Nowhere to Hide by Nancy Bush

on the ground.”
    â€œAnd the leaves on the ground were just crayoned in, not pasted. Sure. My mother saved everything, and that ‘piece of art’ was one of her favorites. I kinda peaked out in second grade, so she hung onto that one for years.” He squinted at her. “Okay. You got me. Why . . . ?”
    September’s gaze searched his eyes, but he seemed completely lost. “Someone recently sent me my leaf picture with a message scrawled on it.”
    He frowned. “What do you mean, ‘my leaf picture’?”
    â€œIt was my art project. From second grade. Someone sent it to me.”
    â€œ Your art project.”
    He was as pedantic as Auggie, for God’s sake. “Yes. It was a warning.”
    If he was faking his confusion, he was doing an excellent job. “But how? Who would . . . how could they get it?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWhat did it say? The message.”
    They were walking toward the parking lot now and September drew a breath. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from him. Proof that he wasn’t involved in either Sheila’s death or the warning to her, she supposed, though she couldn’t believe there was any connection, really.
    That why you hid this from your partner? a voice inside her head asked.
    â€œYou said you saw me on my interview with Pauline Kirby?”
    â€œYes, I did. I thought you looked young.”
    â€œHuh.” That seemed to be the general consensus.
    â€œYou were holding your own though. . . .” He stopped suddenly and said, “Was that the message? That phrase that Pauline quoted? Do Unto Others as she did . . . or something?”
    â€œâ€˜Do Unto Others As She Did To Me.’”
    â€œHoly Christ, Nine.” He stopped short, stunned. “You were sent that same message on your second grade artwork? ”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWait . . . wait . . . it was carved in her skin. Not Sheila’s. Decatur’s.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œBut Sheila’s body wasn’t carved into. That was never reported.”
    â€œWe think there’s a connection. There were markings—” September admitted.
    â€œ Sheila? ”
    He seemed so shattered she had to fight the urge to offer comfort. Don’t get personal. “Sheila and Glenda Tripp both had markings cut into their torsos with a knife, but they weren’t formed letters. Wait, no.” She held up her hand when he would have interrupted again. “We believe the killer was aiming toward his message. Maybe he hadn’t worked it out exactly when he killed Sheila. Didn’t know what he wanted to say, or just didn’t have time. Then he killed Emmy Decatur and left the message. And this same message looks like it was started on Glenda Tripp, but he may have been scared off by something and couldn’t finish. Unlike the other two, Tripp was found in her apartment. He didn’t take her to a field, so he may have been interrupted and wasn’t able to complete his mission.”
    â€œYou were trying to keep this under wraps,” he realized, “but Pauline Kirby already outed you.”
    â€œIf it’s a serial killer—and though we’re leaning that way—we’re moving cautiously, gathering proof. Then we’ll go public but yeah, the hikers who discovered Decatur’s body told her and she put it on the news. We’re not releasing that Dempsey and Tripp were carved on as well to the general public until we have more evidence.”
    He gazed down at her searchingly. September did her best to appear unaffected. “This killer . . . he sent you the message because he knows you’re on the case?”
    â€œAuggie suggested maybe it’s not the killer. Maybe it’s someone closer to me who’s got their own agenda.”
    â€œSomebody screwing with you?”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    â€œWell, it might explain how he