“Well, smack my ass and call me Sally.”

Vaughn stood in his just-hidden-enough-to-go-unnoticed spot across the street from the firefighter chick’s apartment building, watching her bedroom light go out with a disbelieving grin. It was well after midnight, and James’s car still sat right in the side lot where the asshole had parked it five hours ago. Which could only mean one thing.

Someone had a liability, and it sure as shit wasn’t Vaughn.

Truly, he hadn’t thought his old buddy had it in him. Not that James had been a saint in the screwing-people department back in the day—or in any other department for that matter, because hey, a leopard couldn’t change its spots no matter how badly it wanted to be a plain old house cat. But James knew better than anyone else how dangerous it could be to invest emotions in another person. His strung out, jacked up Mommy Dearest was case in point. Honestly, after the train wreck that had gone down eight years ago, the guy had to be an idiot to even consider emotions of any fucking variety, even the kind motivated by his dick.

Ah well. If James was going to be dumb enough to put a queen on the board, no way was Vaughn not going to take it, if for no other reason than because he could.

“First things first,” he murmured. He’d deal with James and his little screw toy and the rest of the intelligence unit when the time came. For now, he needed to get the rest of the pieces where he wanted them.

Slipping a burner cell from the front pocket of his hoodie, Vaughn dialed a number without looking. The phone on the other end rang once, twice, and Christ, what a fucking cliché. The third time was the charm.

“Kinsey,” came the clipped voice over the line, but Vaughn wasn’t fooled. The mayor’s senior aide couldn’t hide the traces of sleep in his tone from him the way he could from all the other yes-men and knuckle draggers.

“It’s been a while, Kinsey. How are things on the primrose path?”

“Who is this?”

It was the split-second pause just before Jack Kinsey delivered the question that gave him away. He was buying time. Trying to figure out what Vaughn might want. How he’d deal with him. But not even an ice age would get the guy out of what Vaughn was about to throw in the mayor’s lap.

“Clearly, it’s been too long if you think I’m going to fall for that,” Vaughn said, his voice as quiet and as dark as the chilly night around him. “You know exactly who this is. Or have you forgotten all of the services I’ve provided for you and ol’ Brad in the past?”

This time, the silence on the line was all frost, and yeah, now they were getting somewhere.

“I’ll assume this line is secure,” Kinsey finally said, prompting Vaughn to laugh.

“Please. I’ve laundered millions of dollars in stolen campaign funds and bribe money for the mayor of our fine city over the last six years. You don’t honestly think I can’t safeguard one little phone line.”

Kinsey exhaled his disgruntlement, presumably at the sound of the words having been spoken so clearly over the line. God, government officials were so uptight. Of course, Vaughn had known the out-loud mention would ruffle the mayor’s senior aide. What was the point of having leverage if you didn’t fucking use it?

Something Kinsey clearly recognized, because he said, “What is it I can do for you, Shadow, since I’m certain this isn’t a social call.”

Time for more expertly applied pressure. “What, you don’t think I could be the mayor’s fourth when he plays the back nine with Alderman Thompson and the CEO of Bushman and Park on Wednesday?” Vaughn asked.

Of course, he’d rather be dragged over a field of razor wire and broken glass than endure so much as a second’s worth of that rich-person bullshit, but hey. Kinsey’s grunt of surprise that Vaughn had clearly hacked into the mayor’s private online planner was worth the asking. “Relax, Kinsey. Unlike your boss, I’m not interested in rubbing elbows with local figureheads or slick-ass real estate developers. You and I have bigger things to discuss.”

Kinsey waited a beat before answering, probably in an effort to try and make Vaughn think he was bored. Reading people in order to get what he wanted on the mayor’s behalf had always been Kinsey’s primary job, no matter what his business cards claimed. Under other circumstances, Vaughn would consider being offended that Kinsey thought those preschool mind games would work on him. But since he had the upper hand—and was about to wield it like a fucking broadsword—he’d play along for another minute or two.

“You’re paid in full at the end of every month for services rendered,” Kinsey reminded him. “There’s been no change to the mayor’s needs for those services. What could we possibly have to discuss?”

“The mayor’s needs may not have changed, but mine have.”

Vaughn eyed the empty, well-shadowed street around him before slipping farther into the alcove of the corner market across from Shae McCullough’s apartment building. The market had long since been deserted for the night, along with every other business on the block and the street around him besides, but still. There was no such thing as too careful.

