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states, and were, we assume, abducted in different states. Different religions—one Catholic, one Methodist. Kendall Moore was a pure WASP—white, from an upper-middle-class family. Gala Ramirez’s parents migrated from Mexico before she was born and were dirt poor.”
    Sanders placed the casserole dish on the table so unobtrusively that Nic and the others barely noticed.
    Griff glanced on the other side of Maleah where Barbara Jean sat. “Are you sure you want to sit in on this discussion?”
    She nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. If Cary Maygarden had a partner, I want to know everything about the man. After all, we can’t be a hundred percent sure which one of them killed my sister, can we?”
    “Cary Maygarden fit your description of the man you saw,” Griff reminded her.
    “I know. It’s just…just…” Her voice quivered and then trailed off into silence.
    Sanders set the tray of scones on the table, walked over to stand behind Barbara Jean, and curled his fingers gently over her shoulder. Nic spied his actions in her peripheral vision, but neither she nor anyone else looked directly in Sanders’s direction.
    “Okay, so you’ve told us how Gala Ramirez and Kendall Moore were different,” Griff said. “Tell us what they had in common.”
    All eyes turned to Maleah. “Well, to start with, they were both brunettes. Both of them were born and raised in Southern states, assuming we, as many people do, consider Texas a Southern state.”
    “Is that it?” Nic asked.
    “There is one other thing—both women were athletes. Gala Ramirez was a tennis pro and at only twenty, her career was just beginning. She had a good chance of becoming a national champion,” Maleah said. “And Kendall Moore, who was twenty-nine, held an Olympic silver medal as a long-distance runner.”
    Silence.
    No one spoke. A ticking clock and the distinct sound of breathing prevented the room from being absolutely quiet.
    “Athletes, huh?” Griff reached out and spooned a large helping of the casserole onto his plate. “This could mean that he switched from beauty queens to athletes for his victims in the new game.”
    “Possibly,” Nic said.
    “Was either woman married? Have children?” Griff asked.
    “Both were single,” Maleah said. “No children.”
    Nic stated the list of similarities. “Brunette, unmarried, no children, Southern, and more specifically an athlete. Do y’all know how many women that description fits?”
    “Thousands.” Maleah flipped back the cloth covering the scones and retrieved the one on top. The scent of cinnamon and sugar permeated the air. “Maybe tens or hundreds of thousands of women, depending on your definition of an athlete. That could be anyone from an Olympic gold medal winner to a woman who plays softball for her church team.”
    As Nic and Barbara Jean served themselves and Sanders took a seat at the opposite end of the table from Griff, the discussion turned from the two murdered women to the trip to Ballinger, Arkansas. And by the end of the meal, Nic had gained a new insight into Griffin Powell. As much as she disliked him and as badly as she hated to admit it, everyone else at the table seemed to like and respect Griff. He treated the others with an easy warmth and cordiality usually reserved for friends, which led her to believe that he considered them more than employees and that they felt the same.
    Twenty minutes later, Griff slid back his chair, dropped his linen napkin on the table, and stood. “If you’re packed and ready, we can leave by eight,” he told Nic.
    “I’m ready to go whenever you are.”
    “Good.” He eyed the cup she held. “Finish your coffee. I have a couple of phone calls to make. I’ll meet you in the foyer in ten minutes.” Not waiting for a reply, he walked out of the room.
    Nic drank the remainder of her coffee hurriedly, then excused herself and went upstairs to brush her teeth, finish packing, and make one phone call of her own.
    Josh Friedman