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        “Multiple stab wounds to the chest punctured the heart and both lungs,” she said.

        “So why take the eyes afterward?”

        “Maybe the killer has a thing for collecting trophies,” Bishop suggested. “A knife wouldn’t cause that kind of irritation around the eyes unless it was coated with something.”

        “Did the forensics team find anything?”

        “Came up empty on the eyes.” She grimaced at her choice of words. “They took swabs from the chest wounds back to the lab, just to be sure.”

        Brennan looked around the small apartment. The stereo systems, the gaming console, the furniture, even the kitchen appliances—they didn’t feel right. It meant something, he was sure of it.

        When he was younger, setting off on his own without help from his family, his apartment had been terribly rundown. He could barely afford to live in the city, and it was only once his parents had passed away that he had lived in anything more than a glorified closet. His apartment now wasn’t exactly a palace, but it was nothing to sneeze at. And it had taken him years and some amount of chance to reach that point.

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