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get to her e-mail, found the e-mail addresses he wanted, began to compose:
    Hi! I’m going to Los Angeles for a few weeks. I will be in touch when I get back.
    He signed it “Marianne,” did the copy feature, and pasted the same message into two other e-mails. Then he hit SEND. Those who knew Marianne wouldn’t search too hard. This, from what Nash could figure, was her modus operandi-disappearing and then popping back up.
    But this time… well, disappearing, yes.
    Pietra had drugged Marianne’s drink while Nash kept her occupied with the Cain-ape theory. When they had her in the van, Nash had beaten her. He had beaten her badly and for a long time. He had beaten her at first to elicit pain. He wanted her to talk. When he was sure she had told him everything, he then beat her to death. He was patient. There are fourteen stationary bones in the face. He wanted to snap and cave in as many as possible.
    Nash had punched Marianne’s face with almost surgical precision. Some shots were designed to neutralize an opponent-take the fight out of them. Some shots were designed to cause horrible pain. Some were designed to cause physical destruction. Nash knew them all. He knew how to keep his knuckles and hands protected while using maximum force, how to make the proper fist so you don’t hurt yourself, how to use the palm strike effectively.
    Right before Marianne died, when the breathing was raspy from the blood lodged in her throat, Nash did what he always did in those situations. He stopped and made sure that she was still conscious. Then he had her look up at him, locked his gaze on hers, saw the terror in her eyes:
    “Marianne?”
    He wanted her attention. He got it. And then he whispered the last words she would ever hear:
    “Please tell Cassandra I miss her.”
    And then, finally, he allowed her to die.
    The van was stolen. The license plates had been changed to confuse the issue. Nash slipped into the backseat. He jammed a bandana into Marianne’s hand and tightened her fingers around it. He used a razor to cut off Marianne’s clothing. When she was naked, he took fresh clothes out of a shopping bag. He struggled but he managed to get them on her. The pink top was too snug but that was the point. The leather skirt was ridiculously short.
    Pietra had picked them out.
    They had started off with Marianne in a bar in Teaneck, New Jersey. Now they were in Newark, the slums of the Fifth Ward, known for its streetwalkers and murders. That was what she’d be mistaken for-another beaten whore. Newark had a per capita murder rate three times nearby New York City ’s. So Nash had beaten her good and knocked out most of her teeth. Not all of them. Removing all her teeth would make it too obvious he wanted to hide her identity.
    So he left some intact. But a dental match-assuming they found enough evidence to warrant looking for a match-would be hard and take a long time.
    Nash slipped the mustache back on and Pietra put on the wig. It was an unnecessary precaution. No one was around. They unloaded the body in a Dumpster. Nash looked down at Marianne’s corpse.
    He thought of Cassandra. His heart felt heavy, but it gave him strength too.
    “Nash?” Pietra said.
    He gave her a small smile and got back into the van. Pietra put the van in drive and they were gone.
    MIKE stood by Adam’s door, braced himself, opened it.
    Adam, dressed in black goth, swung around quickly. “Ever hear of knocking?”
    “This is my house.”
    “And this is my room.”
    “Really? You paid for it?”
    He hated the words as soon as they came out. Classic parental jus- tification. Kids scoff and tune it out. He would have when he was young. Why do we do that? Why-when we swear we won’t repeat the wrongs of the previous generation-do we always do exactly that?
    Adam had already clicked on a button that blackened his screen. He didn’t want Dad knowing where he’d been surfing. If he only knew…
    “I got good news,” Mike said.
    Adam turned