"There are very few verified photos of him in existence. You saw only that one."

"You think I made a mistake?"

"You know how people can look different, sometimes completely different, from one photo to the next."

"If it wasn't Johnny, who else would he be?"

"An impostor."

She stared at Gabriel, struck dumb by the possibility.

They heard the clatter of china as DeBruin returned from the kitchen with the tea tray. Noticing the silence in the room, he quietly set the tray down on the coffee table and gave his wife a searching look.

"Can I pour the tea, Mummy?" said Violet. "I promise I won't spill it."

"No, darling. Mummy needs to pour it this time. Maybe you and Daddy can go watch some TV." She gave her husband a pleading look.

DeBruin took their daughter's hand. "Let's go see what's on, hey?" he said and led her out.

A moment later they heard the TV come on in the next room with a blast of jarringly cheerful music. Though the tea tray sat on the table in front of her, Millie made no move to pour, but sat with arms wrapped around herself, still chilled by this new uncertainty.

"Henk Andriessen from Interpol told us that you were still hospitalized when the police showed you the photo. You were still weak, still recovering. And it had been weeks since you'd last seen the killer."

"You think I made a mistake," she said softly.

"Witnesses frequently make mistakes," said Gabriel. "They misremember details or they forget faces."

Jane thought of all the well-meaning eyewitnesses who'd so confidently pointed to the wrong suspects, or offered descriptions that later proved wildly inaccurate. The human mind was expert at filling in missing details and confidently turning them into facts, even if those facts were merely imagined.

"You're trying to make me doubt myself," said Millie. "But the photo they showed me was Johnny. I remember every detail of his face." She looked back and forth at Jane and Gabriel. "Maybe he goes by a different name now. But wherever he is, whatever he calls himself, I know he hasn't forgotten me, either."

They heard Violet give a squeal of laughter as the TV played its relentlessly cheerful music. But in here, a chill had settled so deeply into the room that even the afternoon sunlight streaming in the window could not dispel it.

"That's why you didn't return to London," said Jane.

"Johnny knew where I lived, where I worked. He knew how to find me. I couldn't go back." Millie looked toward the sound of her daughter's laughter. "And there was Christopher."

"He told us how you met."

"After I walked out of the bush, he was the one who stayed with me. Who sat by my hospital bed day after day. He's the one who made me feel safe. The only one." She looked at Jane. "Why would I go back to London?"

"Isn't your sister there?"

"But this is my home now. It's where I belong." She looked out the window, at the tree with the all-embracing branches. "Africa changed me. Out there, in the bush, I lost bits and pieces of myself. It wears you away like a grinding stone, makes you shed everything that's unnecessary. It forces you to face who you really are. When I first got there, I was just a silly girl. I fussed over shoes and purses and face creams. I wasted years, waiting for Richard to marry me. I thought all I needed was a wedding ring to make me happy. But then, just when I thought I was dying, I found myself. My real self. I left the old Millie out there, and I don't miss her. This is my life right here, in Touws River."

"Where you still have nightmares."

Millie blinked. "Chris told you?"

"He told us you've been waking up screaming."

"Because you called me. That's why it all started again, because you brought it back."

"Which means it's still there, Millie. You haven't really left it behind."

"I was doing fine."

"Were you?" Jane looked around the room at the neatly arranged books on the shelves, at the vase of flowers precisely centered on the mantelpiece. "Or is this just a place to hide from the world?"

"After what happened to me, wouldn't you hide?"

"I'd want to feel safe again. The only way to do that is to find this man and lock him away."

"That's your job, Detective. Not mine. I'll help you as much as I'm able to. I'll look at whatever photos you've brought. I'll answer all your questions. But I won't go to Boston. I won't leave my home."

"And there's no way we can change your mind?"

Millie looked straight at her. "None whatsoever."

