Nothing.
The school counselor had told them that all reactions were normal, that people experienced grief in different ways. But surely she didn’t mean not having any reaction at all. That was not normal. And obsessing about a murderer, collecting all the articles that mentioned him—that wasn’t normal either; she was certain of it.
When it was time, she made herself approach the coffin, look at Clara’s face. Only four years older than her, killed brutally.
Clara didn’t look like someone who had been killed brutally. She looked as if she were asleep.
Zoe turned away, facing a crowd of teary eyes, searching for anyone who, like her, felt absolutely nothing. Some small kids seemed quite calm. They couldn’t understand what was going on. But every adult face Zoe glanced at was full of tears or seemed as if it were on the brink.
She started heading outside. Her mother followed her, stroking her hair.
A small hand grabbed her own. She looked down at Andrea, who walked by her side, her face serious. Did Andrea know what was going on? She was sleeping in Zoe’s bed every night now. She knew something was very wrong.
The world was white, snow carpeting the chapel’s yard, covering the trees, the grass, a thin layer of snow on the low wall that stood between the yard and the street. She followed her parents to the car, everyone completely silent. Got into the car. Heard the engine start, its sound strangely muffled. She felt lightheaded, almost somewhere else.
No tears in her. No empathy. Just like the killer.
Andrea laid her head against Zoe’s arm as they rode home. She played with Zoe’s fingers, like she sometimes did at night, caressing Zoe’s thumb over and over. Zoe said nothing, even though it tickled.
The car ride was quick, like every ride inside the tiny town. When they reached home and got out, Zoe couldn’t figure out why the world kept tilting.
And then she was kneeling on the ground, throwing up her breakfast, her heart beating fast. Her mother pulled back her hair, talking, but she couldn’t understand the words. They seemed to blend into each other, and she was coughing and spitting, looking at the lumpy yellow sludge spattered on the snow, trembling violently.
Zoe checked the time again. It was seventeen past two in the morning, and she suspected sleep would not come, ever. Andrea was curled by her side, the blanket covering her up to her neck, a loose strand of hair dangling on her cheek. Zoe had gotten used to sleeping on half a bed. She hardly minded it anymore.
She had cried. Couldn’t stop, in fact. She’d shivered and cried for over an hour, her mom hugging her and caressing her and trying to find the words that would make it stop. Finally, Zoe had stumbled into her room and crashed on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to empty her mind of the horrific images that kept assaulting her. The rest of the day had been a haze. She wouldn’t talk to anyone, just wanted to be alone. Except for Andrea. She hadn’t said anything when Andrea had walked into her room and plopped on the floor. It had been a slight relief.
And now she just wished she could finally sleep. She was exhausted.
Finally, she sighed, turning on the night-light. Andrea tensed and then rolled over, facing away from the light. Zoe picked up the book she had hidden under the bed, the one she had borrowed from the library. Whoever Fights Monsters, by Robert K. Ressler. It was the fifth book she had borrowed about serial killers, but it was the first one written by an FBI profiler. She hadn’t even known the profession existed.
The more she read, the more things began falling into place. Maynard was far from the only place struck by a serial killer. And these killers, as monstrous as they were, could be explained. Ressler kept stressing that the thing propelling most serial killers to act was a fantasy. It would grow, becoming more powerful and detailed, taking over the killer’s thoughts until he tried to fulfill it. That fulfillment would satisfy the killer for a certain period of time, until he felt the need to kill again.
The detailed profiles Ressler came up with astounded her. What would Ressler say about the Maynard serial killer?
She wished the Maynard chief of police would ask for the help of an FBI profiler.
She’d just begun reading about Ressler’s interview with David Berkowitz, who had been nicknamed the “Son of Sam.” Berkowitz had shot multiple men and women, though he targeted women. Zoe was reading the interview summary with morbid fascination when she reached a paragraph that gave her chills. Berkowitz told Ressler that on nights he couldn’t find a victim, he’d go to one of his earlier crime scenes to look at them and masturbate. Ressler pointed out in the book that this was the first time they had actual proof that killers returned to the scene of the crime, as well as an explanation for it.
She read the paragraph several times, feeling something niggling at her. It was itching in her mind, a sickening feeling that she didn’t want to pinpoint. Instead, she shut the book, shoved it under the bed, and tried to sleep again.
She might as well have tried to fly. Sleep visited other beds in Maynard that night.
Her mind kept conjuring that day a month and a half ago.
What had Rod Glover been doing at Durant Pond? She had asked him that question and never received a straight answer. Instead, he had told her about a fire and how he had saved the life of their secretary. A strange story.
It occurred to her she hadn’t heard about this fire from anyone else. Maynard was a small town. If someone had a flat tire, half the town would know about it by the end of the day.
A fire in an office? A woman rescued heroically by her coworker? Even with the murders going on, it would have been mentioned and discussed endlessly.
And then she thought of other strange stories he had told her about. Hadn’t he once told her he’d been an extra in one of the first episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but they’d cut his sequence out because he had an argument with the producer? And he claimed that he used to be a CIA informant, though he couldn’t tell her anything about it.
Zoe was not naive. She always assumed he was yanking her chain or stretching the facts a bit. But now, as she thought about those stories, they seemed less like humorous anecdotes and more like lies, serving no purpose.
She got her notebook and flipped through it until she found what she was looking for. She had photocopied a section from an article about psychopaths, describing the Hare Psychopathy Checklist. This list detailed traits that correlated with psychopathy. Zoe, loving bullet-point lists, had taped the list in her notebook. Third in the list: pathological lying.
She looked at the rest of the list. Superficial charm—check. He always smiled when he talked to her, often touching her arm in a friendly manner. His endless imitations and corny humor, trying to make her laugh. And it worked, she was embarrassed to admit to herself. She liked him. That was all it took to get on her good side.
Lack of empathy. She tried to think what that meant. Understanding what other people felt, right? But Rod understood feelings. He would listen to her when she complained about her parents or school, nodding sympathetically. And she could see the care in his eyes. She tried to imagine the eyes of someone who didn’t care. Empty, dead.
She put the list aside. Rod was a good guy. And of course he understood other people’s feelings; he—
He had shown zero interest when she spoke of the first murder, immediately trying to make her laugh. She compared that to other people whom she talked about the murder with. Her friends, the sadness and fear on their faces. Mrs. Hernandez, crying as she spoke to the class about it. Teary red faces in the hallways.