“She fits the description we have. Specifically, she has a tattoo of a black cat on her lower back just like Lily did.”
A tattoo. But hidden from sight. It still matched her assumptions. Zoe felt no sense of victory, only emptiness.
“Is she embalmed?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Martinez said shortly. “I’m going to the crime scene right now. Mel, I want you to come with me. Agent Gray, Dr. Bentley, if you want, you can ride with us too. Scott, I want you here talking to dispatch. I’ll get approval from the captain to keep the roadblocks and the helicopter up for half an hour more, so I want you to be our man in the situation room. I want the rest of you following in separate vehicles. This murder is fresh, meaning that the leads are fresh. We will probably split after reviewing the crime scene and start working those new leads.”
New leads. Fresh scene. On paper, the case had just received a considerable windfall. They’d have additional data to analyze. They knew the exact street where the killer had held . . . and probably killed the victim. The killer would be spooked, would be prone to make mistakes.
But just hours ago they had the victim alive, on the phone. Had been closing in on her location. If they had been faster, smarter, better, she would have survived. Perhaps they would have even had the killer behind bars.
They were one step closer to catching the killer. But the cost was too terrible.
The mood in the car was grim. Martinez and Mel sat in front, Tatum and Zoe in the backseat. Zoe thought about Lily. She had heard what were probably Lily’s last sounds. Trying desperately to save herself. Zoe knew very well how it felt to fear for your own life, to have a predator in the next room.
To know that help might be on its way . . . but probably not.
Zoe, open the door. Can’t stay in there forever, Zoe.
She shivered.
“Are you okay?” Tatum asked. There was something soft in his eyes she hadn’t seen before. Or maybe she was just looking for something she needed.
“Yeah,” she said. “Just some unpleasant memories.”
CHAPTER 37
Maynard, Massachusetts, Monday, December 15, 1997
The sound of her alarm clock buzzing made Zoe jump in her bed. Her heart beat wildly, and she looked around her in confusion, getting her bearings. She had given up on falling asleep altogether the night before, but apparently, just before dawn, sleep had finally caught up with her.
Andrea was already gone, which was strange. Andrea usually didn’t get out of bed on school mornings before their mother physically pulled her out. But mom hadn’t woken Zoe up. Why?
She got up and waited for a moment as a spell of dizziness hit her. She had slept no more than an hour the night before. Once she felt steady enough, she plodded to the kitchen, where Andrea was prattling, an untouched cereal bowl in front of her. Their mother was at the counter, staring at two slices of dry toast that had popped out of the toaster.
“Mom? Why didn’t you wake me up?” Zoe asked.
“She said you need to sleep,” Andrea squeaked. “And I wanted to sleep too, but she said that I have to wake up, which isn’t fair because I’m also tired—”
Her mother turned around, and Zoe saw the exhaustion on her face. She hadn’t slept well either, it seemed. “Andrea, eat your cereal already. We’re going to be late. Zoe, I thought you might like to stay home today,” she said, trying to insert a fake cheerful tone to her voice.
Zoe thought of her meltdown the day before. “Okay, yeah,” she said hesitantly. “Mom, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“What is it?” Her mother began smearing cream cheese on the toast in angry, sharp strokes.
“Uh . . . can we talk somewhere else?” She glanced pointedly at Andrea.
Her mom glanced at her watch. “I have to go, Zoe. And I think you really should get back to bed. I heard you moving around in your room all night. Let’s talk in the evening.”
“Mom, it’s important.” She lowered her voice. “It’s about the girls who were—”
Her mother’s eyes widened, and she gripped Zoe’s arm tightly. She dragged her out of the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” Andrea piped.
“I’ll be back in a minute, sweetie,” their mother said. “Eat your cereal.”
“I don’t want to be alone.”
“Andrea, I’ll be right back. And you’re not alone. We’re in the next room.”
Once they were reasonably out of earshot, her mother hissed, “I asked you not to talk about it in front of Andrea.”
“That’s why I said we should talk somewhere private,” Zoe answered, exasperated. “Listen, I had some thoughts last night. About the killings.”
“Honey, it’s perfectly natural to—”
“Mom, listen for a second.”
Her mother became silent. Zoe tried to organize her speech, the thoughts jumbled in her head. Everything had seemed so sharp during the night, but now it just felt like a hazy clutter of half-formed ideas.
“I think I know who the killer might be,” she said in a shaking voice.
Her mother’s eyes widened, but she said nothing.
“A few weeks ago, after Jackie . . . died, I went to Durant Pond.”
“What?” Her mother’s voice came out sharp, furious. “Why did you go there? Did you go with friends? I told you—”
“I went alone, Mom, on my bike. For just a few minutes.”
“Why? Do you want to die like . . . like . . .” Her mother’s lips quivered.
“Mom, listen. I saw Rod Glover there.”
And then she realized that to fully explain to her mother what she was talking about, she’d have to tell her about serial killers masturbating at the crime scene. No. There was no way.
“He was. I mean . . . did you know that serial killers sometimes return to the scene of the crime?” she asked helplessly.
“You think that Rod Glover is the killer?” Her mother stared at her. “Because you saw him at the pond? Zoe, hundreds of people—”
“There’s more,” Zoe hurriedly said. “There’s a checklist for psychopathy. I learned about it . . . in school. And Rod matches some of those traits.”
Her mom straightened. Zoe knew she was losing her. “Like what?”
“Like . . . superficial charm and . . .” She tried to remember the list, but her mind was fuzzy, and she felt panic rising. “He’s weird. I heard you say that to Dad once. You know that he’s weird, right? And he was at the pond. He was . . . he was . . . he told me about a fire, and I think he was lying and—”
“Who are you talking about?” Andrea asked from the kitchen’s doorway.
“No one,” her mother said quickly, her voice strained. “Did you finish your cereal?”
“Not all of it. Some of it is squishy.”
“Okay, go brush your teeth. We need to go.”
Andrea bounced to the bathroom, and their mother turned back to Zoe.
“Listen,” she said quietly. “I understand. Your friend’s sister died, and you’re hurt. We’ll find someone for you to talk to—”
“Mom. It’s not that. She wasn’t even really my friend.”
“But until then”—her mom raised her voice, ignoring the interruption—“I want you to rest, and don’t you dare go anywhere alone. There’s a killer out there, Zoe. Do you understand? He kills young girls like you, and he . . . he . . . rapes them first. I know you think that it can never happen to you, but it can. You can never go anywhere alone until they catch him. Do you get that?”
“But . . . will you tell anyone about Rod Glover?”
“Honey, Rod Glover is a nice man. He’s a bit strange, that’s true, but that doesn’t turn him into a monster.”
“The killer isn’t a monster, Mom. He’s a—”
“Yes, he is,” her mother whispered ferociously. “He’s a monster.”
The spare key to Mr. Glover’s front door turned in the lock smoothly. Her parents and Glover had exchanged keys a year before, in case of an emergency. At the time, it had seemed like a smart move. Glover could drop by and check if her mother left the stove on, a concern that had driven her to return home early on more than one occasion. But now the thought of Rod Glover having a key to her home gave her chills.