I KNOCKED ON Justin’s door and waited patiently for him to answer. When he did, I told him that I needed comforting after a difficult morning.

His face fell. “I had hoped my visit last night soothed you a little.”

“I appreciated your company, but it doesn’t take away my panic for my sister,” I replied with a glare.

He put his arm around me and led me to the sofa. “I know it doesn’t, hon. I just hope it helped some.”

I sank into the soft sofa cushion and leaned against him when he sat beside me. “It did for the moment, but now I’m in hell again. He sent us a grisly package today. Correction. He sent me a package today.”

“A package? Like another painting?” he inquired, and I shook my head while covering my eyes.

“No, it was much worse. It was a pinky finger and a bloody lock of my sister’s hair,” I revealed with a shudder.

“Oh my God! He cut of Denise’s finger?” he yelped and pulled me tighter against his frame.

“No, it was someone else’s finger. We think it belonged to Margie Moore, but for all we know, it could be someone else. We only know it belongs to a woman,” I explained. “The psychologist who looked at the artwork says he’s demanding attention because he’s sick. We know, based on medications found in a strand of his hair, that he is being treated for cancer. We think he’s killing people because he doesn’t want to suffer and die alone.”

He rubbed my arm, trying to soothe me, but it wasn’t working. Actually, it was irritating me, so I pulled away and stood up to pace the room. I felt a tension headache coming on.

“I’m scared out of my wits, Justin. I’m scared he’s going to kill her or scar her for the remainder of her life,” I wailed. “I don’t know how to catch him.”

He got up and walked toward the kitchen. “I’m getting a drink. Do you want a glass of water or tea?”

“Yes, some water,” I answered and headed to his bathroom.

While I was in there, I opened the medicine cabinet to find some aspirin. I got more than I bargained for, though. I saw prescription bottles lined up, so I snooped. He was on fentanyl patches, Decadron, and phenytoin. He was on the killer’s medications, and his face slammed into my mind. Only it was wearing a mole and reddish-brown hair. Then it was wearing a mustache and black hair. I could see it now. He was tall, and thin, and he was our killer. The St. Louis Slasher was trying to comfort me while holding my sister captive and torturing her. I reached for my Glock, but then I let go. I couldn’t bring him in without definitive proof, and I needed Denise’s location, too. I grabbed a piece of toilet paper and pulled hairs out of his comb and razor, wrapping them up in the tissue, which I then shoved into my pocket. I needed his DNA, and I needed a way out of his condo without creating suspicion.

When I emerged, I rubbed my eyes, making sure I had his attention. Then I forced a weak smile. “I’m so stressed out, I won’t make good company right now. I’m going to go home and rest. Maybe I’ll come back later, though,” I told him and accepted the bottled water he’d brought me. “You owe me dinner after all.” It was so hard to play nice with him, but I had no choice. I couldn’t blow my cover.

He reached out to touch my cheek, and I had to fight the urge to cringe and jerk away from him. “Yes, I do owe you a home-cooked meal. If I remember correctly, you like lasagna, so I’ll use my mother’s recipe and make that for you.”

I rubbed my stomach. “Sounds good, and it will be the first real food I’ve had since Denise was taken.” I let my voice soften and dropped my eyes to the floor. “I just can’t take not knowing what he’s doing to her, but I don’t want to know either. Does that make sense?”

He nodded and squeezed my shoulder. “Sure, it makes sense. I don’t blame you one bit.”

He pulled me in for a hug, and I forced myself to endure it and even wrapped my arms around him to return the embrace. It was like trying to swallow a brick. I counted to three and pulled away.

“I’ll call you when I get up from my nap,” I promised.

“Okay. Drive safe and rest well,” he murmured before planting a kiss on my lips.

Bile began rising up my throat, so I didn’t let him linger. I turned away and slowly left. When I reached my car, I pulled onto the highway before picking up my phone and calling Liam.

