Her shooting had scared the hell out of him.

She almost died.

Up until then he'd thought of them both as invincible, with Mary seeming even more of a superhero for some reason. Although she didn't know it, the trauma he'd experienced over her being shot had been crippling. So much so that he was seeing an FBI therapist, who'd suggested he and Mary quit working together for a while. The only problem was, he worried about her twice as much when she was out of his sight.

He settled into a soft ottoman, opened Mary's laptop, and turned it on. While waiting for it to boot up, his mind drifted to thoughts of his ex-wife. Ex. Such a negative word. As if she'd been crossed out of his life. Divorce papers didn't suddenly mean they no longer cared about each other, because they did. Things were just different now.

With hindsight, he could see that their marriage had been a recipe for disaster. She was so sensitive that TV ads for horror movies gave her nightmares. There was no way he could talk to her about his work, no way he could tell her what was bothering him. She'd begged him to quit, but he couldn't. She said he didn't love her enough, and he thought she might be right.

In the end, she was even jealous of Mary. "You spend more time with her than you do with me," she'd shouted at him one particularly ugly night. It was true, he'd realized. Then he'd had an ever more alarming thought: This is never going to work.

On Mary's laptop, the FBI screen saver was humming at him. He opened the writing program and quickly found the most recent file.

He read her notes, then looked at the background information on the murders and personal observations. That was followed by the profile.

The crime scenes reflect characteristics of the organized offender. Most likely a chameleon personality. Cunning. Cruises for victims.

Crime Scene: Kills at undetermined location, then disposes of body at abduction site. Very likely tortures victims, either psychologically or physically or both.

Leaves little or no physical evidence.

Development: Has been hurt in some way, and is angry, yet feeling fear or loss.

Thinks himself superior to others. Selects victims he can manipulate, dominate, and control.

He constantly feels the need for approval and feminine admiration. He is self-confident and arrogant, but may have doubts about his own sexuality. Could be attracted to men, and his denial of that attraction is taken out on innocent women.

Method: He usually preselects his victims, but if a victim doesn't work out, he may take one by opportunity. He uses the surprise approach, attacking between midnight and 5:00 a.m. The victim will always be alone.

Sex of Offender: Male

Race: White

Age: 24 to 35 Physical Description: 5'11" or above, muscular Scholastic Achievement: High school, possibly some college.

Lifestyle: Single, but may have friends or relatives who only see one side of him.

Social Adjustment: Did well in grade school, but when he reached adolescence, began to cause trouble. Has leadership qualities.

Demeanor: Confident, possibly quite charming.

Mental Problems: Phobias. Some type of stressor most likely occurred to bring about the first kidnapping and murder.

Grafted Rose Branches: Symbolic of his need to seek perfection in a mate along with his need to manipulate his victims in impossible ways.

The next file contained the victimology, which was every bit as important as the offender profile.

Sex: Female

Race: White

Age: 15 to 25

Height: 5'4" to 5'8"

Weight: 110 to 135

Hair color: Blond Victim will most likely be someone who is young and healthy, dresses stylishly, yet can be manipulated. Offender is an opportunist, and if the right victim can't be found, he makes do.

A note at the bottom proposed sending the profiles to the media as soon as the FBI signed off on them.

As Anthony shut down the computer and put it aside, he heard a key turn in the front lock. He was getting to his feet when the door swung open and an attractive woman walked in. Mary's sister? Mother?

He didn't want to frighten her, so he quickly pulled out his ID, nipped open the leather case, and introduced himself. Did she know who he was? he wondered. Had Mary ever mentioned him? "I'm Mary's partner," he explained in case she hadn't.

"Anthony! How wonderful!" the woman said, extending a hand. "I'm Blythe. I'm so glad to finally meet you." She was looking at him with curiosity.

"Excuse my hands," she said, smiling warmly. "I've been mixing clay all afternoon, and you know how hard clay is on your skin."

He hadn't known, but now he did.

She glanced around. "Where's Mary?"

It was tempting as hell to blow Mary's cover for her own good, but if he did, he doubted she'd ever speak to him again. "She didn't feel well, so she's upstairs sleeping."

"I knew something was wrong with her earlier today." Blythe frowned. "Is it Bu, do you think?"

This was Mary's mother. How could he lie to Mary's mother? "Hard to say," he replied uncomfortably.

"I'll just go up and check on her."

Blythe disappeared, then returned a few minutes later. "She's sound asleep, poor dear." She clasped him on the upper arm. "What about you? Did you just fly in? Have you had anything to eat? Come in the kitchen, and we'll have a chat while we wait for Mary to wake up."

She led him through the house to a kitchen that was as cluttered and as warm as the living room, with copper pans hanging above the stove. He noticed in particular a wire mesh bust in the corner. She talked while she pulled out condiments and heated water for tea. "Would you prefer beer? Wine? Soda? Oh, please sit down."

He could see that she was the kind of person who loved taking care of people, who would love to be taking care of Mary. Mary had recently told him she hadn't been home in five years. Not for the first time, he wondered why.

There was a little table in front of sliding glass doors that looked out onto a deck and backyard. He chose one of the stools at the kitchen counter.

"You and Mary don't look much alike," he observed.

"Mary's dark, like her father," Blythe said. "And Gillian's light like me. As far as personality, Mary and I are nothing alike either," she added, slicing a tomato. "But believe it or not, she used to be a lot more like me."

"Really?" He was having a hard time picturing Mary fluttering around a kitchen, wearing bright colors and talking nonstop.

"You should have known her before."

"Before? Before what?"

"Why, before Fiona died."

Mary awakened abruptly.

She could hear the soft, indistinct murmur of voices coming from downstairs. Disoriented, she turned on the lamp next to the bed and checked her watch. A little after seven.

She changed clothes, slipping into a pair of jeans and digging out a long-sleeved top. Downstairs, she found her mother and Anthony huddled together in the kitchen.

Blythe got to her feet. "I was just getting ready to come up and check on you." She gave Mary a quick hug. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better."

She leaned back to examine her. "Do you think it's the flu?"

Mary glanced at Anthony, thankful he hadn't told her mother everything. "It's not the flu; it's my arm."

"I was afraid," Blythe said with drama, "that there was more to your injury than you were letting on."

"I'm going to have to take it easy for a few days."

"Can I get you anything?"

"No." She put her uninjured arm around her mother and gave her a hug. "Everything's going to be fine."

Blythe was an optimist, so it was easy to convince her that there was no reason to worry. Satisfied with Mary's response, she excused herself, leaving the two of them alone to "talk business."