CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Her dogs—Sapir and Whorf—were not barking.
They were pacing, nails clicking rhythmically on the parquet, making that low growl halfway between warning and doubt.
Catherine pulled her robe around her shoulders and padded out onto the landing, every step accompanied by the quiet, resentful sigh of old stairs.
“Hey,” she called softly, not wanting to wake the neighbours or herself too completely. “What’s up with you two?”
The pair of red setters paused when they saw her at the foot of the stairs, then turned toward the front window again, muscles taut beneath their coats. Whorf let out a single, frustrated whine that seemed to vibrate through the hallway. Catherine followed their gaze, half annoyed, half unsettled.
Through the sheer curtain, the street looked as it always did at that hour—washed-out, skeletal, the streetlight turning frost on the car roofs into dull silver.
Except tonight, there was a car she didn’t recognise parked opposite, its windshield a dark mirror.
As she looked, a light inside—small, dim, like a reading lamp or the flare of a match—blinked out.
She blinked, too, as though she might have imagined it.
“Probably just someone lighting a cigarette,” she murmured to herself, voice firmer than she felt. “Delivery driver. Rideshare. Nothing unusual.”
A rideshare at half-past three? Delivery of what, exactly, at stupid o’clock?
She heard her daughter’s sceptical voice in her head, and the hair on the back of her neck prickled.
The dogs didn’t buy her theory; they stayed by the window, hackles up, staring into the dark.
Catherine sighed, ran a hand through her sleep-tousled hair. She looked again at the car. Darkness.
“Fine,” she said, the word a weary concession. “Come on, gang. Upstairs. Just this once.”
They bounded up after her, nails skittering on the stairs. She shut the bedroom door behind them, the small act of closing it somehow comforting. The two dogs circled twice at the foot of the bed before climbing up beside her, filling the room with the warmth and smell of living things.
“This is a total one-off,” she told them sternly, as Sapir flopped across her feet and Whorf wedged himself against her hip. “Tomorrow, you’re back in your own beds. Understand?”
They didn’t believe her, of course, but the sound of her voice seemed to ease them. Within minutes, their breathing steadied, soft, rhythmic. Catherine lay staring at the ceiling, wide awake, her pulse still humming from that glimpse of light across the street.
Stop fretting, she told herself. Just a car. Just a light.
When the silence grew too thick, she reached over and turned on the radio—an old habit from student days, when she’d manned the night-desk in an old folks’ home and the voices of strangers had kept her sane.
The low murmur of late-night talk filled the room: weather, traffic, a song from the seventies. Familiar, ordinary things.
She closed her eyes and tried to let them be enough.
***
The time was 07.03. The knock came softly at first, then harder.
Marcus waited a beat, then tried again. “Kate?”
Nothing.
The hallway of Torres’s mother’s annex smelled faintly of detergent, last night’s rain and, of course, further lavender. A line of winter light crept beneath the door. He knocked once more, gentler this time. “It’s seven, partner. Rise and—”
No answer.
He hesitated, thumb grazing the brass handle. Then he heard it: not movement, not breathing, just silence—too much of it.
He pushed the door open.
The room smelled of Kate; the bed was unmade, the covers half-slid to the floor, the pillow still warm with the shape of her head. Her bag sat by the dresser, open. No sign of her phone, gun, or jacket.
“Damn it, Vee,” he muttered, pulling out his phone.
He turned as Torres appeared in the hallway, barefoot, jeans half-zipped, a hoodie thrown over bare shoulders. “She’s not here?”
“Gone.”
Torres rubbed a hand through her curls, muttering something in Spanish that Marcus didn’t catch. “My mom heard someone leave about six. Thought it was you.”
“It wasn’t.” He moved past her into the small living area, scanning automatically—the mug in the sink, the half-empty water bottle, the single notebook left on the table.
Torres picked it up. “She left this.”
The cover was scuffed, Bureau-issue black. Inside: page after page of Kate’s neat, tight handwriting, interspersed with rough sketches, arrows, cross-references.
Torres read aloud. “‘Dad – Green Gables. Mom – Jeanette. St. B’s. H in a circle. Jephtha – daughter’s death.’” She frowned. “What the hell is this?”
“Her way of thinking,” Marcus said. “She draws threads until something appears.”
“Looks like she’s been trying to connect the Commandment murders to her father.”
“She’s been doing that for years,” he said quietly. Then, more sharply, “But this time, maybe she found something.”
“Victim or killer?”
Marcus could only shrug.
“On her own?”
“Always.”
Torres crossed her arms. “You make it sound like a habit.”
“It is.” He started pacing. “When she gets close to something, she shuts out everyone. No calls, no backup, just straight into the fire. Hence all those disciplinaries.”
“And you let her?”
“I don’t let her do anything,” Marcus said. “I just try to keep her alive.”
Torres watched him for a moment, eyes narrowing. “It hurts you doing that.”
He didn’t answer.
“I’ve seen enough partners to know that look. You’d follow her off a cliff.”
He gave a short laugh. “She’s already halfway down it.”
Torres’s voice softened. “You’re engaged, right?”
He stared at the floor. “Yeah. Date’s set for May.”
“To the famous Cheryl.”
“Right again.”
“And yet—”
“C’mon, don’t,” he said, gently. Then, after a moment, quieter: “It’s complicated.”
Torres nodded once, accepting it. “Alright. So what now? Do you think she’s trying to prevent another killing or track Cox down, or what?”
Marcus exhaled. “I don’t know. We need to find her.”
“I’ll start with what she left us,” Torres said, flipping the notebook shut. “The ‘St. B's line—could be a Saint, right? Church, school, hospital, cemetery, whatever. I can get a search started on every Saint beginning with B. St. Barnabas, St. Benedict, St. Basil—”
“St. Brigid, St. Barbara…” Marcus finished. “Good idea. Cross-check with any active or decommissioned buildings in the metro area.”
Torres was already typing on her phone. “I’ll have the precinct pull location data, but it’s gonna take time.”
He moved to the window, scanning the street below. It was quiet, only the rattle of the Q18 bus and a kid dragging a trolley down the pavement. “She’s got her Bureau GPS turned off. I’ve tried her cell—voicemail.”
Torres looked up. “She could be in trouble.”
“She could,” Marcus said. “Or she could be exactly where she wants to be.”
The phone on the counter buzzed then — Torres’s, not his. She answered, voice clipped. “Torres.”
A pause.
“Yeah,” she said, glancing at Marcus. “He’s here. Go ahead.”
Another pause, longer this time.
“Understood.” She hung up. “That was Santiago. Wants to know what to do with Tommy Rodrigues.”
Marcus blinked. “They still have him?”
“Protective custody, we agreed,” Torres replied, with just a hint of impatience. “But he’s asking if that still stands.”
Marcus thought for a moment, then nodded. “Keep him where he is. If Cox is still active, Rodrigues is safer inside than out.”
Torres slid her phone into her pocket. “Got it.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The air between them seemed charged, restless.
Torres broke the silence. “You think she’s going after him?”
“I think she’s closer to him than she’s ever been,” Marcus said quietly. “And that scares the hell out of me.”
Torres nodded, closing the notebook. “Then we better catch up.”