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.

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.

Rios kneels beside him. “Can you?”

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