The fourth attack didn't happen that night.
That almost made it worse.
No call.
No new body.
No new hospital room.
Just waiting.
Pocho stayed at the station until 9:30 p.m. anyway.
Harris had already left.
Morrison told him twice to go home.
He left on the third reminder.
His wife was on the couch when he walked in.
TV on. Volume low.
She muted it when he shut the door.
"You ate?" she asked.
"Yeah."
That wasn't true. He had coffee and a granola bar.
She studied him.
"You look tired."
"I'm fine."
"You say that a lot."
He took off his jacket and hung it by the door.
She didn't turn the TV back on.
"Sit down," she said.
He did.
For a minute, neither of them spoke.
Finally she said, "Three victims in four days."
"Yes."
"And he called you."
"Yes."
She nodded slowly.
"And you don't seem surprised."
"I'm not."
"That's the problem."
He looked at her.
"What's the problem?"
"You're not reacting."
"I am reacting."
"No," she said calmly. "You're narrowing."
That word stuck.
He didn't like it.
"I'm doing my job," he said.
"You're doing more than that."
He didn't answer.
She leaned forward slightly.
"You're already thinking about him all the time."
"Yes."
"You don't even deny it."
"There are three people in the hospital because he's not caught."
"And there will be more if you don't sleep."
"That's not how this works."
"Then how does it work?" she asked.
He didn't respond immediately.
He was careful with his tone.
"If I stay on it, if I don't let it drift, if I don't slow down, I get ahead of him."
"And if you don't?"
"Then he keeps going."
She looked at him for a long moment.
"You can't control everything."
"I'm not trying to."
"You are."
He shook his head.
"No. I'm trying to stop one thing."
"And what happens after you stop it?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
She stood up and walked into the kitchen.
He stayed on the couch.
A minute later, she came back.
"You missed dinner with my sister last week," she said. "You forgot our anniversary last month. You don't answer your phone half the time."
"I'm working."
"You're disappearing."
That hit harder than she intended.
"I'm right here," he said.
"No," she replied quietly. "You're not."
Silence settled between them.
Not dramatic.
Not explosive.
Just distance.
After a while, she picked up the remote and turned the TV back on.
Conversation over.
---
Later that night, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
She was asleep beside him.
He wasn't.
He replayed the killer's voice.
They're quiet people. People no one notices.
You notice them.
It wasn't flattery.
It was positioning.
The killer was building something.
He knew that.
But knowing didn't stop the effect.
At 2:12 a.m., he got out of bed and walked into the living room.
He opened his laptop.
Reviewed the files again.
Rick. Sarah. Marcus.
Similar schedules.
Alone at night.
No robbery.
Controlled force.
He pulled up a city map and marked the locations.
They weren't random.
They were spread, but within range.
Seven-mile radius.
That wasn't coincidence.
His phone buzzed on the table.
His wife's name.
He almost didn't answer.
Then he realized she was texting from the bedroom.
Are you coming back to bed?
He stared at it.
Then typed:
Yeah.
He closed the laptop.
When he walked back into the bedroom, she was awake.
"You don't have to pretend you're sleeping," she said.
"I wasn't pretending."
"You weren't here."
He didn't argue.
He lay down beside her.
She turned toward him.
"When this is over," she said, "are you going to come back?"
He looked at her.
"What does that mean?"
"Are you going to come back?"
He didn't understand the question at first.
Then he did.
"I'm here," he said again.
She didn't push it further.
But she didn't look convinced.
---
The next morning at the station, Harris handed him a new update.
"No fourth attack overnight."
"Good."
"Media's starting to ask questions. Word's leaking."
Pocho nodded.
Morrison stepped out of his office.
"We're holding a press statement this afternoon," he said. "Nothing detailed."
Pocho didn't object.
He was already thinking ahead.
If the killer wanted attention, the press conference would feed that.
But if they stayed silent, panic would spread anyway.
He looked at the board again.
Three names.
Three lives permanently altered.
And no suspect.
He felt something different now.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Pressure.
But it wasn't crushing.
It was focusing.
He picked up a marker and circled the seven-mile radius on the map.
Harris watched him.
"You thinking he lives inside that?"
"Yes."
"Or works there."
"Yes."
"You think he'll hit again soon?"
Pocho paused.
"Yes."
He didn't say it dramatically.
He said it like a fact.
Because it was.
And this time, when he said it, there was something else under it.
Not obsession.
Not yet.
But something sharper than before.
He wasn't just reacting anymore.
He was hunting.