"A series of murders," he says, taking in the sweep of her gaze. She can keep that shirt as long as she wants if it means she's hanging on his every word; even if her rapt attention is for the shape of his chest rather than what he has to say, he'll take it. "Spring of 1979. I was on spring break in D.C., and my best friend came down from the Vineyard for it. Children - eight, nine years old - were being murdered and left in crypts near my father's apartment. Each one of them was found holding a dead magpie pierced with eight arrows made of human bones.

"The thing that got me...aside from seeing one of the bodies, that is...was the latest victim. Eight years old, abducted from her living room after the lights went out. Her mother was home at the time, but there weren't any clues besides an open front door." His expression clouds, perhaps inevitably. "I think you can see where that led me."