very much he would like to throttle her. He said, “Me again, Headmistress. It seems Ms. Porter has a world-class flu.”