I arrested him on our anniversary, and now I have to beg him for help on the day of his execution.

For three years, I’ve tried to scrub the memory of Adrian Calloway from my mind. To the world, he was the devastatingly handsome, wealthy neurosurgeon who charmed D.C. high society. To the FBI, he was The Bonekeeper. He stopped his victims’ hearts with a lover’s touch, then posed them in public like living dolls.

And to me? He was the man I promised to love until death do us part.

A product of a broken foster care system, I survived by honing a mind that forgets nothing—a photographic memory that makes me the FBI’s greatest asset and its deepest embarrassment. My coworkers won't sit with me in the breakroom, and true crime blogs call me his silent partner, convinced I helped Adrian curate his 37-body collection. They fear me, they hate me, but they can't fire me.

Now, the clock is ticking. In twelve hours, Adrian will get the needle. But the nightmare has started again. A woman was found this morning standing in the National Gallery, gazing at a painting. The M.E. says she’s been dead for eight hours.

It’s Adrian’s signature. Impossible, unless someone on the outside is continuing his collection.

With the Bureau stumped and the city terrified, I have no choice but to walk back into the cage with the man who broke my heart. Adrian is willing to talk, but he doesn’t want a commuted sentence; he wants to play one last game.

He wants inside my head again.

I put the love of my life on Death Row, but now he’s the only one who can help me catch a copycat.