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the phone for a moment.
    The maid had cleaned my room, leaving my clutter of art supplies on the table. I opened the cheese puffs and started stuffing my face. Still munching, I strolled to the bedroom, sat on the bed, and kicked off my shoes. My feet constantly hurt. Chemotherapy had permanently damaged the nerves in my soles, making it feel like I was walking on gravel.
    The looming vision of returning cancer drove me off the bed. I paced from the bedroom to the living room and back again. What if they gave my interagency job to someone else because I had cancer? How would I pay for treatments? Where would I live? How would I work?
    “This is ridiculous.” I picked up my cell and dialed Beth.
    “Gwen! I thought you’d never call. How are you feeling? How is Pikeville? Have any bodies shown up? Did you catch the rapist? Do you need a partner?” As usual, Beth sounded breathless.
    “Fine. Small. Yes. No. No.”
    Beth was silent for a moment. “You do know I hate it when you do that.”
    “I’m teaching you—”
    “I know. Effective interview techniques.” The background musical theme from a forensic show stopped and Winston, my Great Pyrenees, barked.
    “How’s my dog?” I selected a lead holder from the pencil box and sat at the kitchen table.
    “Aha! Something is wrong.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Because you wouldn’t call this early in the morning to ask about Winston and you’re tapping a pencil rapidly on some surface.”
    I stopped tapping and pulled a sketchbook in front of me. “Actually, everything’s fine—”
    “Ha! Another clue!” Beth sounded jubilant. “You used the word actually . That means actually there really is something wrong.”
    Doodling Beth’s face, I silently vowed I’d never teach Beth another thing about statement analysis. “I need you to research a couple of things for me.”
    “Sure, but I have houseguests, so unless I can find time, I’ll have to email or text you the answers.”
    “That’s fine . . . um, but weren’t you just watching one of your forensic shows?”
    “It’s my cousins from Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, and they’re even crazier about crime stuff than I am.”
    “Is that possible? Don’t answer that. Can you look up Sheriff Clayton Reed? R-e-e-d. Anything you can find out.”
    “Will do. Now are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
    I drew a halo over her sketched face. Why didn’t I tell her? She was my best friend. Oh, and, Beth, by the way, my cancer’s returned. I’m going to die.
    I knew why the words wouldn’t come. I didn’t want her pity.
    “Gwen? Hello?”
    “Everything’s fine. Just wanted to hear a cheerful voice.”
    “You dropped the pronoun I , so I don’t believe you. I’ll leave you with this: ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’ Take things one day at a time, and when you’re ready to talk, I’ll be here.”
    My eyes burned. “Thank you, Beth.” I managed to disconnect before my throat closed up. Now I was feeling sorry for myself, and that was unacceptable.
    I went to the bathroom, got a tissue, and blew my nose. Stop it! Returning to the table, I pulled closer the pad of paper I’d been doodling on. At the bottom of the page I wrote Known and Unknown , then drew a line between them, forming two columns. Under Known I wrote: likes young women, has distinct victim type, has isolated location to hold them, likes torture, gets them to leave town or no report. I stopped writing. Was that all I had on him? Under Unknown I wrote: smokes? (cigarette burns), convinces them to leave town? knows about forensics? Check photos (if available) to see if similar appearance .
    This wasn’t useful. I simply didn’t have enough solid information.
    Checking my watch, I was startled to see it was almost time to head over to the sheriff’s office. I swiftly packed up the items I needed, grabbed a denim jacket, and headed to the lobby. A deputy waited in a patrol car parked by the front door, and I slipped