Page 22 of The Man Made of Smoke

That makes sense to me, Dad.

I continued along the trail, my shoes crunching softly on the pine needles strewn across the path. Still picturing my father walking patiently behind.

Why didn’t you tell me about the body?

He was silent for a moment. Perhaps my subconscious didn’t want to provide an answer. My father and I had rarely talked about the work I did with my patients, because he had indeedfelt things strongly, and I knew he had struggled to see such people as worthy of empathy or understanding. But even so, he must have known my expertise could have been useful. And yet he had chosen not to talk to me.

Why didn’t you tell me, Dad?

Maybe exactly because of what you just thought.

I frowned to myself.

What does that mean?

Because you’ve done work that matters. You’ve caught killers.

I looked down at the trail, considering that. I always tried to downplay my occasional role in cases. That wasn’t out of modesty, but realism; the way I saw it, the police would have got there eventually without myhelp. And yet the truth was that my work really had helped to catch three men that I knew of, and most likely before they had gone on to hurt others. I had talked to my father about that. Perhaps, unlike with my work at the prison, I had wanted him to be impressed or proud. But I hadn’t stopped to think that they were exactly the kind of cases he had always dreamed of being involved in and never had been.

Maybe I just wanted something on the ledger that was mine.

Anyway—we’re here.

I looked up again.

A few meters ahead, I saw the white branch emerging from the tree line, poking down crookedly into the undergrowth at the edge of the path. The surprise was such that I actually turned and checked behind me—but of course the trail was empty. My father wasn’t really there. I had just been lost in thought, and my subconscious had noticed where I was a few seconds before my mind actively registered it.

I approached the tree.

It had been over a month since the woman’s body had been found, and no evidence remained of it ever having been here. The foliage by my feet was undisturbed. There were no scorch marks. But then, the news reports I had read indicated that police believed she had been killed somewhere else and then brought here afterward.

Why would someone do that?

Without access to an actual case file, it was impossible even to begin to answer that question. When constructing a profile, you always had to be cautious—to stick to the available facts and remember that the same act could have multiple explanations. Burning the victim might have personal meaning to the killer. It might have been an attempt at hiding her identity. Or perhaps it had seemed like the most straightforward method of destroying evidence. Or a combination of all three, along with any number of other possible motivations.

But thelocationwas curious.

Some killers kept their victims’ bodies, but the majority of patients I had worked with or studied had either destroyed or disposed of them. The intention was almost always that the body would not be discoveredfor as long as possible. There were plenty of wilder, less accessible spots on the island that would have been more effective dump sites than this, but the killer had gone to the effort of moving the dead woman, with all the risk that entailed, and then left her where she was certain to be found.

Why would he do that?

I imagined a different presence standing behind me now. Not my father. A more shadowy and insubstantial figure this time; a man made mostly of smoke for the moment. And while the woods remained quiet, and the early morning sun continued to hang like mist between the trees, the world seemed to darken slightly.

I steeled myself.

Why did you bring her here?I thought.

Silence.

What were you trying to say?

Silence.

But then, I didn’t know nearly enough yet to give the killer a voice in the same way I had with my father.

I shook my head, then reached into my jacket and took out the photograph. Using the distinctive branch as a guide, I moved myself closer to the exact place in which my father had been standing. One foot here; the other there. Then I turned, angling my body so I was facing in the direction he had been when the photograph was taken.

And then held my breath.

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