“You okay?” Bobby said from the seat next to her.

“Will be when he gets this crate on the ground.” One of the benefits of two decades of experience working horrific crime scenes for the Federal Bureau of Investigation she’d gained an icy demeanor and the ability to speak without any hint of what was going on inside her. She called it her “profiler disguise” inside her own mind, and she’d worn it since the first purple-black cloud appeared outside the window, wreathed by a crown of glorious red and blue lightning.

The screaming from the engines dropped to nothing, and the plane lurched earthward, then the engine noise rose to skull-splitting levels, and the jet shuddered through another seemingly solid wall of air. Connelly opened her eyes in time to see the ground rushing up to embrace them, and she drew in a sharp breath as if that would help. The jet hit the ground with a loud thump accompanied by a few shrieks from the passengers, and the engine noise cycled even higher. The plane jittered a little from side to side, then left the ground, only to slam back down onto the wet runway a moment later. The pilot engaged the reversers and gave the engines all the fuel they could use.

Meredeth groaned under her breath and squeezed her eyes shut again but was unable to block out the red and blue flashing lights as everyone in the cabin lurched forward against their seatbelts. She knew they were safe at that point, and she relaxed into the seat, wishing for a magic cone of silence to descend around her. Truth to tell, she felt about as ready for another investigation as she did for a bout with Rhonda Rousey. But it was her case—hers and Bobby’s—and had been for over a year, and fair was fair.

The Sandman was a sporadic killer, and so far, they had not had the luck of being in town while he was active. They’d always gotten the call and made the trip only to find that the killer had returned to dormancy—maybe because of their arrival, but she didn’t give that idea much credit as the Sandman was confident to the point of being cock-sure and taking excessive chances. This trip, however, something felt different to her as the plane taxied through the sheeting rain toward the small terminal. She didn’t believe in psychic-mumbo-jumbo or other forms of magical thinking, but she did believe in the excitement she felt tingling in her gut.

The jet trundled up toward their gate at the Daytona Beach International Airport like a giant aluminum beetle, and the tension inside the craft dissipated into shaky laughter and animated conversations. The overhead lights flicked on as they coasted to a stop at the gate, and Meredeth ducked her head with a grimace. The lights weren’t that bright, but it seemed she needed less and less input to drive her into an agonized huddle.

The captain came on the intercom to apologize for the rough landing and wish everyone a great time in the crown jewel of Florida’s “Fun Coast.” As the captain began to speak, Bobby got up and opened the overhead bin, handing first her purse, then her carry-on bag down to her. Both felt as though they weighed at least seventy tons, but she piled them into her lap without comment. Not much trumped the headaches.

She and Bobby deplaned, then tramped up the jetway toward the terminal. At the head of the gangway, a bored-looking Volusia County Sheriff’s deputy stood waiting, and Bobby approached him with a joke at the ready, as always. Meredeth hung back a little, watching the crowd and wishing her head would either kill her or go away.

“Welcome back to the Sunshine State,” said the deputy in an ironic tone with a dismissive wave at the floor-to-ceiling windows and the apocalyptic thunderstorm raging outside.

“Yeah, all that sunshine almost killed us on the landing,” said Bobby. “I’m Van Zandt, she’s Connelly.”

“You’re the super-profilers, right?” asked the baby-faced deputy.

“She is,” said Bobby, hooking his thumb over his shoulder at Meredeth. “She’s the brains; I’m just the Marine that carries her water.”

Meredeth felt the deputy’s eyes on her but didn’t feel up to performing on cue. She glanced at him and treated him to a curt nod. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a killer headache. Can we get out of all this hubbub?”

“Sure,” said the deputy but then stepped closer to her. “Migraine? My wife gets those.”

Meredeth shook her head. “Stress headache. We’re coming here on the heels of the Savannah Strangler case. I haven’t had time to decompress.”

The deputy whistled. “I hope you can wrap this business up as quick as you did that this time.”

“Me, too, Deputy,” said Meredeth. “Me, too.”