It had been a long day. But headache or no, the situation was too urgent for anything but an all-out, full-bore effort on everyone’s part, including her own.

Somewhere out there, a terrified teenage girl’s life was ticking down.

Just like Holly’s had. While Charlie had cowered in a hospital room under police guard.

I can’t think about that. If I do, I’ll lose it.

“We just got those photos uploaded a few minutes ago. Give me a break,” FBI Special Agent Lena Kaminsky snapped at Crane before Charlie could answer him. Late twenties, small and curvy, with a black, chin-length bob and an olive complexion, Kaminsky was pretty in a sultry, exotic kind of way that her snug-fitting navy blue skirt suit and killer high heels elevated to glamorous. Her super-feminine looks had made her aggressive personality come as something of a surprise. She’d already made clear her feelings about assisting Charlie, which were, in a nutshell, she had better things to do. At the moment, she was seated at the other desk in the room, which was catty-corner to the one Charlie was using, looking at the same images Charlie was viewing.

“Sorry.” Crane held up both hands and grimaced as Kaminsky glared at him. Clearly there was some kind of history there, but Charlie had no interest in trying to figure out what it was. Every bit of her focus needed to be on the screen in front of her.

Maybe I can find something that will save this one.

As soon as she had it, Charlie banished the thought. She had to deliberately force away the sense that she had any kind of special responsibility for the victim. Emotions would only get in the way of what she needed to do. If she started reliving what had happened to Holly—which she recognized was what her mind was subconsciously attempting to do—she would no longer be objective, and thus would be no use at all to Bayley Evans.

She was the expert. As such, she had to keep her past out of this. She would stay in the present. This girl deserved the best she had to give.

Looking at pictures of the gruesome slash mark that had nearly decapitated Julie Mead, Bayley Evans’ mother, Charlie felt both grimly determined and ill. The wound was so eerily similar to the one that had killed Diane Palmer that it took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to close her eyes and turn away. Horrible memories tried to thrust themselves upon her consciousness, but she kept them at bay—barely—by concentrating on mundane details that kept her grounded in the here and now: the squeakiness of the office chair on which she sat, the uneven legs of the white metal desk in front of her, the glare coming off the monitor.

And if Bayley Evans reminded her irresistibly of Holly, well, that was just something she was going to have to keep from thinking about lest it cloud her judgment. Although that was difficult with a photograph of the sweet-faced blonde push-pinned to a bulletin board above the desk.

Cheerleader cute, tanned and blond, Bayley looked enough like Holly that they could have been sisters.

She also looked so young and happy and carefree that she broke Charlie’s heart. Once upon a time, Charlie had looked like that herself. Holly had looked like that. Until they, too, had been ambushed by random evil.

Only this time, Charlie was in a position to fight back.

“I’m ready.” Charlie nodded at Crane, who pushed the record button on the video camera he was holding. They had agreed that her insights would be recorded so that they could be viewed by the investigative team, which would convene again in the morning. The recording could then be replayed whenever and wherever it was needed.

“Go ahead,” Crane said.

“This guy hates his mother,” Charlie said into the camera. “Or his mother substitute. He was very likely raised by a single mother, probably biological but possibly adoptive or foster, middle- to upper-middle-class household. His mother or mother figure was abusive to him from a young age. Certainly physically and psychologically, possibly sexually as well.”

“You can tell that from looking at a couple of autopsy pictures?” Kaminsky broke in skeptically.

Charlie glanced at her. “Yes.” Turning back to the monitor, she pointed to the wound on Julie Mead’s neck. Crane came around with the camera to capture what she was pointing at. “The depth and severity of this wound indicates extreme rage and hatred. Either the killer knew this victim well and hated her, or she served as a symbol of a similar figure in his own life whom he hated. We have to assume the latter, because this is the third matriarchal figure to suffer this violent of an injury, and it’s very unlikely that the killer personally knew and hated all the mothers in all three of the targeted families. Therefore, she acted as a surrogate for his own.”

“Okay.” Crane turned the camera from the screen back to Charlie. “So why a middle- to upper-middle-class household?”

“Because of the nature of the victims. Bayley Evans’ family—all three families—are middle to upper-middle class. The killer is targeting these families for a specific reason, which is most likely that they remind him in some way of the circumstances in which he himself grew up. He is in part lashing out at his past.”

Kaminsky looked unconvinced. Charlie felt a flicker of annoyance.

“Anything else?” Crane asked.

“The killer is probably an only child. Or if there are siblings, they were much older and out of the house when he was growing up.”

Kaminsky’s brows went up. “How can you possibly tell that from autopsy pictures?”

Charlie kept a grip on her patience. “If you’ll call up a full body photo of each member of Bayley Evans’ family, I’ll show you.” The vagaries of an unfamiliar computer system were the reason Kaminsky was in the room: Kaminsky knew how to operate it. Charlie was perfectly proficient with computers, and it wouldn’t have taken her long to figure it out, she didn’t think, but however long it took her was time Bayley Evans didn’t have.

Or at least, that was how Bartoli had put it when he had ordered Kaminsky to work with Charlie on this.

A moment later autopsy pictures of Julie Mead; her husband, Thomas Mead; and their son and Bayley’s half brother, Trevor Mead, appeared side by side on the screen.

Charlie tried not to notice that Trevor Mead was a cute eleven-year-old kid. The only way she was going to get through this was if she mentally objectified the victims.

“The killing wounds in both of these victims were stabs, not slashes.” She pointed to the wounds on the torsos of Thomas and Trevor. “The only slashes were suffered by Julie Mead.” There were slashes to the woman’s arms and chest area and left cheek in addition to the fatal wound to the neck. Charlie pointed to each of them in turn. “The father and son were simply killed in the most efficient manner possible. The mother was slain with far more emotion, as the slashes clearly indicate.”

“He would have to be a pretty big guy to overpower Thomas Mead, who was six foot one, weighed in at around two hundred thirty pounds, and was a former football player and current assistant high school coach, without Mead showing any signs of defensive wounds, wouldn’t he?” Crane asked.

Charlie shook her head. “I can’t speculate about that. I will tell you that many times serial killers exhibit what appears to be extraordinary strength, which is believed to result from the adrenaline rush they get from acting out their fantasies.”

“According to the position, depth, and angle of the wounds, the perp is six foot one and approximately one hundred ninety pounds,” Kaminsky said impatiently, giving Crane a look. “We got that already without any help from Dr. Stone here. What we’re still working on is how he was able to take out Mead and the other adult male with such apparent ease. You’d think they would have fought like tigers.”