R. J. Tully cleared away the dirty dishes, putting them in the sink, and wiped up the crumbs. He pulled out the laptop computer and set it on the kitchen table, connecting the power cord to the outlet and the cables for Internet access. The lid showed a trace of dusting powder, otherwise the lab guys had been tidy, quick and efficient.

Bernard was still trying to track down the e-mail address, though it looked like Tully had been right. SonnyBoy used only public computers. They had tracked him back to the Meriden Public Library and the University of New Haven. At this rate they might never be able to identify him or narrow down a user profile. It looked like he used this address strictly for chat. There were no accounts, no member profiles, no credit cards or online purchases. Nothing except dead ends.

Tully accessed Joan Begley’s AOL account, using the password and going through her file cabinet. He read the e-mails that hadn’t been opened yet, but saved each, clicking on “Keep as new” just in case someone else was checking them, too.

Harvey jumped up from under the table, startling Tully. He had forgotten the dog was there. Within seconds he heard the front door unlock. This dog was good.

“Hi, Dad,” Emma said, coming in the front door, her friend, Aleesha, her constant companion, following.

“You’re home early,” he said, trying not to sound as pleased as he was feeling. These days he barely saw her and that was only in passing.

“We thought we’d study here tonight. Is that okay with you?”

She had already thrown her armful of books on the sofa and squatted down to hug Harvey’s thick neck. She laughed at her friend, who had to move or risk getting swatted by the dog’s tail.

“You can pet him,” she told Aleesha, who seemed to be waiting for permission. “Could we order a pizza later for dinner?”

She let Harvey lick her hand while she looked up at Tully. He thought he saw something in his daughter’s eyes—a sparkle, a glint—something that he hadn’t seen in a very long time. And that was pure and unadulterated happiness.

“Sure, sweet pea. But only if I get to have some.”

“Well, duh, of course you get some. Especially since you’re paying for it.” She rolled her eyes but was still smiling.

If only he had known that all it took to make his daughter’s eyes sparkle was the simple lick and wag of a dog. Who’d ever have guessed? Teenaged girls—he’d never be able to figure them out.

Sometimes it didn’t surprise him so much that Emma was almost sixteen as much as it surprised him that he was supposed to be the father of a sixteen-year-old. What did he know about teenaged girls? He had no experience in this category. The father of a little girl, now, that he could handle. He was good at protecting, providing and admiring, but those all seemed qualities his teenaged daughter considered lame.

“Come on, Harvey.” Emma called the dog from the hallway. “Watch him, Aleesha,” he heard Emma tell her friend as they went back to her bedroom. “This is so cool. He lies at the foot of my bed like he’s watching out for me. And those big, sad brown eyes. Aren’t they the best?”

Tully smiled. Evidently protecting and admiring were annoying characteristics in a father, but prime qualities for a dog. Was he being replaced in his daughter’s life? Better by a dog than by a boy.

He went back to Joan Begley’s e-mail. O’Dell had said that the rock quarry killer may be paranoid and delusional. She suggested that he hid the bodies because he didn’t want anyone to see his handiwork, unlike some serial killers who put the bodies on display to show their control, their power. So this killer, according to O’Dell, got what he wanted from something other than torturing and killing his victims. There may be no gratification in the actual kills for him. If she was correct, the killing was only a means to the end result, what O’Dell called his trophies. But if this was the same man who had taken Joan Begley, what did he want from her?

Tully scanned the contents of one of SonnyBoy’s e-mails to Joan Begley. He sounded genuinely interested and concerned about her. Yes, it might be necessary to lure the victim, get her to trust. But this seemed more than that.

The e-mail read, “You need to let yourself mourn. Let yourself be sad. It’s okay, you know. You don’t have to be embarrassed. No one will think of you as being weak.”

Did SonnyBoy connect with his victims in some way, actually feel for them? Or perhaps feel sorry for them because of their imperfections? Was it part of his game? Or was Joan Begley different?

Tully wondered if O’Dell was right. If on some level, the killer hid the bodies because he was embarrassed by what he was doing. Could that be? A killer embarrassed by his need to possess these deformities that others had? Perhaps even embarrassed that he must kill? Was that possible? It would make sense that he started out with people who were already dead. According to O’Dell, there was an old guy with a brain tumor who had been embalmed and buried. Maybe SonnyBoy started with the dead and worked up his courage. Or maybe his need to possess what they had finally overrode any qualms he may have had about murder.

Tully sat back and stared at the computer screen, the last e-mail that SonnyBoy had sent Joan Begley still open on the screen. Just how paranoid and delusional was good ole SonnyBoy? Tully was tempted to find out.

He probably should check out his theory with O’Dell. Probably shouldn’t do anything silly or reckless. And yet, what did he really have to lose? Maybe O’Dell was rubbing off on him. Maybe she was a bad influence on him, tempting him to stray from his by-the-book approach.

He scooted the chair closer to the table. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. What the hell. He hit the reply icon, which brought up Joan Begley’s response screen. Before he could change his mind he typed in the message and hit the send icon. What if SonnyBoy did have Joan Begley, bound and gagged? Or what if he had already killed her? Then wouldn’t he be surprised to receive an e-mail from her, even if it was just one word:

“Why?”