If anything, he seemed even less interested. “How do you know?”
She laid it out carefully. She didn’t want him to think she was just some airhead teen who saw her neighbor doing something weird and decided he must be a serial killer. She explained how she had researched the subject carefully. She detailed the ways that she had figured out how Glover matched the psychopath traits. She told him about Durant Pond and then quoted the interview of “Son of Sam,” where he explained why he used to return to the scene of the crime. By that point, the officer seemed a bit disgusted—but interested, which was encouraging. She went on to explain how she’d poked around in Glover’s home. She stressed that she had the key, so essentially she hadn’t really broken into the house. She was pretty sure that wasn’t how it worked, but it felt like something that would cast her in a better light. She told him about the porn. The underwear. The shoebox.
“Uh-huh,” he said when she was done.
She blinked. She knew it was her word against Glover’s. She hadn’t taken anything from his home, but she assumed it was enough to capture the police’s interest. All they needed was to search Glover’s house.
“He might know I’ve been in his house,” she said. “So he could decide to get rid of the evidence.”
Officer Shepherd sighed deeply. “You shouldn’t go poking around in other people’s homes,” he said.
She was ready for this. “These were special circumstances,” she said. “I had good reasons to think he’s the killer.”
“Yes,” Officer Shepherd said. “You saw him in Durant Pond, where many people go every day, and then he told you about an office fire, which you think was a lie, but you can’t be sure. And, of course, you’ve read all those books, and so you got excited.”
Zoe’s face heated up. “There was no one in Durant Pond except me and him, and he was acting weird . . . but okay, never mind. His room—”
“Has porn and ladies’ underwear,” Shepherd said.
“The underwear had mud on it.”
“I can think of other brown substances that might soil a pair of underwear.”
Tears threatened. No. Not now. He’d never take her seriously if she began crying now. “His socks—”
“Were wet, yes. He definitely sounds like a slob. Listen, Zoe, I get that you’re afraid. The entire town is afraid. But if you let us do our job—”
“I want you to do your job,” she yelled, her voice breaking. She was coming apart. The tears sprang from her eyes, her voice becoming wobbly. “Just check him out! I’m telling you, he’s the guy. Maybe I’m wrong, but shouldn’t you at least check it out?”
He looked at her thoughtfully, as if considering what she’d told him. “Did you say Glover?” he finally asked.
“Yeah.” She wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
“Hang on,” he said and stood up, groaning. He went over to a file cabinet, opened the top drawer, and thumbed through it a bit, then finally pulled out a sheaf of papers. He looked through the pages, one after the other, and then back at her.
“Rod Glover?”
“That’s right.”
“Yeah. He’s definitely not the guy.”
Her heart sank. “How do you know?”
“Because he had seventy-eight people who were with him at the time that poor Clara was murdered. I was with them too.”
“Seventy-eight people?” Zoe had no idea what he was talking about.
“There was a search party when Clara disappeared, kid. Rod Glover is on the list. The time of the search corresponds with the time of death. That means he has an alibi.” He spoke very slowly, as if making sure she understood what he meant. “I’m telling you this so you don’t keep telling people your neighbor is a serial killer. We don’t need that kind of thing right now, okay?”
“M . . . maybe he just told you he was joining the search party and then—”
“Listen, honey, leave the policing to the grown-ups, okay?”
Her face flushed, her mouth twisting in humiliation. She felt like dying.
“You’re Clive Bentley’s kid, right?” Shepherd said.
“Y . . . yeah.”
“I think it’s time I take you home.”
The five-minute ride in the police car was the worst ride Zoe had ever had. She kept feeling like she had to throw up but quickly realized she couldn’t open the window or the door in the back of the squad car. She trembled and sobbed, hugging herself. She was cold, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask Officer Shepherd to turn up the heat. Everything felt wrong. Had she been wrong to blame Glover? She had been so absolutely certain when she’d walked into the police station, but hearing Shepherd state the facts so dryly had pulled the rug out from under her feet. A series of theories and facts that fit so perfectly in her mind but made such an incomplete puzzle.
Maybe Glover told her tall tales, but she used to think it was ridiculous or funny or both. When had it become so sinister? Why had she been so quick to staple the word psychopath to him? So he had a shoebox with some feminine underwear and a bracelet. Maybe it was something he kept from an ex-girlfriend, something to remember her by. And porn? A lot of people had porn in their homes. Wasn’t it an incredibly prosperous industry?
Was she simply obsessing about those murders so much that she had to blame someone? Was she the freak?
At other moments, she thought of the way Glover had looked at her just after she’d left his house. Or how weird the porn in his room seemed. Or of the other pair of underwear, the one that had mud on it. And she had a feeling that maybe she was right. Glover had somehow tricked the police into thinking he had an alibi and then killed Clara. It couldn’t have been that complicated to sneak away during the search, kill her and dump the body, and come back.
Finally, Shepherd parked the car. Zoe’s hopes that maybe he would just drop her off were shattered as she saw her father opening the door to their home. He crossed his arms and looked severely at the car. Shepherd had probably let him know they were coming. He had called him back from work.
The portly officer got out of the car and opened the back door. She got out, feeling the tears rise up again as the fear and humiliation hit her. Their neighbor Mrs. Ambrose peeked outside her bedroom window. By that time tomorrow, the whole town would know Zoe Bentley had been brought home in a police car.
She walked slowly to the doorway, preferring the biting cold outside to whatever waited for her inside.
“Zoe,” her father said as she got to the door. “Wait for me in your room.” His tone was furious; the words practically shook as he spoke them. She couldn’t recall him ever being so angry at her.
She walked to her room slowly, pushing the door open, closing it behind her, throwing herself on the bed.
She cried into her pillow, letting go of everything she had managed to hold inside. It suddenly all seemed so dumb. Zoe Bentley, playing Nancy Drew games. Stupid, stupid.
Finally, she seemed to run out of tears. Her father still hadn’t come for her, and she decided to look for him. Waiting was worse than the actual lecture and inevitable grounding that would follow.
She opened the door and heard Shepherd’s voice. He still hadn’t left. He and her father were talking in the kitchen. Walking softly, she approached the kitchen and listened.
“And her mother is sedated because she tried to kill herself,” her dad was saying.
“I heard,” Shepherd said. “I’m glad you two are helping them out.”
“You know, Zoe used to be a good friend of Nora’s, her sister.”
“I didn’t know that. It explains her behavior.”
“Yeah, I’m really sorry.”
“There’s really no need to apologize so much, Clive. This is the third time this week we’ve gotten a bogus report for suspicious activity. People are on edge. Your daughter is just scared. Everyone is.”
“Yeah.”
“I hope it’ll all be over soon.”
“Why?” Her father sounded suddenly alert. “Do you have a suspect?”
“I can’t really talk about it.”