“A sacrifice,” I say.

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth briefly. “He took a lot of care with staging the eyes. He spent time here. Around a fire. Pouring wine. Weaving thread.”

Becoming docile, contemplative, she disappears somewhere inside herself. I’m again tempted with a famished hunger to explore that inside chasm, that part of her psyche she keeps hidden.

I want its secrets.

Inhaling a lungful of swampy marsh, I rise to my feet and shift my focus to the trees. “The alchemy of the soul is transforming pain into creative genius.”

I’m not aware I’ve said this aloud until I catch Halen’s tapered gaze directed on me. Her guard lowers a fraction, allowing a suspended heartbeat where her ache becomes mine, before she reins in her unruly emotions.

“And which one of your philosophers said that?” she asks, voice clipped.

Me.

“Some writer. I don’t recall,” I say. “But along with the intricate thread work, your suspect makes his own wine. There’s a certain alchemy to the vinification process, going as far back as Hermetic Egypt. His method or signature”—I use her terminology—“could be as simple as that. His signature.”

“None of this feels simple.” Tension layers her voice. “You’re going to have to narrow the scope.”

I rub the back of my neck. “Where are the images of the eyes?”

A printed image is slipped into my hand, and I look down. “These are the crime-scene photos taken by first responders,” she says.

I hold one of the photos up against the overcast sky, and just as I felt the day before, it’s useless. I lower the image. “I need close-ups. Pictures of the eyes, the thread.”

Halen briefly touches the diamond at her neck, a subconscious habit, before she drops her canvas satchel to the ground and digs out a digital camera. She hands it up to me.

“I didn’t have time to print off all the images,” she says. “But I wanted closer shots. To see if the perpetrator had doctored the eyes at all.”

A knowing smile curls my lips. Figures my little unseen seer would be the one to look beyond the obvious.

Flipping through the digital photos on-screen, I stop on one pair of eyes and use my fingers to zoom in on the glazed-over iris.

“I looked for any puncture marks,” she says, crossing her arms. “There are none as far as the images allow us to see.”

A frantic bat wings to life in my chest at her inclusive us . I glance over to catch her turn her head away, seemingly aware of her slip. But I don’t mind. As far as I’m concerned, we are the only two here in this field of death and decay.

I pan over a few sets of eyes on the camera screen, focusing on the pupils. “If he did, he’d likely go through the pupil, making it more difficult to determine. Maybe your lab geeks can get you a report. But he wanted the pupils in a particular way.” I point to three sets that appear to all align.

A caw sounds from above, and I momentarily glance up at a row of crows perched on a thin branch.

“The perpetrator used an animal to deter the birds from the crime scene.”

“He hunted it himself?”

She nods in confirmation. “Possibly. I assumed as much.”

Interesting. “Likely because he didn’t want the scavengers picking at his exhibit.” They would ruin his work, steal the sacrifice. But where is the blood? He’s either the least practiced…or the tidiest little OCD freak.

“I know where you’re going with the pupils,” she says, bracing her hands on her hips. “The unis already combed the marsh looking for the bodies. The eyes weren’t staring at anything, Kallum. There are no bodies in the fields.”

A light breeze tosses her lock of white across one eye, and a violent need to sweep it aside, to let my fingers taste her skin, stirs heated embers in my veins.

I swipe my tongue across my bottom lip, watching as she gracefully tucks the hair behind her ear.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

I unclench my hand from around the camera and return her device. “Law officials are limited in their thinking.” I turn to stare out over the gray-washed marshland. The reeds gently sway in the slight breeze, carrying the scent of death.

“That may be, but it’s their case to solve.” Anxiety leaks into her voice. “I need you to look for any philosophical correlations, that’s all.”

I could tell her what she needs, but she’s not yet ready to hear. Instead, I start off in the direction just left of the beaten path.

Little Halen follows, leaving Agent Alister behind, and that brings a smug smile to my mouth. She’s not one of them.

“You haven’t said anything about the scene itself other than a wine recipe and signature.” She sidles up beside me, her mud-covered rain boots requiring two quick steps for my every one to keep up. “I need more to go on, Kallum.”

“Your suspect chose three trees on purpose for his exhibit.”

“Because…the philosophy of trees states three is the magical number?”

I chuckle, nearly alarming myself and her. “Something like that.”

I can sense her wariness drifting, becoming less intense. Which opens a portal to a glimpse of Halen before her grief. She was witty, and charming, and made people laugh. Those who knew her then must miss her, and it’s probably why she lurks in the shadows now, trying to be unseen.

I’m not interested in restoring her.

“The site is very well organized,” I say, my pace slowing as we head deeper into the soggy earth. “It’s clean, practiced. Which makes you wonder if it’s his first one, doesn’t it?”

She’s silent as we wade through the marsh reeds, careful our steps don’t land on a reptile. But I can hear her thoughts shouting above the caws and insects.

Then, she finally says, “Five years is a long time to practice. If he’s been torturing these people for all this time…” She trails off. “There could be many more crime scenes buried in these fields.”

“What kind of space would a suspect like this need?” I ask, prompting her.

“Somewhere assessable to him, but a place he feels safely hidden.” She marches alongside me now, her curiosity superseding any hesitancy or trepidation.

I carefully swat at the reeds the deeper I verge into the wetland. Mud forms a suction to the soles of my boots. If the canine squad was utilized to comb the area, the dogs didn’t direct them on this course. The water could’ve hindered the smell or, more likely, the notable scent of citrus I catch a whiff of every time I fan the reeds.

“What’s that smell?” Halen asks.

“Lemon.”

She doesn’t respond right away. I imagine she’s processing the fact there are no lemon trees out here.

Ground water seeps up over the toes of my shoes, and when I see the starburst blooms, I halt and hold my arm out, preventing Halen from walking any farther. My arm grazes her chest, and her breath hitches before she pushes away on reflex.

“I don’t need your protection, Kallum.”

I look over, my eyebrow craned. The irony is amusing. The woman who set out to destroy me—my life, freedom, reputation, career—believes I have concern for her safety.

I take a step closer. My towering height casts a shadow over her slight figure.

And then we’re both instantly aware of the silence, of the very aloneness of our state.

Her snap of anger is a poor concealment tactic for the fear I see harbored behind her large hazel eyes. She doesn’t want to be afraid of me, but she can’t contain her strongest emotions. She’s afraid of so much she doesn’t understand, and I reflect that fear back at her. I sense little Halen hasn’t been in control of her world for some time.

I wonder how often she gives in to the pain, lets herself spiral out of control.

“I’m not really the protecting type,” I say, “but you definitely need something from me.” I step toward her and close the distance between us.

She doesn’t retreat. She raises her face toward mine, her chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. I reach out, and she starts to lean away…