“She wants to know who killed her friends,” D.D. said.
“Then maybe the killer has it even easier this time around. She doesn’t have to ‘pretend’ to be anything at all. She can just be herself. Because she is who Charlene wants more than anything in the world. She holds all the answers to Randi and Jackie’s last minutes. And if you’re someone who has lost people you love to crime…it’s very hard to say no to that. Even if you know better, the desire, the need to know what happened to your loved ones…That’s a very powerful tool. I wouldn’t blame Charlie for not walking away.”
“Who’d you lose?” D.D. asked softly.
“My mother and sister.”
“And if the murderer called you up tomorrow?”
“He’d have to be dialing from one eight hundred rent a psychic,” Kimberly said flatly.
“And now your seven-year-old can plug three to center mass.”
“Yep.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Charlene’s preparations are physical,” Kimberly stated curtly. “Her killer’s MO, however, is psychological. Intimate. Up close. Personal. What good is running a six-minute mile going to do her, when she’s the one willingly opening the door? Charlene doesn’t need to be tough. She needs to think tough. That’ll get her through the twenty-first.”
“I want to stir the pot,” D.D. announced.
“How so?”
“Facebook, social media. I’m working with another detective who’s something of an expert. We’re thinking of putting together a fake Facebook page, with posts commemorating the deaths of both Randi and Jackie. See who responds.”
Kimberly seemed to consider the matter. “What about leaking info?”
“You mean crime scene details?”
“I mean fake crime scene details, maybe a criminology report. Something unflattering. No, I take that back. Something…messy. Our killer likes to be in control, yes? Neat, tidy, thorough. What if you reveal something about the Knowles scene the killer missed. Something that’s now a possible lead in the investigation. Get the killer feeling defensive, second-guessing him-or herself.”
“Get inside his or her head,” D.D. murmured.
“Turnabout is fair play.”
“Got an idea for a detail?”
Kimberly hesitated. “I’d ask my father. He knows both scenes, he was a profiler. Messing with criminal minds. Hell, he’ll love this. Give him a call.”
“Thank you.”
“Not a problem. Keep me posted. Especially on the twenty-first.”
“Will do. Good luck with your growing girls.”
“Good luck with your baby boy.”
Both women sighed, hung up their phones.
Chapter 15
I WAS LATE FOR MY GRAVEYARD SHIFT. First time ever. Couldn’t help myself.
I’d had to race all the way to the T stop. Then wait for the train to return me to Cambridge. Then run another seven minutes, snotty-nosed and watery-eyed, all the way back to my one-bedroom rental. Mrs. Beals wasn’t home, but Tulip was sitting on the front porch.
I didn’t even stop to think about it. I scooped up the warm, solidly packed body of the dog that was not my dog and buried my face into the sleek folds of her neck. Tulip leaned her head against my shoulder. I could feel her sigh, as if releasing a great strain herself. So we stood like that, my arms cradling her body, her head on my shoulder.
Maybe I cried a little more. Maybe she licked the tears from my cheeks. Maybe I told her I loved her. And maybe she thumped her tail to let me know that she loved me, too.
I carried Tulip to my bedroom. Didn’t care anymore if Frances discovered and kicked me out. So little time left. What did it matter anymore? So little time left.
Stan Miller. Metal rods, protruding through his massive frame. The blood, dripping down the corners of his mouth. Sightless eyes, forever staring at me.