She left the numbers there.
Zoe opened her eyes—her real eyes—andpart of her stayed there, on the island. Part of the numbers came back withher, and that was fine, because she didn’t need them gone entirely. She justneeded them to clear her vision enough to let her see, and to be there when sheneeded to call on their help.
She just had to think. If shecould think clearly, without the numbers getting in the way now, she knew shewould find it. There had to be something that all of the victims had in common.
They were all local. Zoe searchedtheir addresses, and their home records; looking back through the censusinformation, she could see that all of them had lived in the Syracuse area fora long time. Not all of them for their whole lives—while Shacora and Olive hadbeen born there, Elara had been an immigrant some thirty years ago. The newestvictim, too—Sheriff Petrovski had identified her as Lara Brownlee—she had onlylived in Syracuse for a little over a decade, having been raised at the otherside of the state.
Something about those comparativeages sparked in Zoe’s mind. Lara had been in her late teens—around eighteenyears old—when she came to Syracuse. So, why?
Because she wanted to study?
Spurred on by this thought, Zoelooked up the local college. There were a number of faculties included withinSyracuse University, and a wide range of fields of study.
And there were a few alumni listsonline—nothing comprehensive, but enough that Zoe had a flash of hope.
She started going through thelist, checking them one by one: a search for the victim’s name, plus thecollege, to see what came up.
Elara Vega was the first hit. Notas a student; she had not even been in the local area when she was in her earlytwenties, which was why Zoe had started with her—thinking it would be easier todisprove the theory. But there she was, listed on an old document about staff.She had taught there as a professor for some years, gaining teaching experiencein the science department, leading students on explorations of astrology. Shehad stopped teaching some time ago to work at the planetarium full-time, butthe link was there.
Zoe moved on to Olive Hanson. Asthe next oldest victim, it was likely there would be less evidence of heracademic record. But there she was, quoted in an article about the alumniassociation, telling the reporter how much she had enjoyed a get-together tomark a decade since her graduation.
Shacora Maxwell was easy; Zoe hadalready seen in the report gathered by Sheriff Petrovski’s men that thepart-time security guard had also been a part-time student. She was takingclasses until the very day she died. And that just left their newest find, LaraBrownlee.
Who had graduated from SyracuseUniversity seven years ago, at the top of her class, according to an onlinearticle which featured a photograph of her, younger and with a less flatteringhaircut, grinning with a certificate framed in her hands.
She had it.
“Flynn?”
“Hm?”
“Syracuse University.”
He looked up at her, a flash ofunderstanding in his eyes. Perhaps he was a little sharper than she had so fargiven him credit for. “All of them?”
“Three students and a professor.”
“Is the information all availableonline?”
Zoe shook her head, smiling alittle more as she realized the implications. “Three of them are a matter ofpublic record. Not Shacora Maxwell. She was still studying. No graduation list,no alumni report, nothing. She would only be known as a student to someone withaccess to the university infrastructure itself.”
“Someone at the school.” Flynnsnapped his fingers in the air. “Staff and faculty members.”
“We cannot rule out students,” Zoesaid. “This killer is a mathematician. If not in major, at least in method.They may be someone with advanced skills in related areas. Someone who couldhack into what I assume is a fairly basic school registration system to accessstudent and faculty information. It may even be someone who has access to paperfiles. A volunteer who helps out in the office. All we know for sure is thatthey have access to Syracuse University.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t narrowit down much,” Flynn said, rubbing his thumb across his lower lip. Zoe, who hadread studies about oral fixation and the subtleties of body language in alargely failed attempt to better understand it, wondered if the gesture wouldhave been disarming to another woman. “But at least we have a lead. We knowthat the next victim will be a student of the college.”
Zoe’s eyes widened fractionally asshe followed the thought through. “But so does he,” she said. “And he hasenough of a lead that he could be hunting her down as we speak.”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
He glanced around before settlingbehind the computer, checking that he was alone. It was easy enough to be alonehere. There was hardly ever anyone around that showed any interest in what hewas doing. It made things so much easier.
He flexed his fingers above thekeyboard for a moment, before starting to type. The records system was old andclunky, and well overdue an update; not that he was complaining. It was thatold-fashioned set-up that had allowed him to easily get access, not just tocurrent students but also to alumni and faculty. And while the search functionwas barely useful at all, he could at least do things the manual way.
Opening a list of alumni for aparticular school within the college, he nestled further into his chair,hunching his shoulders and head forward to get a closer view of the screen. Heknew that current students would be little help—mature students were few enoughthat needing an age this specific meant diving into past records.
And if that didn’t work, there wasalways faculty. He’d find someone, somewhere.
The research was long andchallenging, but he didn’t mind it. It was a wholly different kind of work tothe actual sacrifices, but both had their part to play in all of this. Thesequence was coming together, and he had a shot at finding someone who wasfifty-three years old.
He’d already figured out the rangeof birth dates that would work. He was scrolling through the list, checking offeach
