Sara stood in alarm. 'Where's Jeffrey?'

Before she had finished the question, he came in behind Valentine, shutting the door.

'Slight altercation,' Jeffrey explained. He shared the same sloppy grin as the sheriff, as if they'd just had a great deal of fun together.

'What kind of altercation?' Sara felt like she was talking to two naughty children, and Jeffrey's burst of laughter did nothing to disabuse her of the notion.

Valentine laughed, too, though she could tell from the tears in his eyes that it hurt to do so. He told her, 'Grover wasn't exactly happy to see me.'

Jeffrey explained, 'He punched Jake in the face as soon as he opened the door.'

Sara noticed that he was using the sheriff's first name now. Only two cops could bond over one of them getting their face punched.

Valentine told Sara, 'Lucky thing you told me to bring him along this morning. You'd probably have me on that table right now if he hadn't been there.'

'Shit,' Jeffrey replied. 'Probably be both of us if you hadn't tripped the old fool.'

Sara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. 'I take it Mr. Gibson is not coming in to do the formal identification?'

Valentine explained, 'He wasn't too broke up about losing his son. They weren't exactly close.' He shrugged, allowing a hint of seriousness to enter his voice. 'Maybe when he sobers up, it'll hit him.'

Jeffrey turned serious as well, telling Sara, 'He was out of control. We cuffed him, took him to the station, so he could sleep it off. Not the first time he's been there, from the looks of it.'

'No,' Valentine agreed. 'Probably won't be the last, either.'

'I took several photographs of his face,' Sara offered. 'You can show those to his father. It might make things easier.'

Jeffrey asked Sara, 'Did you find anything?'

'Not really.' She picked up the murder weapon and placed it on a sheet of brown paper so that she could photograph it. This was the first time Sara had really examined the full blade and handle. Looking at it now, she noticed two things about the knife: the blade was thin, maybe half an inch wide, and it was at least four inches long. Most important, unlike the majority of folding knives Sara had seen, there was no serration. The blade was smooth on one side and sharp on the other.

Valentine's cell phone rang, the opening bars of ' Dixie ' filling the room. He checked the caller ID, then told them, 'If y'all could excuse me for a minute?'

Sara waited until the door closed before picking up the camera and scrolling through the photographs.

Jeffrey asked, 'Did you call the hospitals to see if Lena or Hank have been admitted?'

'There are three within a fifty mile radius,' she told him, scanning through the photos. 'No sign at any of them.'

'I guess that's good,' he said, though she could tell he was disappointed. If Lena had been tucked up in a hospital last night, there was no way she could have been out killing Boyd Gibson.

Sara found the photo she wanted. 'This should make you feel better.'

'What's that?'

'Look at the wound,' she said, finding the series of close-ups she'd taken. 'It's jagged at the bottom and jagged at the top. I knew something wasn't right.'

Jeffrey looked at the knife on the table, then back at the camera's LCD. He obviously knew where she was going with this, but still said, 'Okay.'

'The knife – this knife' – she indicated Lena 's knife on the table-'Would have made a wound with a V-shaped bottom and a squared edge at the top. A serration leaves a jagged edge in the skin. The top and bottom of the wound in Boyd Gibson's back is jagged.'

He was nodding. 'Based on the wound, the knife that killed Gibson was double-edged, serrated.' She could hear the excitement in his voice. Statistically, most stabbing victims were killed with single-edge serrated knives because that was what was usually in the kitchen drawer. Sara had never seen a double-edged serrated knife, let alone a stab wound from one. If there was someone out there in Elawah carrying such a weapon, he was more than likely the killer.

Jeffrey tapped his fingers on the table, processing the new lead. 'I'd bet it was a custom job. Maybe something off-market for the military. Definitely full tang, probably a custom handle to match the sheath… How long do you think the blade would have to be?'

'From the hilt to the point of the blade would have to be at least six inches long, then I'd guess from the wound that it's around an inch and a half wide, tops.' She pointed to Gibson. 'Look at how big he is. His chest is huge, his heart was enlarged. I found an entrance and exit wound through the left chamber.' She indicated Lena 's knife again. This blade might have pierced the back of the heart, but there's no way it could have gone all the way through the heart and out the front. It's not long enough – the whole thing tip to handle is eight inches long.'

'There's got to be a local who makes these things.' He could not wipe the smile off his face. 'With the handle, a six-inch knife would run close to nine, ten inches. The guy we saw outside the hospital had a big knife on his belt. He left it in his car before he got out.'

'It's not unusual for men to carry knives,' Sara pointed out. 'My dad keeps one on his belt for work.'

'Last time I checked, your dad doesn't have a big fat swastika on his arm,' Jeffrey countered. 'Whoever did this was trying to frame Lena. No wonder she ran.'

'Or maybe he was close to his knife and didn't want to let it go.' She walked over to the table where she had bagged Gibson's personal effects. 'Look at Gibson's knife. It's not off-the-shelf. He paid some good money for it. This isn't something you'd easily let go of.'

The door opened and Valentine appeared. He kept the door propped open with his foot, as if he didn't plan to stay long. The man was obviously furious when he told them, 'That was the principal from the high school on the phone.'

Jeffrey exchanged a look with Sara. 'And?'

'He found some blankets and a couple of empty bags of potato chips in one of the temporary classrooms.' He shook his head, his teeth clenched so tight that his jaw stood out like a carved relief. 'Looks like we've found out where your detective's been sleeping.' Jeffrey flashed a smile that sent Valentine straight over the edge. 'My wife works at that school, you fuckwad.'

Jeffrey offered, 'Well, I wouldn't feel too bad, Jake. I'm sure Myra didn't let her sleep there on purpose.'

Valentine pressed his lips together, obviously struggling to think of a cutting response. He finally settled on, 'Go to hell,' then turned on his heel and slammed the door shut behind him.

LENA

SIXTEEN

Two years ago, Jeffrey had thrown Ethan Green's arrest jacket in Lena 's face, ordering her to read it.

Of course she never had.

She had pretended to skim the file, taking in every fifth or sixth word, then pushed it back in his face with a belligerent, 'So?'

Jeffrey had given her the highlights, the rundown of Ethan's crimes: grand theft auto, felony assault, forcible sodomy, rape. None of his words had penetrated – Lena was still in that phase where she thought of Ethan as two different people: the one who loved her and the one who would eventually kill her. The duality was not much of a stretch; at the time, Lena thought of herself in much the same terms.

Sibyl had been dead almost a year when Lena first met Ethan. She was living at the college dorms, working campus security, struggling to get through each day without putting a gun to her head. Ethan was working on his master's degree. He had pursued Lena relentlessly, almost wearing her down.

A few months later, Lena got her job back with the police force and moved in with Nan Thomas. Ethan was still in her life; Ethan was still her life. His arrest file had stayed in her Celica the whole time, well concealed behind the CD changer in her trunk. Lena hadn't wanted Nan to accidentally come across it. Truth be told, she hadn't wanted to take it into the house where Sibyl had once lived. It was bad enough when Ethan slept over.