“Miss St. James,” the judge addresses me, “where did this conversation take place?”

“On the campus grounds, in the courtyard near the crime scene, your honor.”

“Were there others present?” she further inquires.

“Yes. Local police and federal agents were still investigating the scene at the time I spoke with Professor Locke.”

She nods. “As the conversation was held outdoors on an active crime scene and in the presence of other officials, I’m ruling there was no expectation of privacy, and I’m allowing the recording to be admitted. Let’s hear the interview. I’m curious.”

I open the voice recorder app and hit Play on the file.

The sound is muffled as it crackles over the small speaker from where I slipped my phone into my back pocket. I was standing opposite Kallum on the university grounds, just feet away from the marked-off crime scene.

The afternoon air was crisp and smelled like burnt leaves. The lowering sun cast the lush grounds in shades of umber and smoky taupe, imbuing a sense of calm despite the unsettling yellow tape strung around the quad.

High, gothic arches framed the central courtyard of the university. Stone benches and birch trees shrouded the crime scene where the mutilated body of Professor Wellington was discovered by passerby students.

The victim had been removed, the site in the process of being cleared, as the dean was anxious to return the university to its stately status.

I had felt Kallum’s eyes on me as I walked the scene my last day there. Actually, I had felt his eyes on me the whole time I had been at the prominent Ivy League institution. But this was the first time I looked directly into those eyes—one green, one blue—as he stood before me with a curious glint flashing behind his predatory gaze.

His all-black suit was tailored. Like him, it was stylish and youthful. Quite unusual for a tenured professor with such high accolades. He’d achieved a prestigious reputation by the age of thirty-six, albeit one where he was admired as much as he was regarded dangerous—but dangerous in a dark and mysterious vein.

The bad-boy of academia.

His silent broodiness and blackwork tattoos added to the effect to trigger gossip in the hallways. Yet, as a distinguished professor, Kallum was revered as an expert in all things esoteric philosophy, occult, and antiquity.

I didn’t know much about the esteemed Professor Locke at that point, other than a couple of his published research papers I’d previously read—but something in the way he was studying me, like one of his cryptic artifacts, made me wary enough to hit Record on my phone.

His first words to me: “You’re an intriguing little thing.”

I felt the hairs on the nape of my neck lift away from my skin. When I didn’t respond, he said, “You’re not a law official.”

“No,” I confirmed.

“But they trust your opinion.”

“Some of them, I suppose.”

“And what is your opinion? Halen, isn’t it?”

“It is, but it would be inappropriate and unethical to discuss my findings with you, Professor Locke.”

“Because I’m a suspect? And please, it’s Kallum.”

“Yes, because you’re a suspect, as are most of the university staff and students. Then there’s the obvious fact I won’t discuss an active investigation with any person outside of the case.”

“That’s hardly any fun.”

“That’s the rules.”

“Rules are definitely no fun.”

A long beat of silence followed where he drew closer. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No.”

“You’re trembling.”

“I’m not used to the Boston weather.”

“You get accustomed to it, just like you get accustomed to drifting below radar, unseen in the shadows, trying to appear unremarkable.”

“Is that how you view yourself here?”

“I was referring to you, Halen.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talk—”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. All these self-important, big-dick detectives trying to make their case, while here you are, the only one with actual, impressive credentials, the only one who can piece together what happened here, and you haven’t spoken a word.”

I inhaled an unsteady breath. “I’m not reporting to the local authorities or the FBI on this case,” I said, but a sense of dread flared. He had looked into me. “I should leave here now, actually.”

He walked right up to me, got close enough I could smell the woodsy scent of his cologne, feel his breath trace a path across the contours of my throat and collarbone in the wake of his trailing gaze. Then he inhaled a deep breath, as if pulling me into his lungs.

“I’d like to know what thoughts you keep silent, what you’re so worried might slip past those trembling lips.”

I only stood there, staring up into his shadowed face, the sun at dusk a darkening halo behind his head.

“Wellington was the opposite,” he continued. “He couldn’t shut his fucking mouth. He was a despicable human being. Maybe that’s why the killer cracked his jawbone and tore his face in two, split his skull with a tire iron.”

I swallowed. “That’s very specific.”

“One can only presume, of course.” His smile taunted me. “If I were his wife, I mean, I’d probably be fucking my personal trainer too and want my husband to shut the fuck up permanently.” He winked before he took a step back. “I’ll see you around, little Halen.”

The recording ends, and I feel the collective shiver roll through the courtroom.

For just a moment, the illusion is broken, and the people seated in the pews glimpse the disturbed monster beneath the handsome veneer of the man at the table.

I felt the same chilling shiver ricochet through my bones the moment Kallum confessed the details of the murder to me, and I knew I was looking into the eyes—no matter how alarmingly beautiful—of a sadistic killer, one with no empathy or remorse.

As tension builds in the room, I say, “In answer to your question, Mr. Crosby, yes, my conversation with Professor Locke had bearing on my profile. The particular detail, that of the object used to dismantle the mandible, that is the jawbone of the victim, hadn’t yet been revealed to the public at that time. Professor Locke wanted me to know he had been the one to silence the victim, and he was going to get away with it.”

“Objection,” Crosby interrupts. “Move to strike. The witness cannot know what my client was thinking, your honor.”

“On that, I agree,” Judge McCarthy says. “Motion to strike from the record granted. Proceed.”

Crosby addresses me again. “Miss St. James, with no expectation of privacy on the scene, is it possible Professor Locke could’ve overheard detectives or crime-scene analysts discussing this detail of the crime during those three days on university grounds?”

“Anything is possible,” I’m forced to answer, as he’s using the ruling to admit my recording against me.

“Is there any other element in your report, other than this one brief conversation, that led to your conclusion as the defendant as the prime suspect?”

I roll my shoulders, relieving the itch of the polyester material. My gaze drifts to Kallum, who no longer wears an arrogant grin. His features are sharp and tipped with malice. A prickling sensation webs my nerves, encasing me in cold.

I look at the lawyer. “My analysis was primarily based on the evidence at the crime scene. The defendant meets the physical profile to commit the crime, and he also has a history of discord with the victim.”

“But that’s not physical evidence,” Crosby states, walking the length of the courtroom to stand near the jury box. “That’s considered circumstantial, correct?”

“Circumstantial evidence is still evidence that shapes a crime-scene profile,” I say, feeling my hackles rise. I belong in the field, not in a courtroom where my words can be twisted. But this crime is far too important to me not to make myself heard.

The lawyer turns my way. “Shapes a crime-scene profile,” he parrots. “But a profile is a theory in itself, not hard, factual evidence.”