THEY ARE STAYING IN OUR GUEST BEDROOM TONIGHT. IF ANYTHING should make me feel safe, it would be having both a policewoman and a US federal agent under my roof, yet once again I cannot fall asleep. Chris lies breathing deeply beside me, a warm, rea.s.suring hulk in the darkness. What luxury to sleep so soundly every night, to awake refreshed in the morning, free of the smothering cobwebs of bad dreams.

He doesn't stir as I climb out of bed, reach for a robe, and slip out of our room.

Down the hall, I pa.s.s the guest bedroom where Detective Rizzoli and her husband are staying. Odd that I did not immediately pick up on the fact they were married to each other, until after I'd spent the whole afternoon with them. They'd shown me photo after photo of possible suspects on a laptop computer. So many faces, so many men. By the time it was dinner hour, the photos were all blending together. I rubbed my tired eyes and when I opened them again, I saw Agent Dean's hand resting on Detective Rizzoli's shoulder. It was not just a platonic pat, but the caress of a man who cared about this woman. That's when the other details came into focus: the matching wedding rings. The way they finished each other's sentences. The fact he didn't have to ask, but simply stirred a teaspoon of sugar into her coffee before handing it to her.

On the surface, they'd been strictly business, especially the aloof and chilly Gabriel Dean. But over dinner, after a few gla.s.ses of wine, they started to talk about their marriage and their daughter and the life they shared in Boston. A complicated life, I think, because of their demanding jobs. Now their work has brought them all the way to my remote corner of the Western Cape.

I tiptoe past their closed door into the kitchen and pour a generous splash of scotch into a gla.s.s. Just enough to make me drowsy, but not drunk. I know by experience that while a little scotch will help me fall asleep, too much will make me wake up in a few hours with nightmares. I settle into a chair at the kitchen table and slowly nurse the drink as the clock ticks loudly on the wall. If Chris were awake, we'd take our drinks outside to the garden and sit together in the moonlight to enjoy the scent of night-blooming jasmine. I never go out in the dark by myself. Chris tells me I'm the bravest woman he knows, but courage wasn't what kept me alive in Botswana. Even the lowliest creature does not want to die and will fight to stay alive; in that way, I am no braver than any rabbit or sparrow.

A noise behind me makes me bolt straight in my chair. I turn to see Detective Rizzoli walk barefoot into the kitchen. Her uncombed hair looks like a wild crown of black thorns and she's dressed in an oversized T-shirt and men's boxer shorts.

"Sorry if I startled you," she says. "I just came out for a gla.s.s of water."

"I can offer you something stronger, if you'd like."

She eyes my gla.s.s of scotch. "Well, I wouldn't want you to drink alone." She pours herself a gla.s.s, adds an equal part of water, and settles into the chair across from me. "So do you do this often?"

"Do what?"

"Drink alone."

"It helps me fall asleep."

"Having trouble with that, huh?"

"You already know I do." I take another sip, but it doesn't help me relax because she's watching me with dark, probing eyes. "Why aren't you asleep?"

"Jet lag. It's six P.M. Boston time, and my body refuses to be fooled." She takes a sip and doesn't flinch in the least at the bite of the scotch. "Thank you again for offering your guest room."

"We couldn't have you driving all the way back to Cape Town tonight. Not after the hours you spent with me. I hope you don't have to fly back to the States right away. It'd be a shame if you didn't see some of the country."

"We get one more night in Cape Town tomorrow."

"Only one?"

"I had a tough enough time convincing my boss to approve this trip. We're all about cost cutting these days. G.o.d forbid we have any fun on their dime."

I look down at my scotch, which gleams like liquid amber. "Do you actually like your work?"

"It's what I always wanted to do."

"Catch killers?" I shake my head. "I don't think I'd be able to stomach it. Seeing the things you see. Coming face-to-face every day with what people are capable of."

"That's something you've already seen firsthand."

"And I never want to see it again." I tip the rest of the drink into my mouth and swallow it in one gulp. Suddenly it's not enough, not nearly enough to settle my nerves. I get up to pour myself a refill.

"I used to have nightmares, too," she says.

"No wonder, with your line of work."

"I got over them. You can, too."

"How?"

