The computer was infuriatingly slow as Rachel clicked through several Internet screens to access her e-mail. She pulled out Detective Baertschi’s card—sodden, ripped, and smudged from being in her jeans—typed his e-mail address into the “to” field, and started writing. She let the words flow, neglecting spelling, syntax, and grammar, just wanting to get her thoughts across as best she knew how. She conveyed his story, or at least the parts he’d communicated to her, piecing together the conversations they’d had, the fears he’d revealed during their most intimate moments, his dreams that made up who he thought he might be—who they both knew he was.
As she jogged her memory, she thought of the youth who’d attacked her in the cemetery, whose hands had smelled like pig.
The pig who was now de
