“Good night, Agent Gray.” She hung up.
Surprised by the abrupt end to their conversation, Tatum put the phone back in his pocket. Then he looked at the sad face he had drawn and, after a moment of thought, added a pair of glasses and three hairs.
CHAPTER 6
Chicago, Illinois, Sunday, July 17, 2016
It wasn’t working out. He’d hoped she would be the one, but he could already feel the magic fading, the boredom taking hold. When he woke up next to her, he no longer felt the thrill of lust and excitement. All he could feel was disappointment.
Part of it, he knew, was the embalming fluid.
He hadn’t gotten it right. Her body was too rigid, the color of her skin imperfect. He should, perhaps, have added more dye to compensate for the saline solution. But he didn’t know how much, and the online material he’d found about it was hazy in the details.
Two nights ago, frustrated, he’d slapped her, and she had fallen off the chair, slumping to the floor, her body still bent in a sitting position. Furious, he’d left the house, slamming the door behind him, driving around the city, knowing that if an opportunity were to present itself, he would kill. But all the women he’d seen were in pairs or groups, and when he had approached a whore on the street, she’d said she was done for the day, her eyes betraying fear. What had she seen in his face that made her so scared? Horrified, he had hurried back to his car and examined his face in the mirror, but it looked the same as always. He had driven home and relieved himself in the bathroom.
The next one would be better. He would figure out a way to make her more lifelike. Perhaps glass eyes would help. He should look into that.
But first he had to break up with this one.
He lifted her from the floor, placing her back in the chair. She stared at the table, no doubt feeling the tension in their relationship.
He put his hand on her arm, caressing it gently.
“We’ve had some good times, haven’t we?” He smiled at her.
He let the silence between them linger. How should she react? He tried to think of all he knew, the movies he had seen, the books he had read.
She would cry.
He took her left arm and bent it at the elbow. He wanted to get it just right, and it was tricky, but finally he managed to place her palm on her face. Taking her right arm, he did the same so that it looked as if she had buried her face in her hands while sobbing.
She was beautiful. He almost changed his mind then and there, almost told her that maybe they should give it another chance, but he knew it would only hurt them both, eventually. It was best to remain silent.
He poured them both a glass of wine, for old times’ sake. She didn’t touch hers, so he drank that as well. Then he helped her stand up and dragged her to the car. He placed her in the passenger’s seat, her face still in her hands, still crying.
It was difficult for them both.
He sat by her side for a moment, trying to think where she would go to mourn their relationship.
He had the perfect place.
CHAPTER 7
Maynard, Massachusetts, Saturday, September 27, 1997
Zoe’s parents were talking with each other, their voices low, almost inaudible. Her mother’s voice could usually be heard for miles, so it was easy to notice when she spoke in a hushed tone. As soon as Zoe realized this wasn’t a conversation she was supposed to hear, she froze, intent on catching every syllable. She stood in the hallway, out of sight. The light from the kitchen spilled onto the hallway floor. A shadow moved across it—her father, perhaps, always pacing when he was agitated.
“Do they have any suspects?” her mother asked.
“Arl told me that the police chief said they did,” her father answered. He was also speaking quietly, but Zoe’s father always had a soft tone, so he didn’t have to try very hard. “But he wouldn’t say who, of course.”
“Her poor mother,” Zoe’s mom said, her voice breaking. “Can you imagine? Hearing that . . .”
“I try not to.”
“Was she . . . I mean, did he . . . rape her?”
Zoe had never heard her mother utter that word, and the sound of it, from her mother’s lips, chilled her. Her father didn’t answer. Was he just thinking? Was he nodding? Shaking his head? She had to know. She crept toward the doorway, catching a glimpse of her parents’ faces. They were both standing close to each other, her mother leaning on the counter. She could only see her mother’s profile but nevertheless could see that she was distraught, her mouth curved in a way that hinted at a hidden sob.
“We’ll need to talk to Zoe,” her father said. “She should know—”
“Absolutely not,” her mother hissed. “She’s only fourteen.”
“She’ll find out, and it’s better if she learns about it from us.”
Her mother was about to answer when Zoe’s sister zinged past her into the kitchen, a blur of flailing limbs, a mass of hair and noise.
“Are we making pancakes?” she shouted. Even at the age of five, Andrea took after their mother, having only two volume settings: shouting and asleep.
Her mother cleared her throat. “Is your sister awake?”
Zoe tensed.
“Yeah, she’s standing in the—”
“Good morning,” Zoe said, quickly walking into the kitchen herself. The kitchen’s tiled floor was cold, and her bare feet nearly froze. Her mother leaned on the counter, and her father stood in the middle of the room beside the table. There was a disconcerting lack of breakfast on it. Zoe’s mother always had breakfast ready when they woke up on weekends, but apparently this wasn’t any regular weekend. Zoe stretched and gave a wide, completely fake yawn. “Want me to help with breakfast?”
“I want you to get dressed,” her mother said, looking at her over her crooked nose. Zoe had her mother’s nose, or as she called it in her darker moments, the beak. At least she had her father’s eyes. Her mother sniffed and added, “You’ll freeze to death.”
Zoe was still wearing the loose T-shirt and thin pants she had worn to bed. “Okay,” she said. She had been on her way to the bathroom when she’d heard her parents talking. Her bladder was a second away from bursting, and the cold floor wasn’t helping. She fidgeted uncomfortably. “Anything going on?”
“No,” her mother said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Just getting the Saturday breakfast going. Your sister wants pancakes. Do you want some as well?”
“Sure,” Zoe said. “I’m going over to Heather’s later, and—”
“You’re staying home,” her mother interrupted her.
Zoe frowned. “But we need to work on our chemistry assignment. It’s due on Monday.”
“I’ll drive you,” her father said.
“I prefer taking my bike. It’s a nice day, and—”
“I’ll drive you.” His eyes focused on her intently, and there was no arguing with his tone. “And I want you to call when you need to come home. I’ll pick you up.”
“Mommy, I want pancakes,” Andrea whined.
“What’s going on?” Zoe asked.
Her parents were both silent.
Her father finally said, “There was—”
“Nothing is going on,” her mother interrupted him, looking down at Andrea, who still whined for pancakes. “We just don’t want you to walk around by yourself.”
“They found a dead body,” Heather told her once they were in the privacy of her bedroom. “By the White Pond Road Bridge.”
“How do you know that?” Zoe asked.
“I heard my dad and the neighbor talking about it this morning. The neighbor said it was a girl and that she was naked.”
A shiver ran up Zoe’s neck. They were both lying on Heather’s bed, the sheets scrunched around them, Heather’s clothes scattered everywhere. Her room always looked as if a tornado had hit her closet. Heather nibbled on a sliced apple her mother had cut for them. Their chemistry project lay untouched on the desk, as it would probably stay for the rest of the day.