So maybe I’ve stopped the bloodbath, at least. Maybe he’s done. And if he starts getting thirsty again for the blood of young women, Lightner’s team will be watching. The deal we struck was that if anything got to the point of looking imminent—if Drinker was sneaking around houses in the middle of the night, that kind of thing—Lightner’s people would call 911 and expose him, if nothing else to stop anything from happening, even if Drinker got away.

So that’s comforting, I guess.

At nine o’clock, I’m sitting on my bed, doing some online legal research for a suppression hearing I have next week. Alexa is arranging the clothes she’s brought over to wear for tomorrow morning. She’s been going back and forth, picking up items on a daily basis and bringing them to my place, which must be a pain in the ass for her. I’ve offered to stay at her house, but she prefers mine. It’s more centrally located, I guess.

Alexa comes over to the bed, removes my laptop, and replaces it with herself, straddling me. Exploring the parameters of the Fourth Amendment case law on searches incident to arrest can be interesting, but exploring the parameters of Alexa’s sexual appetite has proven more enticing still.

Life can be good. At least I can tell myself it’s good.

Afterward, I’m lying on the bed while Alexa takes it upon herself to tidy up my room, which isn’t necessary, but she does it without asking and says she doesn’t mind. She cooks, she cleans, she satisfies my every sexual desire, she’s cool about that tin of Altoids—what next? Does she like football and poker, too?

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I pick it up and see an unknown caller. My heart skips a beat. Lately, that has only meant one person. I figured he would call.

“This is Jason,” I say.

“Well, well.” James Drinker breathes into the phone. “You . . . prick.”

“Who is this?” I ask, because in all fairness, any number of people would like to say that to me.

“This is your client,” he says.

“Is this—James?”

“That’s right, Jason. It’s James. James Drinker. The client you just stabbed in the back.”

I won’t deny I’m enjoying this, but the even keel to his voice is unsettling.

“I don’t know what you mean, James.”

“No?”

“No.”

Silence. Alexa stops what she’s doing and looks over at me.

“I just had a nice visit with the police,” he says. “Detectives. They yanked me down to the police station and questioned me for . . . I don’t know, two or three hours.”

“Where are you?” I ask, playing dumb. “Are you at headquarters?”

“Oh, no. They let me go, Jason.”

Yes, I should have been more explicit with my note. I should have cut out enough words from the Sports Illustrated to say dated Alicia Corey and friends with Lauren Gibbs. But they’ll get there, eventually. He’s in their sights now.

“Well, we knew they’d pay you a visit sooner or later,” I say. “How did it go? You were supposed to call me, James.”

Dead air, save for his breathing, slow and steady.

“Did you call the cops on me, Jason?”

“No, I didn’t.” Which is technically true.

“Are you sure, Jason? Because I think you did.” Still with that slow and steady tone, though I detect a slight tremble of anger.

I clear my throat. “You have a connection to the first two victims. You dated Alicia and you were friends with Lauren. We always knew the police would talk to you.”

Silence. He is stewing. What I’m saying is correct, though. I told him, all along, that the cops would get to him sooner or later, and probably sooner.

“I never dated Alicia Corey,” he says. “I didn’t even know her or Lauren Gibbs.”

A burn spreads across my chest. Didn’t see that one coming.

“You know what that means, Jason?”

It means the only reason the police would pay him a visit is because I tipped them off. He caught me. He got me. Was that his plan all along? Was he testing me?

And if so, why?

“It means you lied to me,” I say. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“True,” he concedes. “But it also means that you told them about me. And you really shouldn’t do that.”

“I wish I could help you, James. Even if you didn’t know any of the victims, there’s plenty of reasons why they might contact you. Who knows what evidence they followed that led to you.” Like the fact that you killed those women, you maggot.

“They didn’t follow any evidence,” he says. “They just asked me if I knew those women. They asked me twelve different ways, but in the end, that’s all they asked me. They were fishing. They didn’t have anything on me. Why would they pluck me out of the blue and bring me in? There’s only one reason. That reason is you, Jason. You told them about me.”

“We’re going in circles, James. Should I assume you no longer want to retain my services?”

“Do you think I killed those women, Jason? Do you think I’m a . . . psychopath?”

Sociopath, actually, but why split hairs?

“Do you?” A taunt to his voice, a dare. “Do you think I like to cut women up with a knife? Do you think I like to torture them? Watch them suffer? Listen to them beg for their lives, smell their blood as the life drains from their eyes? Do you?”

The shadows framing my vision seem to darken and thicken, narrowing my sight line. My hand begins to itch. I’m not going to give this asshole the satisfaction of thinking he’s getting inside my head—which, of course, is the first step in letting him do that very thing.

Silence, save for his labored breathing. Alexa is pretending not to listen, picking up clothes off the floor, but keeping one ear to my conversation.

“Because if that’s what you think about me, Jason, I have one more question for you.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Am I really someone you want to piss off?”

I bounce off the bed, adrenaline surging through me. I may not be a hundred percent these days, but there are still a few things that can light my fire.

“You know where I work, James. Stop by anytime. I’ll even give you my home address if you like.”

“Oh, I already have it, Jason, but thanks. It’s a nice town house, by the way.”

“Are you threatening me, James? Because that’s a bad idea.”

He clucks his tongue, tsk-tsk-ing me, scolding me.

“Relax, my friend,” he says. “I didn’t kill anybody and I’m not going to kill anybody. You believe me, don’t you, Jason?”

“Whether you did or not,” I respond, “you better watch yourself now. You’re now officially on the cops’ radar.”

“Boyyy, it sure didn’t seem that way,” he hums. “I have to tell you, by the end of the interview, they sure seemed like they felt this was a waste of their time. They even apologized to me for the trouble. No, I think I’ve been crossed off their list.”

“Oh, go ahead and believe that, James. You think the cops are going to tell you what they really think? They lie to suspects all the time. As easily as taking a breath.”

“Oh, now you tell me.”

I don’t know what that means, but I do know this: He’s probably right. If James Drinker has no obvious connection to these women, which apparently is the case, then my anonymous note will go into the loony-tune bin at Area Three headquarters. Now that a serial killer has been acknowledged, and even branded with a catchy name like the North Side Slasher, the crazies will be out in full force. The tip hotline is probably overflowing with calls identifying the real killer as Osama bin Laden, Donald Trump, Martha Stewart, or one of the Kardashian sisters, the one without talent.

So my note was enough to send some junior detectives over to Drinker’s apartment, enough to haul him to headquarters for a brief inquiry, but then quickly dismissed as yet another frivolous tip.

Which means James Drinker is probably as free and clear as he says.

“I’m done with you,” I say, trying to regain the upper hand.