“Go there,” Alexa says, pointing to a link that says Alicia Corey Reward.

I click on it, a Facebook page, bearing the same title and a large photograph of Alicia Corey, an attractive blond woman who, in the picture, has her head slightly angled back while she lets out a large laugh. Underneath it, the heading contains a long note:

Our dear friend Alicia Corey—Lisha to those who knew her best—was taken from us on May 22 when she was tragically and brutally murdered in her home on the north side of the city by a killer now known as the North Side Slasher. Lisha was a ray of sunshine every day, a gentle woman with a terrific sense of humor and a giving soul. Dr. Dennis Molitor, DDS, where Lisha worked as a dental hygienist for three years, is offering a $10,000 Cash Reward for any information leading to the arrest of the monster responsible for this senseless act of violence.

The note ends with an address and an e-mail where information may be sent. Underneath it, the page is filled with comments from well-wishers and grievers—We love and miss you, Lisha! Our prayers are with your family. Please let me know how I can help. You’re with God now, Lisha. Alicia was one of my finest students at Saddlebrook Middle School back in 2000 . . .

“That’s nice of him to do, the cash reward,” Alexa says. “Don’t you think?”

I bring a hand to my mouth, close my eyes. The initial news reports had just mentioned her nighttime job as a stripper. I guess that’s more of a grabber, sexier than dental hygienist.

“Jason?” She nudges me with her elbow.

“Yes, it’s very nice of him,” I say. “Dr. Molitor’s a great guy.”

She puts her hand on my shoulder. “You know him?”

“He’s my dentist,” I say. “I got a tooth filled in May.”

It doesn’t take us long to find the rest of them, now that we know what we’re looking for. Lauren Gibbs, the website designer and bank teller, worked at Citywide Bank in the Commercial District branch, where I banked. She was killed on May 24. I visited the bank to order some new checks, with my new address, in early May. Holly Frazier, the grad student who part-timed at Starbucks, was a barista at the location just down the street from our law firm, the place I buy coffee nearly every morning.

Nancy Minnows worked at my favorite store, Runner’s High, as a salesperson. She was the blond dreadlocked girl, Minnie, who sold me shoes and running gear a couple of weeks before she was butchered like the others.

And Samantha Drury was the African-American librarian who was working when I stopped in to write my anonymous note to the police about James Drinker.

I think again of what “James” said to me the other day on the phone, a conversation that sent ice down my spine, words I won’t ever forget, when he discussed his connections to the victims. For all I know, one of them sold me clothes or served me coffee or cleaned my teeth or deposited my check at the bank. And now we can add to that, waited on me at the library.

Or close enough, at least. I don’t recall Alicia Corey cleaning my teeth at Dr. Molitor’s—and to judge from her photo, I’d remember her—but James wouldn’t have known that level of detail. He would have followed me, but not all the way into the dentist’s inner office. I don’t think Lauren Gibbs was the person who helped me order new checks at Citywide Bank, but the truth is, I don’t remember one way or the other. Holly Frazier probably did serve me coffee at some point, but she’s one of a thousand pretty young women you see in the city and doesn’t stand out to me. Nancy Minnows, of course, was my salesperson at Runner’s High, which James could have seen just by passing by the window. Just as easily, he could have seen me walk past the librarian at the front desk, hidden from absolutely nobody.

Either way, whether I directly contacted them or was nearby, I was close enough to have met them, to have laid eyes on them. Maybe I coveted them, “James” had said to me, taunting me over the phone. Maybe I watched them, everywhere they went, obsessed over them . . . Maybe that’s exactly why I chose them. Because my encounter with them was so casual and short that nobody would even remember it.

He was following me, identifying pretty young women with whom I came into contact, and murdering them. The story he hypothesized to me is exactly what the police will say, if they ever get around to discovering me.

“Those places would all have security cameras,” I say. “A bank, a Starbucks, the library, the running store. The dentist office, maybe not, but it wouldn’t be hard to pull a patient list.” I look over at Alexa. “I’m on record in each of these places.”

“This can’t . . . this can’t be happening,” Alexa whispers.

“It’s happening.” I blow out air. “This asshole is setting me up.”

44.

Jason

Tuesday, July 2

The next morning, Alexa goes with me to Joel Lightner’s office. The sign outside his door on the seventh floor says JDL PARTNERS, a suitably vague name for a company that serves customers who value discretion. He works from referrals, no print ads or fancy websites. He has a row of offices on the west side of the building, his own the largest, but decorated tastefully and simply. He doesn’t want clients to think he’s getting rich off their troubles, though he is.

Joel gives a warm greeting to Alexa, whom he’s only seen once at a glance when she visited my office the first time. Normally he’d turn on the Lightner charm, crack wise, try to get the pretty girl to laugh, but current circumstances dictate otherwise.

When Alexa is taking a seat, Joel catches my eye and gestures at her with a question on his face. He’s asking me if I’m sure I want her to be here for this sensitive conversation. But I do. Alexa knows my darkest secret; if she can be trusted with that, she can be trusted with anything.

Joel paces along his window, which gives us a view into a concrete skyscraper across the street. It is drizzling outside, teardrops on the glass.

“It’s not much,” he says. “Yes, if the cops are good, if they’re looking that hard at security tapes, they might put you at each location.”

“They can easily put me at the dentist office,” I say. “And I put down a credit card at Runner’s High. Those two alone, right? I mean, that’s what the police are doing right now. They’re gathering data and cross-referencing. What do these women have in common?”

Joel makes a noise, his finger on his lips, pacing around. “That’s what I’d do.”

“And once they see where I work, it won’t be hard to imagine I went to that Starbucks. Send a cop over there to show the employees my photograph, and they’ll say, ‘Oh, yeah, he comes in all the time.’ The security cameras will just confirm it. And it will take them a grand total of five minutes to learn that I have bank accounts at Citywide, and that I was there recently at the district branch.”

“Okay, okay.” He holds out a calming hand. “But—you have no motive. You’re a successful lawyer. You’ve taken on some big cases, well-known cases. The Governor Snow thing. That thing with the terrorist attack, Jason. And now, suddenly, you’re a psychotic serial killer who guts women with a knife?” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t fly. I might find some significance in your connection to these victims, but I wouldn’t think you killed them.”

Now I’m pacing the office, too. One wall of Joel’s office is devoted to old photographs from the Terry Burgos case. Sometime in the late 1980s, Burgos killed seven—I think it was seven—college students and prostitutes on a small college campus in a town just south of the city called Marion Park. Joel was the lead detective on the case, the one who arrested Burgos, who interrogated him and obtained a confession that helped defeat his insanity defense at trial. The case launched his career. It’s the first thing any potential client knows about him, that he was the guy who once caught a serial killer.