“Then why’d you send for me?” Cross doesn’t look at her. He’s already circling the body, counting—seven spiral fractures on the left ribs. Just like the last one. But different. Newer. Fresher.
He kneels, pulls on gloves, touches the victim’s jawline. The tissue is still cool. Not refrigerated. Staged within the last four hours.
He works through dawn. The web stream of the crime scene is leaked to local news—a glitchy 720p feed showing a man in an apron molding a woman’s face from gray block. The killer watches from a motel room. He smiles. Because this time, the face Cross sculpts won’t be a stranger’s.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” says the lead detective, a woman named Rios who took over the case after Cross cracked.
Now, 3 a.m. in an abandoned amusement park. Rain slicks the fiberglass horses. And there she is: victim number seven. No ID. No face. But the pose—arms reaching for a brass ring—is a signature no one else would recognize.
Cross closes his eyes. In the dark behind his lids, he sees bone structure. Muscle planes. The subtle asymmetry that makes a face human. When he opens his eyes, he says only: “Get me clay. And get everyone out.”