“I found our killer, so assemble the masses! I’m bringing in his DNA, and I’ll explain when I get there,” I declared.

“I’ll get everyone back in. See you soon, and excellent work!” he responded and hung up.

For the first time, I saw hope for rescuing my sister. It had to be him, because why wouldn’t he have disclosed his medical issues to me if it wasn’t? I turned on my red light and raced back.

We stood in the lab, anxiously waiting for the DNA extraction machine to spit out the comparison results. When the paper printed, Jackie analyzed it and smiled.

“It’s a match,” she chirped and handed the paper to Liam, who took a second glance.

Only they knew who it matched to. I didn’t tell anyone else. It was too unbelievable that the ADA would be our killer. It was horrific that I’d dated him and considered him a friend.

“Let’s get our warrant for his arrest,” Eric hollered and banged his hands together.

“No! We have to find the location for Denise and Margie first,” I hollered. “Let’s search property records under his name.” I turned to run up the stairs, and I heard them behind me.

We all got on our computers to search property records, but the only thing that came up was his condo. Where the hell are you, Denise?

“Could he have the land in another name? We know it’s not under Sean Peirick, and the Parkdale house is in Robert Marx’s name. Is that his father? Let’s look up his birth certificate while we search for any other real estate under the name Robert Marx,” Liam said.

“There’s nothing else under that name,” Eric announced with disappointment. “What is his mother’s name?”

“I don’t know his parents’ names. He never talked about them,” I reported. “But we learned that Robert Marx had a son named David Justin Marx, so it has to be him. Maybe it’s under his mother’s maiden name, but I don’t know it, or maybe it’s under David Justin Marx or Justin Marx.”

“Those names aren’t turning anything up, and I can’t find Justin Sinclair’s birth certificate either,” Liam grunted. “It’s in a sealed record, and that would take a court order to unseal it. We don’t have that kind of time.”

“Then we have to follow him to the location where he has Denise. I don’t think he’ll give it up if we arrest him now. He’ll try to make a deal for the location, and by then, it might be too late to save her and Margie,” I rambled. “Also, I don’t want him to have any deals. I want him to fry,” I added.

Liam nodded in my direction. “I agree, but how do we get him to go there? We could stake out his place until he’s on the move, but I’d rather he go there sooner than later. It will give the women a better chance at survival since he’s been starving them.”

I thought about how to get him out of the house. “I told him I’d come over for dinner. I think if I call to cancel, he’ll get pissed off and go to her. Let’s get near his place, and then I’ll make the call,” I suggested, and they agreed.

“Do we want to get the FBI here first?” Marisol asked.

“I don’t think we have the time for that. This is our case, and we’re bringing the bastard in,” Liam answered in a clipped tone, and I silently thanked him.

We rushed downstairs and rounded up the K-9 officer on duty again just in case the dogs needed to search the grounds. For all we knew, he might have cadavers buried everywhere. We sped back to Webster Groves to just outside his condo. We were in unmarked cars and hidden among other vehicles so he wouldn’t see us. The K-9 unit was down the street, waiting for us to direct him. I made the call.

“Hi. I’m not home yet because I stopped by my parents’ house first to talk. I don’t feel up to dinner now. The day and our conversation have me too upset. Will you forgive me?” I asked and rolled my eyes. I hated playing the role of his friend. I wanted to tackle him and shove my Glock down his throat.

“That depends on you. Will you reschedule for tomorrow?” He sounded cocky, and I gritted my teeth.

“Yes, I can do that for you,” I promised. “I’m sorry about tonight. I wouldn’t make great company, though, so I’m saving you from a bad evening if you think about it.” I was thinking about the kind of evening he was going to have, and I smiled to myself. He’d be spending his evening with a bunch of hoodlums in lockup. Hoodlums he helped put away.

“Okay, rest up and call me later to let me know you’re doing all right,” he ordered.

“I promise. Bye,” I replied and hung up. Then we restlessly waited.