The Last Victim by Karen Robards

who had done this.
    Please, God, let it be enough .
    “A red heart on the back of the unsub’s hand. You’re sure enough about that for me to add it to the official description of the individual we’re looking for,” Bartoli said finally. From his tone, it wasn’t really a question.
    “As of the night the Meads were killed, he had a red heart on the back of his hand.” Charlie looked back at Bartoli as they reached the steps that led up to a wide, screened-in back porch. “I’m absolutely positive about that. I’m not sure what it is, or if it was permanent. But it was there.”
    “Okay. If you say so.”
    “I do.” Charlie felt her throat tighten. She’d been battling the memory ever since Julie Mead had described the heart, but it kept thrusting itself into the forefront of her mind, and now there was no escape.
    Once again she was seventeen years old, peeking around the basement door just in time to watch a killer cut Diane Palmer’s throat. For the space of a terrible heartbeat, she could picture the scene as clearly as if she were there.
    Stumbling on the top step, Charlie nearly fell to her knees. Only Bartoli’s arm hooking her waist at the last minute saved her from a fall.
    “Careful.” He hauled her upright.
    “Thanks.” Thrusting the memory away, grateful for the steadying arm that remained around her waist as she regained her balance, she took a deep breath, then forced herself to take one more quick plunge into the past. “The Boardwalk Killer—the man I saw when I was seventeen—didn’t have a heart on his hand. There was nothing on the backs of his hands, nothing at all.”
    “You sure?”
    They were walking across the dark screened porch as they talked. When they reached the door, Bartoli’s arm dropped away. Charlie was surprised by how much she missed its warm support.
    “Yes. Absolutely.” Trying not to shiver openly, Charlie cast a quick look around while Bartoli unlocked the door. The screened porch was darker even than the night, with inky shadows everywhere. The wind blowing off the ocean was picking up, making the fronds on the nearby palms flap with a sound like birds’ wings and carrying a strong smell of salt with it.
    “He could have acquired it later.”
    “Yes.”
    At least Bartoli didn’t start delving into the whole how-sure-are-you-and-how-do-you-know-anyway school of questioning, and for that she was grateful. Something about the night itself was unsettling her, but she really didn’t want to start trying to analyze why that should be. She was too tired, too emotionally wrung out. She already knew, because Bartoli had told her on the flight down, that she would be sharing the house with him, Crane, and Kaminsky. She was less clear on how that was going to work, exactly, and at the moment she didn’t care. What she desperately needed was a couple of Tums (knowing she would probably be encountering nausea-inducing spirits, she had brought her own supply, but unfortunately the two she had taken prior to leaving her house back in Big Stone Gap had worn off by the time she encountered the dead kid in the chair), a hot shower, and bed, in that order.
    Got to lie down before I fall down . Her mother used to say that a lot, when she came home drunk. Charlie couldn’t believe she was hearing the familiar slurry voice echoing in her head under these very different circumstances, even if the sentiment was apt.
    “You want something to eat? Might make you feel better.” Bartoli pushed the door open, and gestured to her to go inside, which she did. “Unless my nose deceives me, they ordered pizza.”
    Like the Meads’ rental, this beach house had its main rooms facing the ocean. Charlie walked into the kitchen and glanced around to discover a familiar cardboard box on the table: as Bartoli had predicted, there was pizza. With her stomach in the shape it was in, though, food was the last thing she wanted. Walking past it, trying not to breathe in the spicy aroma, she