"The same way I did. Slay the monster. Put him away where he can't hurt you or anyone else."

I laugh as I recork the bottle. "Do I look like a policewoman?"

"You look like a woman who's terrified of just going to sleep."

I set the bottle down on the counter and turn to her. "You didn't live through what I did. You may hunt killers, but they aren't hunting you."

"You're wrong, Millie," she says quietly. "I know exactly what you're living through. Because I've been hunted, too." She fixes me with a steady gaze as I sink back into the chair.

"What happened?" I ask.

"It was several years ago, around the time I met my husband. I was searching for a man who'd killed a number of women. Considering what this killer did to them, I'm not sure I'd call him human, but some other species. A creature who fed off pain and fear. Who took pleasure in their terror. The more afraid you were, the more he desired you." She lifts the gla.s.s to her lips, takes a deep swallow. "And he knew I was afraid."

I'm surprised she admits it, this woman who projects such fearlessness. Over dinner she'd described how she'd kicked down her first door, how she had chased killers across rooftops and into dark alleys. Now, sitting in her T-shirt and boxer shorts, with her messy mop of dark hair, she looks like any other woman. Small, vulnerable. Defeatable.

"You were his target?" I ask.

"Yeah. Lucky me."

"Why you?"

"Because he'd trapped me once before. Had me right where he wanted me." She raises her hands and shows me her scarred palms. "He did this. With scalpels."

Earlier today, I had noticed those peculiarly placed scars, like healed wounds of a crucifixion. I stare at them in horror because I now know how those wounds were inflicted.

"Even after he went to prison, even though I knew he couldn't reach me, I had nightmares about what he almost did to me. How could I forget, when I carry these permanent reminders of him on my hands? The bad dreams did start to fade, though. After a year, I hardly dreamed of him at all, and that should have been the end of it. It would have been the end of it."

"Why wasn't it?"

"Because he escaped." She meets my gaze, and I see my own fear reflected in her eyes. I see a woman who knows what it means to live in a killer's crosshairs, without any idea when the trigger will be pulled. "That's when my nightmares started again."

I stand up and get the bottle of scotch. Bring it back to the table and set it between us. "For the nightmares," I offer.

"You can't drink them away, Millie. No matter how many bottles you guzzle."

"What do you suggest I do?"

"The same thing I did. Hunt down the monster who's been chasing you in your dreams. Cut him to pieces and bury him. Then, and only then, will you sleep soundly again."

"And do you sleep soundly?"

"Yes. But only because I chose not to run and hide. I knew that as long as he was out there, circling me, I'd never rest easy. So I became the hunter. Gabriel knew I was putting myself at risk and he tried to keep me off the case, but I had to be part of it. For my own sanity, I had to be in the fight, not hiding behind locked doors, waiting for the attack."

"And your husband didn't try to stop you?"

"Oh, we weren't married then, so he couldn't stop me." She laughs. "Not that he can now, either. Though he tries his hardest to keep me in line."

I think of Chris, peacefully snoring in our bed. How he bundled me up and brought me to this farm to keep me safe. "That's what my husband tries to do."

"Keep you behind a locked door?"

"To protect me."

"Yet you don't feel safe. Even six years later."

"I do feel safe here. At least, I did. Until you brought it back into my life."

"I'm just doing my job, Millie. Don't blame me. I didn't put those nightmares in your head. I'm not the one who made you a prisoner."

"I'm not a prisoner."

"Aren't you?"

We stare at each other across the table. She has dark, luminous eyes. Dangerous eyes that see straight through my skull, to the deepest folds of my brain where I hide my secret terrors. I can't deny anything she's said. I am a prisoner. I'm not merely avoiding the world; I'm cowering from it.

"It doesn't have to be this way," she says.

I don't answer at first. Instead I look down at the gla.s.s, which I'm cradling with both hands. I want to take another sip, but I know it will ease the fear for only a few hours. Like anesthesia, it eventually wears off.

"Tell me how you did it," I say. "How you fought back."

She shrugs. "I didn't have a choice, in the end."