The murders had become a big story; from what I gathered, Kennewick had been flooded with reporters, all trying to untangle the story of the glamorous young couple murdered within one week of each other. Brad Daggett had not been found, and he never would be. If they’d located the truck, that hadn’t made the news. He had killed both Ted and Miranda, and forensic evidence would prove it. And he would never be found to tell his story.
I thought about what my father had said to me the day before—how he wanted to get through the rest of his life without hurting anybody else. Maybe I could turn that into my goal, as well. It was how I had felt after killing Chet, and how I had felt after killing Eric, in London. It was how I felt now. I didn’t regret what I’d done in the past. Miranda and Eric had both hurt me. Chet had wanted to, and Brad—while he hadn’t hurt me directly—had murdered an innocent man. It had probably been a mistake to invite Ted Severson into my life. I’d taken enormous risks in the past few weeks, and I was lucky to have gotten away with them. But now I was done. It was over. I would live a quiet life and make sure that no one could hurt me again. I would continue to survive, knowing, as I’d known that night in the meadow, the stars pouring their light down on me, that I was special, that I was born with a different kind of morality. The morality of an animal—of a crow or a fox or an owl—and not of a normal human being.
I got off Route 2 and drove through Winslow center toward my house. There was an Oktoberfest happening on the town green, a polka band playing and a beer tent set up. I rolled down my window. The air smelled of apple cider. I considered stopping but decided I’d rather get home. I drove the two miles toward my house. As I approached my house, I could see a long white car in my driveway, easy to spot through the now-leafless trees. A jolt of fear went through me, and I almost drove past, but I turned into the driveway, telling myself that all would be fine.
Leaning up against the car was the detective who had come to ask me questions earlier in the week. Henry Kimball from the Boston Police Department. When he saw me, he dropped the cigarette he was smoking and put it out under his shoe. I parked and got out of the car. He came toward me, an unreadable smile on his face.
CHAPTER 31
KIMBALL
After lunch on Sunday I drove out to Winslow again to talk with Lily Kintner. She wasn’t home but it was a crisp fall day, not too cold, and I decided to wait. I figured she was probably out to brunch and would be back soon. I leaned up against my car so that I had a view of the pond beyond her cottage, and I carefully rolled a cigarette, one of my allotted two of the day.
Brad Daggett had not been found. The only solid lead was that a garage in Kennewick had reported that one of the cars it was working on had had its license plate swapped. Mike Comeau, the mechanic, noticed only because the new plate was so much cleaner than the rest of the vehicle. It turned out to be the plate from Daggett’s truck. So Brad Daggett had been smart enough to switch plates before taking off from Maine. An APB was issued for the new plate number, but there hadn’t been any hits yet. I was starting to doubt that there would be.
I lit my cigarette, tilted my head back, and let the sun hit my face. Overhead, a flock of geese toiled by. Just as I was finishing my cigarette, Lily turned her Honda Accord into the driveway. I tried to read her face through the windshield, but she seemed to be looking at me with nothing more than mild curiosity. After she parked and got out of the car I walked up to her, reintroduced myself.
“I remember you,” she said. “It was only a few days ago.”
She had an overnight bag with her, dark blue with gray polka dots, and I asked her if she’d been away.
“Down with my parents, in Connecticut. My father just came back from London.”
“Oh, to live here?”
“That’s the plan right now. What can I do for you, Detective? I heard about Miranda. It’s shocking.”
“I have a few more questions. I was hoping we could . . . we could sit and talk, again.”
“That’s fine. Just give me a moment to get settled. We could sit on the back deck, if you like? It’s not that cold.”
I followed her into her cottage, through the living room, and out through a door in her kitchen to a small back deck that was plastered with leaves. “Let me get you a rag, and you can wipe off the chairs,” she said.
I did as I was told, clearing two of the wooden deck chairs of the bright yellow fan-shaped leaves from a ginkgo tree. I took a seat and after about five minutes Lily returned. She was still wearing jeans, but she’d taken her coat off and was now wearing a white V-neck sweater that looked like cashmere. Her hair was down, and her face looked freshly washed and free of makeup. “What can I do for you?”
I’d decided earlier that I would come straight to the point, so I said, “I want to know why you lied to me.”
She didn’t look surprised, but she slowly blinked her pale eyelids. “About what exactly?”