THIRTY-SEVEN
“Welcome to the Murder Tour,” Ritter said as Vivian gave him their tickets. “I hope you enjoy the ride.”
He said it as if he’d said it a thousand times before, and he probably had. Being a tour guide meant you repeated yourself, over and over, day after day. But it did seem to Vivian as if Ritter was speaking only to her. And was it her imagination, or did he linger when he looked at her? The way he lingered when he drove past her house? Maybe he’s just a perv, Vivian thought. Wouldn’t be the first time some creep cruised her.
She had seen Ritter’s photograph on the Murder Tours website and knew what he looked like. But even without this she would have recognized him as the man she saw sitting behind the wheel of the bus that night at Coit Tower. He was in his late 40s, wit
