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Josie found an old Denton PD T-shirt in her dresser and changed into it. “That we’re terrible guardians and we don’t know the first damn thing about raising a teenager?”

Noah’s gaze trailed over her bare legs as she took off her jeans. “Not exactly. I was thinking maybe we should talk to the therapist to help us figure out a way to make Wren feel secure so that she doesn’t feel like she has to push us away all the time.”

Josie climbed onto the bed and settled against the headboard. “And the therapist will say what? Show up for her. Be consistent. Keep your promises. Let her move at her own pace. Validate her feelings. It’s the same old shit, Noah. It’s not working.”

Noah stripped down to his boxer briefs. He got into bed and laid down next to her on his side, head propped on one elbow. His other hand rested on her leg. He smiled. It was the sweet, playful smile he reserved just for her in private moments like this that somehow made her stress level plummet no matter how wound up she felt. He said, “So you were paying attention during all those therapy sessions?”

“This isn’t funny,” she said, but the irritation in her voice was already waning. His presence, his grounding touch, his easy smile, and his familiar smell always pulled her back from the brink. It was unfair how much emotional work he did in their relationship. He was still working through the PTSD from his abduction nearly a year ago. Josie had noticed a definite improvement even though he hadn’t been seeing his own therapist for very long, but he still had bad days.

“Hey,” he said, reading her mind like he always seemed to do. “I’m okay. Wren will be okay, too. You’ll see. We just have to give it time. Maybe instead of trying to have these intense face-to-face conversations with all these scary direct questions, we should try not talking about it at all and do something together instead. Something that gets us all out of our heads. It might be easier for her to loosen up.”

Josie shifted so she could stroke the stubble along his cheek. He’d been letting his facial hair grow in and she liked it. A lot. “You and your well-adjusted upbringing and healthy relationship dynamics. Like what?”

Noah turned his face and pressed a kiss into her palm. The cuts from the glass patient had healed and said patient’s tests had come back negative for any blood-borne pathogens. “I don’t know,” he said. “Mini golf. Batting cages.”

“I’m not sure if you noticed this or not but our kid is the artsy kind, not the sports kind.”

Noah chuckled. “Then maybe something more physical is just what she needs. Maybe we do something that involves punching bags. If nothing else, she’ll be able to release a lot of stuff she’s been holding onto.”

“Punching stuff sounds great to me.”

Noah’s fingers made lazy circles on her thigh. “I’m not surprised.”

They fell silent. From down the hall came the muffled sound of Drake’s low voice and Trinity giggling. Her sister hadn’t asked many questions about the night that Josie had dislocated her shoulder, or what had made Noah flee the house the morning after and not come back for three and a half hours. She had only cared that Josie was okay. Neither she nor Noah had offered any details. The incident was not something Denton PD was releasing to the press. Josie knew she could trust her sister with the information but after the fire, she was loath to freak her out more. Plus, Trinity had gone back to New York City the next day. Now that she was back in Denton—given the fact that she was a Last Kiss Killer expert—not telling her might threaten her safety.

“I know exactly what you’re thinking now,” he said.

They were so in tune that they could easily switch back and forth between their personal and professional lives like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ll take them out to breakfast tomorrow and tell them,” he added. “That way there’s no chance of Wren overhearing.”

“Thank you.”

Noah gave her leg a squeeze and turned onto his back. He stared at the ceiling. Idly, Josie ran her hand through his hair, fingers finding his scar tissue like they always did now. With a sigh, he closed his eyes. He’d been picking up extra shifts while she was out, and she knew he was exhausted. Not that he’d ever admit it.

“We’ve got nothing,” he said quietly.

It was the same thing he’d told her every night for the past two weeks. The Chief had refused to let her come back to work until she was at full capacity. He hadn’t even agreed to put her on desk duty. That hadn’t stopped her from doing as much of her own research as she could at home which mostly consisted of poring over every interview and document that Trinity had accumulated for her show. It hadn’t stopped her from studying Google Maps to see if she could discern any patterns in terms of the locations of the killings. It hadn’t stopped her from using the internet and the paid databases her sister subscribed to in order to deep dive into the lives of Louis Fisher and Dr. Jacob Holmes.

She had even attended Sylvia’s funeral, which had been delayed due to Kirstie’s murder. Josie hadn’t spoken to anyone and had kept largely out of sight while she observed the mourners. Both Fisher and Holmes had been there. Fisher inserted himself front and center at the service whereas Holmes made himself almost as scarce as Josie. Kirstie’s funeral had also been delayed. It was scheduled for a couple of days from now. She wondered if both men would attend that as well. Despite stalking a funeral, hours of obsessive searching and hours of sleep lost to her ruminations, she hadn’t come up with anything useful.

Not one thing.

“I went over the footage from the hospital again today,” Noah went on. “Nothing.”

Josie knew that he meant there was nothing that could help them identify the killer. Gretchen, Turner, Noah and the Chief had spent hours studying every camera angle. They’d determined that he had snuck in through one of the trauma bays when all hell was breaking loose and no one was paying attention. He had on a hat and mask. His clothes had been baggy and nondescript: a plain black tee and sweatpants. Generic white sneakers. Next he appeared in scrubs, using the linen cart to keep his face obscured. Then he showed up in a hospital gown and a blanket over his head, pushing an IV pole that they were sure he hadn’t actually been hooked up to. He’d hidden somewhere for nearly an hour before sneaking back out through one of the trauma bays, dressed again in the clothes, hat, and mask he’d arrived in.

“Hummel couldn’t get any usable prints from the lipstick case left at the Kirstie West scene. Turner finished up the rest of the interviews with the other patients and staff today,” Noah said. “Nobody remembers anything.”

The team had had to track down every person who had left before the lockdown but within the two-hour period in which the killer snuck into Josie’s cubicle to apply the lipstick.

“We brought Fisher in to lock him into a statement. Gretchen pushed him hard but his story hasn’t changed. No slip-ups. No confessions. Not even a hint.”

“What about Holmes?” Josie asked.

She knew they’d brought him in for a statement as well, but after talking to his ex-wife, Noah had wanted to speak with him again.

Another sigh. “He lawyered up. We’re getting nowhere with those two. Gretchen’s lined up a bunch of interviews with some of Sylvia’s old neighbors and church friends from Paoli. The ones who didn’t respond to our calls the first time around. She’ll drive down there tomorrow.”