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the craving. If he didn’t have his little heart-to-heart with Joanne pretty soon he’d waste away to steam.
    Now he drank a can of Dr Pepper, ate a bag of potato chips. Then some pretzels.
    Starving . . .
    Hungry . . .
    Vincent Reynolds would not on his own have come up with the idea that the urge to sexually assault women was a hunger. That idea was courtesy of his therapist, Dr. Jenkins.
    When he was in detention because of Sally Anne—the only time he’d been arrested—the doctor had explained that he had to accept that the urges he felt would never go away. “You can’t get rid of them. They’re a hunger in a way. . . . Now, what do we know about hunger? It’s natural. We can’t help feeling hungry. Don’t you agree?”
    “Yessir.”
    The therapist had added that even though you couldn’t stop hunger completely you could “satisfy it appropriately. You understand what I mean? With food, you’d have a healthy meal when it’s the appropriate time, you don’t just snack. With people, you have a healthy, committed relationship, leading up to marriage and a family.”
    “I get it.”
    “Good. I think we’re making progress. Don’t you agree?”
    And the boy had taken great heart in the man’s message, though it translated into something a little different from what the good doctor intended. Vincent reasoned that he’d use the hunger analogy as a helpful guide. He’d only eat, that is, have a little heart-to-heart with a girl, when he really needed to. That way he wouldn’t become desperate—and careless, the way he had with Sally Anne.
    Brilliant.
    Don’t you agree, Dr. Jenkins?
    Vincent finished the pretzels and soda and wrote another letter to his sister. Clever Vincent drew a few cartoons in the margins. Pictures he thought she might like. Vincent wasn’t a terrible artist.
    There was a knock on his door.
    “Come in.”
    Gerald Duncan pushed the door open. The men said good morning to each other. Vincent glanced into Duncan’s room, which was perfectly ordered. Everything on the desk was arranged in a symmetrical pattern. The clothes were pressed and hanging in the closet exactly two inches apart. This could be one hurdle to their friendship. Vincent was a slob.
    “You want something to eat?” Vincent asked.
    “No, thanks.”
    That’s why the Watchmaker was so skinny. He rarely ate, he was never hungry. That could be another hurdle. But Vincent decided he’d ignore that fault. After all, Vincent’s sister never ate much either and he still loved her.
    The killer made coffee for himself. While the water was heating he took the jar of beans out of the refrigerator and measured out exactly two spoons’ worth. These clattered as he poured them into the hand grinder and turned the handle a dozen times until the noise stopped. He carefully poured the grounds into a paper cone filter inside a drip funnel. He tapped it to make sure the grounds were level. Vincent loved watching Gerald Duncan make coffee.
    Meticulous . . .
    Duncan looked at his gold pocket watch. He wound the stem very carefully. He finished the coffee—he drank it fast like medicine—and then looked at Vincent. “Our flower girl,” he said, “Joanne. Will you go check on her?”
    A thud in his gut. So long, Clever Vincent.
    “Sure.”
    “I’m going to the alley on Cedar Street. The police will be there by now. I want to see whom we’re up against.”
    Whom . . .
    Duncan pulled his jacket on and slung his bag over his shoulder. “You ready?”
    Vincent nodded and donned his cream-colored parka, hat and sunglasses.
    Duncan was saying, “Let me know if people are coming by the workshop to pick up orders or if she’s working alone.”
    The Watchmaker had learned that Joanne spent a lot of time in her workshop, a few blocks away from her retail flower store. The workshop was quiet and dark. Picturing the woman, her curly brown hair, her long but pretty face, Hungry Vincent couldn’t get her out of his