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you are about to do. But he cannot fight back. He cannot protect his wife. And to alert you to his movements, his struggles, you place a teacup and saucer on his lap, as an early-warning system. It will clatter on this hard floor should he manage to rise to his feet. In the throes of your own pleasure, you cannot keep an eye on what Dr. Yeager is doing, and you do not want to be taken by surprise.
    But you want him to watch.
    She stared down at the spot that had glowed bright green. Had they not moved the coffee table, had they not been searching specifically for those trace leavings, they might have missed it.
    You claimed her, here on this rug. Took her in full view of her husband, who could do nothing to save her, who could not even save himself. And when it was done, when you had taken your spoils, one small drop of semen was left on these fibers, drying to an invisible film.
    Was killing the husband part of the pleasure? Did the unsub pause, his hand gripping the knife, to savor the moment? Or was it merely a practical conclusion to the events that preceded it? Did he feel anything at all as he grasped Richard Yeager by the hair and pressed the blade to his throat?
    The room lights went off. Mick’s camera shutter clacked again and again, capturing the dark smear, surrounded by the fluorescent glow of the rug.
    And when the task is done, and Dr. Yeager sits with head bowed, his blood dripping on the wall behind him, you perform a ritual borrowed from another killer’s bag of tricks. You fold Mrs. Yeager’s spattered nightgown and place it on display in the bedroom, just as Warren Hoyt used to do.
    But you are not finished yet. This was just the first act. More pleasures, terrible pleasures, lie ahead.
    For that, you take the woman.
    The room lights came back on, and the glare was like a stab to her eyes. She was stunned and shaking, rocked by terrors that she had not felt in months. And humiliated that these two men must surely see it in her white face, her unsteady hands. Suddenly she could not breathe.
    She walked out of the room, out of the house. Stood in the front yard, drawing in desperate breaths of air. Footsteps followed her out, but she did not turn to see who it was. Only when he spoke did she know it was Korsak.
    “You okay, Rizzoli?”
    “I’m fine.”
    “You didn’t look fine.”
    “I was just feeling a little dizzy.”
    “It’s a flashback to the Hoyt case, isn’t it? Seeing this, it’s gotta shake you up.”
    “How would you know?”
    A pause. Then, with a snort: “Yeah, you’re right. How the hell would I know?” He started back to the house.
    She turned and called out: “Korsak?”
    “What?”
    They stared at each other for a moment. The night air was not unpleasant, and the grass smelled cool and sweet. But dread was thick as nausea in her stomach.
    “I know what she’s feeling,” she said softly. “I know what she’s going through.”
    “Mrs. Yeager?”
    “You have to find her. You have to pull out all the stops.”
    “Her face is all over the news. We’re following up every phone tip, every sighting.” Korsak shook his head and sighed. “But you know, at this point, I gotta wonder if he’s kept her alive.”
    “He has. I know he has.”
    “How can you be so sure?”
    She hugged herself to quell the trembling and looked at the house. “It’s what Warren Hoyt would have done.”

three
    O f all her duties as a detective in Boston’s homicide unit, it was the visits to the unobtrusive brick building on Albany Street that Rizzoli disliked most. Though she suspected she was no more squeamish than her male colleagues, she in particular could not afford to reveal any vulnerability. Men were too good at spotting weaknesses, and they would inevitably aim for those tender places with their barbs and their practical jokes. She had learned to maintain a stoic front, to gaze without flinching upon the worst the autopsy table had to offer. No one suspected how much sheer nerve it