“I’m listening,” Kinsey said, and Vaughn smiled into the darkness.

“Good, because I’m not going to repeat myself. I want a million dollars transferred to an offshore account in the Seychelles by five PM on Friday.”

“You must be joking.”

Vaughn’s smile morphed into a laugh that was all menace. “I never joke about money.”

“And what is it exactly that you’ll be providing for this million dollars?” he asked.

Jesus, for the right-hand man of the city’s most powerful official, Kinsey could be so goddamn thick. But Vaughn was already getting tired of this conversation, so he cut to the chase.

“Security, of course. Here’s the bottom line. I know all sorts of things about Bradley Aldrich III that I’m sure would be of extreme interest to his adoring constituents, not to mention the RPD. If he wants that information to remain secure, he’ll pay me the million to keep it that way. You and I both know I’ve got enough dirt for the D.A. to indict him—and, oh by the way, you, too—on over three dozen counts of felony corruption.”

Vaughn’s heart pumped faster as he let the not-so-veiled threat sink in for a minute. Metering his voice to its softest, most insidious setting, he let his words slip into the phone, but no farther. “Fraud, money laundering, bribery, conspiracy. The mayor’s been a very greedy man. Now it’s time for him to share the wealth.”

“So this is nothing more than common extortion? Hell, Shadow. All things considered, I’d have thought you’d be more creative than that.”

Kinsey’s tone was loaded with enough disdain to be thoroughly condescending, and Vaughn pushed off the bricks in the alcove in a move both swift and lethal.

“There’s nothing common about it,” he bit out, anger slithering up his spine. “I provide the mayor with services that no one else is smart enough to even dream of, and his top-one-percent, seven-million-dollar-estate-building ass is going to give me what I’m due. Need I remind you that you came to me, Kinsey? You sought me out to manage the mayor’s private financial projects. And you still need me. I’ve been laundering Aldrich’s dirty money for six fucking years. I can make prison orange his new color before the sun comes up if the spirit moves me.”

“You get a cut of those proceeds,” Kinsey reminded him, but Vaughn wasn’t about to have his focus diverted. He’d already set too many fires. He wasn’t going to be able to stay under the radar much longer, and he needed this money. Fuck, he deserved it. Without him, Aldrich would have been indicted years ago.

“Now I want more. Greed isn’t so pretty when you’re not the one wearing it, now is it, Jack?”

“A million is too much to move by Friday.” Kinsey’s voice had gone quiet, but the words were still an argument.

Frustration snapped, low and hot in Vaughn’s belly. This shit was getting downright insulting. For Chrissake, how dumb did the man think he was? “Not if you do it right. Which I’m certain you can, because I showed you how.”

“And if the mayor decides he’s not willing to cooperate?”

“Then I’ll burn old Brad all the way to the ground. Oh, and proof of every single bribe I’ve ever covered up for him will end up on the desk of the chief of police.”

Kinsey made a sound that probably meant to be a laugh, but it was just a shade too nervous to pass. “You have no proof of anything. All the mayor’s financial records are clean.”

“Not the ones I have copies of,” Vaughn said. Smartly, Kinsey didn’t point out that their verbal contract for services rendered (seriously, for a herd of dolts, rich people were so fucking fancy) had been expressly dependent on no records being kept. Like there had been a snowball’s chance Vaughn had ever planned to honor that bullshit.

“Anything you’d disclose to the police would implicate you, too,” Kinsey pushed. “I know you. You’re not about to risk going to jail. You’d rather take a bullet than be put in a cage.”

Vaughn’s pulse tripped in surprise. O-kay, time to kill this conversation, along with any hope Kinsey had of getting out of this situation without giving him what he needed.

“I can feel you thinking, Kinsey. Do yourself a favor and don’t. Otherwise I’ll be tempted to throw in all the video of Brad with those women who are so not the missus. The one with the redhead in the hot tub might be my favorite. Then again, I have a lot of honeys to choose from.”

“There…there’s no way you could access those,” Kinsey sputtered, and Jesus, finally the jackass had tipped his hand. “They’re completely private. You’re bluffing.”

Vaughn spent every ounce of the air in his lungs laughing into the empty darkness around him before he answered. “It is so cute that you think privacy is a thing. Friday. 5 P.M. I’ll text you the account number at 4:55. And, Kinsey?”

