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What the newspaper article didn’t say was that her tongue had also been cut out. The police were holding that back. But Lacey knew all about that. She’d been brutally stabbed and her tongue had been sliced out.

The bastard.

She realized then that yesterday had been the seventh anniversary of the last murder.

Seven years. He’d struck seven years ago to the day. The monster was back.

Lacey was pacing back and forth in front of Savich’s office when he came around the corner. He watched her a moment. He said very quietly, so as not to startle her, “Sherlock, it’s seven in the morning. What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”

When she turned abruptly to face him, he saw more pain on her face than he’d seen in a long time. Then the hollow, despairing look was gone. She’d gotten a grip. She’d hidden the pain again. And left nothing at all.

What was going on here?

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?”

She smoothed out her face. What had he seen? She even managed a smile. “I’m sorry to bother you so early, but I have a favor to ask. I need to take a few days off and go to Boston.”

He unlocked his office door and waved her in. “Boston?”

“Yes. I have a sick aunt. It’s an emergency. I know I’ve only been in the Unit a couple of weeks, but there’s not anyone else to see to this situation.”

“Your aunt is elderly?”

“Not really, well, she’s got Alzheimer’s. She’s gotten suddenly worse.”

“A relative called you?”

Why was he asking all these questions? Didn’t he believe her? “Yes, my cousin called me. He, well, he’s not well himself so there’s no one but me here on the East Coast.”

“I see,” he said slowly, not looking at her directly now. She looked pale, scared, and excited—an odd combination, but that’s what he saw in her face. Her hair was pulled severely back, held in the same gold clasp at the nape of her neck. It looked like she’d flattened it down with hair spray. She couldn’t seem to be still, her fingers now flexing against her purse, one foot tapping. She’d forgotten to put on any makeup. She looked very young. He said slowly, “How long do you think you’ll need to be away?”

“Not more than three days, just long enough to see that her care is all locked into place.”

“Go, Sherlock. Oh yes, I want you to call me from Boston tonight and tell me what’s going on, all right?”

Why did he care what she was doing away from Washington? More lies. She hated lies. She wasn’t particularly good at them, but she’d rehearsed this one all the way in. Surely he believed her, surely. “Yes, sir. I’ll call you this evening.”

He jotted down his phone number on a piece of paper. “If it’s late, call me at home.” He handed her the folded paper. He said nothing until she was nearly at the outer door, then, “Good luck. Take care.”

He turned back to his office only after she was out the door. He listened a moment to the sound of her quick footfalls.

This was odd.

Why was she lying to him?

It was 10:30 that night when the phone rang. Savich muted the baseball game between the Giants and the Red Sox, Giants leading 7 to 2 in the seventh inning. He kept looking at the screen as he answered the phone.

“Sir, it’s Sherlock.”

He grinned into the phone. “What’s going on?”

“My aunt is just fine. I have more details to tie up but I’ll be back by Thursday, if that’s all right.”

He said easily, “I have a good friend at Boston Memorial, a doctor who specializes in geriatrics. Would you like his name so you can speak to him about your aunt?”

“Oh no, sir. Everything’s under control.”

“That’s good, Sherlock. What’s the weather like in Boston?”

“It’s chilly and raining. Everything looks old and tired.”

“About the same here. I’ll see you on Thursday. Oh yes, call me again tomorrow night.”

There was a pause, then, “Very well, sir, if that’s what you want.”

“It is. You sound tired, Sherlock. Sleep well. Good night.”

“Thank you, sir. You too.”

• • •

He watched her from his office. It was nearly one o’clock Thursday afternoon. He’d been in meetings all morning. This was the