Washington, D.C.

Gwen tried to calm him but he went from babbling like a small boy to a raging anger that she had never seen James Campion exhibit. Over and over he told her he had broken the rules. She had no idea what rules he was talking about.

“The rules of the game,” he screamed at her. “The Sin Eater must have put some sort of spell on me. Is that possible?” he wanted to know.

She had finally gotten him to sit on the sofa, though his hands and arms still flayed about. Nothing in her past experience with him would indicate a violent manner and yet she found herself checking the door, making sure she had an escape route if it became necessary. All of their previous sessions had been more than civil. He’d always been polite, gracious and respectful. She couldn’t remember him raising his voice even when confessing the most heinous of events from his childhood.

His childhood.

Why had it taken this long to hit her?

James Campion had been abused and raped by a parish priest, a man he deeply respected and trusted. Had James ever spoken of him by name?

Now her mind raced, trying to pull pieces of information from his file by memory. Where? Why couldn’t she remember where he had grown up? Not here. She was certain of that. Boston? Was it Boston? Or was she simply being paranoid again, conveniently pushing puzzle pieces into empty slots?

“James, slow down. Tell me about the game. You haven’t mentioned it before.” She spoke softly, the same tone that had worked for so many past sessions. “You must tell me about the game before I can help you. Do you understand?”

He nodded and she tried to hold eye contact. If she could get him to remember how comfortable, how safe he had felt here before—safe enough to confess things he hadn’t shared with anyone—perhaps she could get him to tell her what had happened. Out of the corner of her eye she could see his hands in his lap, wringing the hem of his shirt. His fists balled up, the skin turning white. Suddenly she wondered if maybe she didn’t want to know what had happened, what he had done.

“It helped for a little while,” he said, his voice calm despite the violent wringing of his shirt. She could hear him ripping it now. She held his gaze, resisting the urge to look down. “You helped for a while. You really did. But you made me talk about it too much. It wouldn’t go away when you made me talk about it. Instead it just brought out more anger. And then the game wasn’t enough. Our sessions weren’t enough. You—” He lifted a hand away from his shirt to point a finger at her. “You weren’t enough.”

He stood slowly, his eyes still holding hers as if having some sort of revelation.

“It’s your fault,” he said, only this time it was almost a hiss. “You made me dredge it all up again. You made me talk about it and remember. You made me remember all the disgusting details all over again. You made me do it.”

And suddenly Gwen knew for certain that she had been wrong. The killer leaving her notes and maps and crying out for her attention was not Rubin Nash. It was James Campion. She had made a mistake and now she was about to pay for that mistake.