He waited for just a breath, his pulse pounding faster and his dick getting hard from the sheer arousal of twisting the knife the rest of the way into place.

“Don’t bother trying to find me, catch me, or stop me. No one ever has, and no one ever will.”

* * *

Capelli rubbed the last of the sleep from his eyes, taking a long, hard look in Shae’s pantry before shaking his head in defeat. “Seriously. I can’t believe you live like this,” he said, unable to keep a smile from creeping over his face as she came up beside him with a giant mug of coffee in one hand and both brows raised.

“Live like what?” she asked, and Christ, that sassy little grin of hers ought to be classified as a weapon for how quickly it rendered him fucking useless.

“Like you’re running a fraternity house. Is any of this stuff even edible?”

Shae laughed, the loose neckline of her dark green sleep shirt falling away from one shoulder as she pressed to her toes to give the contents of her pantry a closer perusal. The sight of her bare skin made his dick twitch behind the fly of his jeans. Capelli pondered, not briefly, skipping breakfast and taking her back to her bedroom. Pulling the cotton from her body to map out the constellations of freckles on her smooth, creamy skin. Tasting each one slowly, learning and re-learning the most sensitive parts of her body until she shook with desire. Need. Release.

Right. Because what Capelli needed was to be more distracted.

“Don’t be such a food snob,” Shae said, delivering him back to the real-time of her sun-filled kitchen. “There’s plenty to eat in here. Box-o’-noodles, canned chili, and—oooh! My favorite!” She whipped a yellow and blue can from the shelf in front of her with an exaggerated waggle of her brows. “Squeezy cheese!”

He bit back his laughter, but the move took all of his restraint. “I draw the line at cooking you breakfast with any ingredients that can be described using the word ‘squeezy’. I told you, I have standards.” He sent up a prayer that her refrigerator would give him more to work with than her pantry, and ah! Bulls-eye.

“Now we’re talking,” he said, pulling a carton of eggs from the top shelf of the fridge and holding them up in victory.

“Fine. Go the boring route,” she teased.

“This isn’t boring. It’s classic.” Capelli moved around her to put the eggs on the counter, mentally shuffling through a couple of potential recipes. “How do you like your eggs?”

“In a cake.” Shae’s laughter nixed any chance she had of nailing the joke, though, and she held up her free hand in concession. “Okay, okay. You don’t have to make the serious face. I’m not a total breakfast heathen. How about scrambled?”

“Scrambled works.”

A minute of comfortable quiet passed, during which Shae unearthed a bowl and a frying pan from one of the cupboards by the stove and Capelli took the milk out of the fridge. He lined up the necessary steps in his mind—crack six eggs into the bowl, add one tablespoon of milk per egg to keep them tender when cooking, whisk thoroughly and then add—

“So. You stayed last night.”

Shae leaned against the counter, taking a draw from the mug in her hand like nothing doing. Meanwhile, Capelli’s chin whipped up in total, heart-rattling shock.

“I, uh. Did,” he finished lamely.

After their insanely hot, somewhat impulsive trip to her bedroom, he’d expected things to get a little awkward—when he’d come here last night, he hadn’t even planned on kissing her, much less having mind-blowing sex with her. So coming up with something smooth when he’d gone back into her room after they’d done just that? Yeah, not exactly in his wheelhouse. Plus, even though it had been pretty far from his mind when he’d stripped off all her clothes, they were still working together on a case. The odds that they’d escape without any sort of weirdness had been astronomically high.

Except…that’s exactly what had happened. Shae had simply thrown on that grin he was fast becoming addicted to, and the next thing he’d known, they were finishing their cleanup job and eating Chinese food and tumbling back into her bed for round two of crazy-good sex. Falling asleep next to her had felt like the most normal thing in the universe, even though nothing about him had ever been normal, predictable, or good in his entire twenty-eight years.

A thought trickled into Capelli’s brain, pushing his heart into a hard thump against his sternum. “Did you not want me to stay?”

“Of course I wanted you to stay,” Shae said, her smile wide-open and strangely sweet, and hell if his heart didn’t thump even harder at the sight of it. “If I hadn’t, I’d have kicked you out. Look”—she slid her coffee mug to the counter, stepping in front of him on the floorboards without invading his space—“I’m not really a hold-back kind of girl, so I’m just going to be blunt. I had a great time with you. I’m not saying I want to run out and get matching tattoos or anything, but it seems kind of stupid for us not to keep having a great time together just because we’re working on this case.”

