I STOOD at the bar, sipping champagne, watching, waiting for the charity ball to stumble toward its end. About half the guests had already departed, but the remaining revelers were still on the dance floor, the DJ pumping out more music from the nineties, music that should have died with the decade, to be honest. Not that I was listening. My mind was elsewhere. This is ridiculous. I’m better than this. I’d dispatched numerous people from this planet, four of whom had deserved their grisly fates—and one whose demise was purely a matter of self-preservation—and I’d kept my cool every single time. But from the moment Dan Porter and Detective Gary Mitchell strolled into the ballroom, I lost my focus. And with each passing minute, my thoughts grew muddier. Why don’t they leave? I wasn’t worried about being caught. That was simply not a factor. I was more concerned they’d thrown a wrench into the well-oiled machinery of my plans. I’d known they were coming ever since I’d received the email with the guest list. Seeing Mitchell’s name there had been the first surprise. There could only be one motive for his attendance—his brother’s murder—but that didn’t answer one all-important question. Why now? Brad’s been gone for twenty-three years, so why is Mitchell coming to this reunion? Something has to have brought him here. As I scanned farther down the list, I found my answer. Dan Porter would also be there. Anyone in Boston who didn’t know that name by now must have been living under a rock for the last four months. Now I get it. The famous psychic is going to help Mitchell find Brad’s murderer. That could be the only reason for both of them attending the ball. There was always the possibility the news reports were nothing but hype. Porter could be a huge fake. But what if he wasn’t? And what if he was at the ball because he’d discovered something? What if he’d somehow gotten on my trail? I dismissed that thought. Nothing out there could have led them to me. Still…. The situation had been enough to set my mind working. I needed a test, something to help me decide whether Porter was a real threat. Sean Nichols’s request for raffle prizes dating from our university days provided the answer. I knew exactly what I would be taking to the ball. To tell the truth, I was spoiled for choice, but I intended keeping something back for later. A game needs clues, right? A mouse needs to see some cheese before he starts to make his way through the maze. And if Porter truly possessed psychic ability, my next game could prove to be extremely interesting. Thinking back, the evening could have backfired spectacularly, and the blame for that failure could be laid nowhere but at the altar of my ego. It should have been a simple task of walking over to the raffle table and depositing my prize, but there was more to consider. For one thing, I took two DVDs, one of which I left with the other items when I was certain I wasn’t in view of any of the guests, the other when I had an audience. I thought briefly about wiping my fingerprints from one of the plastic covers, until I realized there was no need: Countless fingers would come into contact with it that night. Part one of the test complete. Part two was a trickier prospect. I watched Mitchell and Porter mingling with the other guests, and I instantly understood their intent. They’re checking out Brad’s classmates. They’re going to talk to everyone who knew him. Including me. I became adept at watching the proceedings in the mirrored doors rather than be caught paying too much outright attention. The temptation to turn and watch directly when Porter was introduced to the others was enormous. I knew I could keep a cool head, but them? A couple of them were already showing signs of cracking. I couldn’t understand why. This was ancient history now. A string of unsolved murders. They’d got what they wanted, hadn’t they?