MAGGIE stepped back. It was worse than she expected. The smears stretched, reached, clawed and swiped with the undeniable motion of someone desperate and terrified. The handprints were small, almost child-size. She remembered Jessica Beckwith’s delicate hands holding out the pizza box for her.

“Jesus, I can’t believe this.”

She heard Tully’s voice come out of the black. There was no victory in proving him wrong. Instead, she found herself light-headed and nauseated. What was the matter with her? She hadn’t been sick at crime scenes since the early days. Now for a second time in less than a week, her stomach attempted to revolt.

“Keith, what are the chances of this being cleaning solution? The house is for sale. It smells like someone has given it a recent scrubbing.”

“Oh, it’s been scrubbed all right. Someone was trying to get rid of this.”

“But luminol can be sensitive to bleach,” she continued. “Maybe a cleaning company scrubbed down everything including the walls.” After a sleepless night of anticipating what they’d discover, why did she find herself wanting to believe that it was simply an overzealous maid?

“In the linen closet there’s a bunch of cleaning supplies. Mop, bucket, sponges and liquid cleaners. Smells like the same stuff that was used. None of it contains bleach,” Ganza countered. “I checked. Besides, no one cleans and leaves handprints like that.”

She forced herself to stare at the prints before they faded. She closed her eyes against the images her mind was trained to concoct. With little coaxing, she knew she could see it all in slow motion as if visualizing a scene from a horror movie.

“Ready, Maggie?” Keith’s voice made her jump. He was right beside her again as the room started to return to darkness. “Let’s get the floor from here to the bathroom.”

Maggie began spritzing, keeping the mist away from her feet as she walked sideways. She hadn’t reached the bathroom door when the floor began lighting up like a runway, long skid marks following her.

“Oh, my God!” She heard Tully mutter from his dark perch, and wanted to tell him to shut up. His shock unnerved her and, worse, reminded her of her own.

Ganza pointed the red dot to the floor, following the trail that had once been bloody feet dragged across the parquet floor. The girl would have lost a lot of blood putting up a fight like the one smeared on the wall. Maggie wondered if she was conscious when Stucky lifted her into the whirlpool bath. When he told her all the horrible things he would do to her. Was she dead or alive when he started cutting?

“Let’s take a break here,” Keith said. “Agent Tully, go ahead and switch the lights back on.”

Maggie blinked against the burst of light, relieved at the interruption of her descent into hell. If she tried, she would be able to hear Jessica’s screams for help. She looked around to see Keith busy in the corner, and only now did she notice that he had taken the bottles from her hands and was filling them.

“Agent O’Dell, I owe you an apology,” Agent Tully was saying. He unbuttoned his collar and twisted the knot of his tie loose. “I really thought there was nothing here. I feel like such an asshole.”

Maggie stared at him and tried to remember the last time anyone, especially in law enforcement, had apologized to her. Was this guy for real? Instead of looking embarrassed, he genuinely looked sorry.

“I have to admit, Agent Tully, I was simply acting on gut instinct.”

“Maggie, we should remember to pull the drain from the whirlpool bath,” Ganza interrupted without looking up. “I’m betting that’s where he cut her open. We may find some leftovers.”

Tully’s face grew paler, and she saw him wince.

“One thing we didn’t check last night, Agent Tully, was the garbage cans outside,” she told him, offering to save him. “Since the house is empty, the garbage collectors may have skipped it.”

He seemed grateful for the chance to escape. “I’ll check.”

As he left, Maggie realized he could possibly find something equally shocking in the garbage. Perhaps she wasn’t saving him at all. She pulled out a fresh pair of latex gloves from her forensic kit and tossed out the ones she had contaminated with luminol. Keith unpacked a wrench, screwdriver and several evidence bags.

“You’re being awfully nice to the new guy,” he said.

“I can be nice. It’s not an impossibility.”

“Didn’t say that it was.” He dug out Q-Tips, several brushes, forceps and small brown bottles, lining everything up as if taking inventory. “Don’t worry, Maggie, I won’t tell anyone. Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.”

“Keith, what do you know about Agent Tully?”

“I’ve heard nothing but good things.”

“What things have you heard?”

“He’s here from Cleveland at Cunningham’s request, so the guy has to be good, right? Someone said he’s able to look at crime scene photos alone and come up with a profile that nine times out of ten is on target.”

“Crime scene photos. That explains why he’s so squeamish with the real thing.”

“I don’t think he’s been with the Bureau long—five, six years. Probably slipped in right at the age limit.”

“What did he do before? Please don’t tell me he’s a lawyer.”

“Something wrong with lawyers?” Tully interrupted from the door.

Maggie checked his eyes to see if he was angry. Keith went back to his task, leaving Maggie feeling as though she was the one who needed to explain.

“I was just curious,” she said without apology.

“You could just ask me.”

Yes, he was angry, but she saw him pretending not to be. Did he always make certain his emotions were so carefully kept in check?

“Okay. So what did you do before you joined the Bureau?”

He held up a black garbage bag in one hand. “I was an insurance fraud investigator.” In his other latex-gloved hand he held up a wad of what looked like candy-bar wrappers. “And I’d say our boy has a serious sweet tooth.”