“It’s not technically a conflict of interest,” he said slowly. There weren’t any rules against them spending time together outside of work. Hell, after this week, they wouldn’t be working together at all.

“It’s not,” she agreed. “And more importantly, I think we’re both far too determined to let anything, even sex, stand in the way of us finding this killer.”

Ah, she definitely had a point there. “That’s also true.”

Shae tipped her chin at the eggs on the counter, giving up a little bit of a shrug and a whole lot of a sexy smile. “So what do you say we start with breakfast and see how things shake out from there?”

Capelli paused. He didn’t do relationships, even casual ones like this, and for damn good reasons. Logically, he knew he should be cautious, on guard, defenses up.

The trouble was, he didn’t want to be any of those things. As crazy and impulsive as it felt, what he wanted was Shae.

So he closed the space between them to kiss her.

“I say starting with breakfast sounds great.”

Ten minutes, four pieces of toast, and a batch of scrambled eggs later, they were sitting at her kitchen table, forks in hand. “This smells fantastic,” she said, gesturing to the pile of fluffy yellow eggs on her plate. “Even better than Pop-Tarts.”

He laughed, startled at not only how easily the sound came, but how unassumingly good it felt falling from his lips. “Thank you, I think.”

Shae took a bite, her little sigh of approval making eggs Capelli’s new favorite food. “So does everyone call you Capelli?” she asked, and even though the question took him by surprise, he shook his head and answered as he always did: with the facts.

“Yeah. I mean, I’ve never really gone by anything else at the precinct. But to be fair, Sinclair introduced me that way on Day One, all the way back when he was still a detective and I’d been assigned to the equipment room to fix busted surveillance equipment and rebuild ancient desktop computers for the clerks and desk sergeants.”

He counted his heartbeats in an effort to keep his pulse slow and steady, the way he’d trained himself to do any time the memory of that day became a slideshow in his mind. Facts. Stick to the facts. “Anyway, Capelli is my name.”

“It’s your last name,” Shae clarified. “But your first name is James.”

His spine stiffened against the ladder back of his chair, even though—like all the others—this was a fact, too. “Mmm hmm.”

Most people took the expertly placed hint and changed the subject when he clammed up about his personal life. But there was nothing “most people” about Shae, so of course she just tilted her head and leveled her bold green stare right at him.

“Not to put too fine a point on it, but we did just kind of have wild monkey sex for half the night. I’m thinking a first name basis isn’t entirely out of line here.”

Capelli laughed, breaking the tension that had filled the space between them. “Fair enough,” he said, because, really, she wasn’t wrong. “It’s just that my mother used to call me James, so no. I don’t really go by that anymore.”

“Ah.” Now that, she seemed to know better than to push. Thank fuck. “Well, then. Capelli it is.”

He nodded in a weird sort of gratitude. He’d never known the man whose surname he shared. Probably, his mother hadn’t either. But it was better than hearing his first name over and over again in his memory in his mother’s raspy, two-packs-a-day voice.

James, honey, go over to Coleman Avenue and run the stranded-kid con so we can pay rent and get the damn super off our backs. James! I need you to figure out a way to get past the password protection on these accounts. Me and Bruno wanna go to the casino this weekend. We’re going to make a fortune! James, I know this thing at the bank is kind of a big job, but just think of the payday. Plus, we’re not going to get caught. I’m your mother. Would I ever let anything happen to you?

“So.” Capelli took a breath, and by the time he’d finished his exhale, his composure was locked back into place. “Is Shae short for anything?”

“Yep.” She took a bite of eggs without elaborating, and after a handful of seconds, his curiosity burned a path right out of his mouth.

“If you don’t tell me what it’s short for, I’ll be forced to start guessing,” he said, straightening his glasses in an effort to look as scholarly as possible. “And with my memory, we could be here for a really long time.”

Rather than concede, though, Shae gave up a shockingly angelic smile, and who the hell knew she had that in her arsenal? “Oh, you won’t get it in a million years. Unless you’re hiding a very weird, highly Irish side somewhere in there.”

