Behind a canvas tent ribboned with police tape, the body of Harriet Brown lies like a marble figure on a tomb. She had been a week away from her twenty-first birthday when she was murdered.
The arrangement of her hands shocks even Lambert, who is used to much bloodier deaths. Whoever killed Harriet tied an elastic band around her wrists, holding them together as though in prayer.
But it’s not Harriet’s hands that occupy Lambert’s thoughts. It’s the hands of the killer he sees when he falls asleep. Hands that composed Harriet’s body into a mocking parody of the good religious death. Hands that have killed twice, and will kill again, unless they are arrested.