“Shae, I’m not even wearing a shirt,” he pointed out. “But if you want me to start pulling ethnically specific names out of thin air, I guess I can take it from the top of the alphabet and—”

“Oh my God, fine!” Her laugh echoed through the sun-brightened space between them, and Christ, even in that wrinkled sleep shirt with her tangled hair in a sloppy knot on top of her head, she was beautiful. “But you have to swear you won’t tell anyone at Seventeen.”

“Damn. Is it that bad?” he asked.

“Not terribly.” She lifted a shoulder in a haphazard shrug. “I mean, I’m not named after a vegetable or one of the Seven Wonders of the World or anything. But you don’t get to pick your nickname in a fire house, and the last thing I need is to end up with one I’ve got to live down.”

“Tell me about it.” At her oh really expression, Capelli added, “Maxwell calls me Encyclopedia Brown.”

Shae took a long sip of coffee, but he suspected it was more to hide her smile than for the purposes of properly caffeinating. “So you understand where I’m coming from. Anyway”—she sat back in her chair, popping a bite of toast into her mouth before continuing—“in a very adamant nod to our ancestry, my parents decided to go all-in when it came to naming all three of their children. We each got ‘S’ names. My sisters are Siobhan and Sinead, which honestly, is bad enough. But being the baby, I got the prizewinner. Most people don’t know how to pronounce it, let alone spell it.”

Saoirse, Sheenagh, Sibeal, Sile…dammit, his curiosity was going to give him a brain cramp. “Try me,” he finally said.

“Okay, smartass.” She folded her arms over her chest. “My full first name is Seighin.”

After a lightning-fast burst of whoa, Capelli’s brain pounced on the lilt of the Irish accent she’d put to the syllables, the way she’d pronounced them “shay-eeeen”, and a few seconds later, he pointed his fork at her with a smile.

“First of all, you didn’t tell me it’s normally a boy’s name.”

Shae’s lips fell open on a gasp, but oh no. He wasn’t losing steam now. “I’ll let you slide on that one, though, since I’m going to spell it correctly. Speaking of which, I’ve got two options there, although I’m sure you know that, too.”

Now her jaw dropped in full, which only pushed his satisfaction into deeper, darker territory. “It could be either S-e-i-g-h-i-n or S-e-i-g-i-n-e, but since your family seems pretty diehard Irish, I’m going to guess the former.”

“Impressive,” she said after a few beats of silence, her smile marking the compliment as genuine. “My parents are first generation Americans, so their values are still pretty old world. They believe names have power, that a person lives up to his or her moniker, blah blah. Mine means—”

“Little hawk,” Capelli murmured, his eyes not budging from her stare across the table. “It suits you.” An odd pang shot through his gut, and he shook his head to try and bring himself back to normal. “And for the record, I’m with your parents.”

“They gave me a very weird, very Irish boy’s name.” She frowned, although the expression carried more humor than actual heat. “You’re not seriously siding with them, are you?”

“I’m afraid I am. Names do have power. And by the way, yours might be unusual and untraditional, but it really is perfect for you.”

Shae let go of a small laugh. “If you say so.”

She turned back to her breakfast, beginning to eat in earnest. Capelli took a few bites of his eggs even though his appetite had taken an abrupt hike. He knew all too well how names could define people. Not just because he secretly hated his given name and the fact that it tied him to his mother in a way he’d never, ever lose.

But because he’d always be trying to escape from another name that haunted him at night, on the weekends, any time he was idle. A name that was part of him. A name that defined him no matter how hard he worked at the RPD and no matter how busy he kept his mind.

The Wraith.

The thought had come out of nowhere. But now that it had appeared, the memory that accompanied it unfurled in his mind’s eye as if it had happened yesterday rather than nearly a decade ago. The shitty apartment with the rotting floorboards under the kitchen sink. The half-empty bags of stale, roach-infested chips that were meant to serve as his dinner. The stink of vomit and other, worse things he hadn’t wanted to contemplate coming from the bedroom down the hall.

Damn, James! Don’t be so uptight. We might not be living in a palace, but don’t you see how much better we are than all those dumbasses putting in fifty hours a week at their stupid, mindless jobs? We’ll never have to work for a fucking thing because we’re smart enough to take anything we want, any way we want and never get caught. The world is different for people like us. We’re cold and ruthless, like shadows and wraiths…

The voice—not his mother’s, but one just as gut twisting—flew through Capelli’s brain, leaving a chill on his skin in its wake. Memories of Conrad Vaughn, a.k.a. the Shadow, coughed themselves up from time to time, even though Capelli avoided them like the most viral strain of the plague.

And for good goddamn reason, because the guy was just as dangerous and every bit as lethal.

Vaughn had—unsurprisingly—kept a low profile after Capelli had begun working for the RPD. Still, Capelli would hear rumblings about the Shadow on occasion, jobs the guy had allegedly done and people he’d allegedly scammed. Most of those rumors had been credit where it was due—Capelli would know the Shadow’s online quirks and signatures anywhere, and anyway, Vaughn had never been shy about his arrogant pride in his work. He’d also never been caught, although intelligence had gotten damn close three months ago when the Shadow had surfaced in the DuPree investigation.

The DuPree investigation. Forced prostitution. Sex parties. Two victims left to die in a flophouse fire in North Point. The strategically planned attack on Kellan, the raid that had brought the lunatic down…

The only person who had escaped that night.

Capelli’s breath jammed in his lungs. The images in his head crashed into a different scalpel-sharp memory, this one of the scene of the meth lab fire he and Shae were currently investigating. The differences between both cases fell away, leaving the similarities to line up with astonishing clarity, one by one. Using arson to cover up murder. The sufentanil in both Kellan and the Scarlet Reapers’ systems. The meticulous planning in both sets of crimes, the signature scrawled deeply but definitely beneath the surface of their current arsons, and all at once, the pieces clicked firmly and irrefutably into place.

“Holy shit.” Capelli’s fork clattered to the floor, his heart ricocheting through his rib cage like a freight train, and Christ, how had he not seen this before?

“Capelli? What is it? What’s the matter?” Shae asked, her eyes wide and brimming with concern.

But his brain was spinning too fast, calculating too hard to form words. Pushing up from the table, he lasered a path to the front door, roughly grabbing his laptop bag with one hand while yanking the machine free with the other. Not even bothering with pleasantries like breathing or a chair, he sat in his spot, his lungs feeling like boulders and his fingers flying over the keys fast enough to ache.

“Come on. Come on.” He whipped through the case file, his synapses firing like a Fourth of July finale. “I know you’re in here somewhere, you cagey bastard. You never could resist. Just give me the proof.”

“Okay, seriously. What is going on?” Shae’s voice registered dimly from beside him. In a faraway part of his mind, Capelli realized she must have moved to sit next to him on the floor, but the rest of his thoughts—his pulse, his adrenal gland—were all pumping far too quickly for him to focus on anything other than his search.

Don’t you see how much better we are…we’re smart enough to take everything we want, any way we want and never get caught…

Realization smashed into him like a four-ton boulder. “The surveillance video.”

Of course. Christ, it was just Vaughn’s style. Smug son of a bitch.

Pulling up the security footage from the night of the break-in, Capelli clicked to the section of video Shae had reviewed. She’d never seen Vaughn in her life, so of course she wouldn’t have recognized him. The guy made such a habit out of hiding in plain sight and blending into the shadows that most people never even saw him.

Not even when it was too late.

“The surveillance video? What about it?” Shae asked, and finally—finally—his mouth and his brain decided to take the teamwork path.

“When you reviewed the surveillance footage of your building’s front door, you said it was all residents with key cards. Except for the floral delivery guy.”

“Right. He was from one of those huge online florists who freelance their delivery people,” Shae said. “But the manager confirmed the order as legit. I spoke with him right before lunch today, remember?”

Under different circumstances, Capelli would’ve laughed at the irony of her question. “I do. But the order wasn’t legit.”

“You think the manager lied to us?” she gasped.

“No. But I do think he was conned.”

“By who?”

Anticipation made Capelli’s heart kick faster in his chest as he fast-forwarded through the video feed. The proof had to be here. There were too many other similarities for this to be mere coincidence, and Vaughn would never pass up a chance to show the world just how smart he was—

There.

All the breath funneled out of Capelli’s lungs in a sharp, hot burst at the image of Conrad Vaughn, carrying a giant vase of roses and all but smiling for the damned surveillance camera. Conrad Vaughn, who had broken into Shae’s apartment while she showered.

Conrad Vaughn, who had killed two people, set two fires, and was almost certainly just warming up.

“I need to call Sinclair,” he said, turning to look at Shae with one hundred percent certainty and just as much dread as he added, “I know who our killer is.”