Archie stood inside his front door. He’d spent the rest of his Sunday morning at the office filling out reports. Castle wasn’t his case, but he’d been on the scene, and that meant paperwork. Henry had finally insisted on driving him home.
He could hear Buddy Holly blasting through the house. The air was heavy with the smell of a freshly baked cake, and he heard his son giggling in the kitchen. A lifetime ago, that sound would have made him smile; now it only made him stop, his hand wrapped tight around the pillbox in his pocket.
Two and a half years ago he had stood outside of Gretchen Lowell’s house. He often thought about that night, reimagining the sequence of events, telling himself to turn around, to walk away, to get back in his car and drive straight home to his family. If he hadn’t gone inside that night, everything would be different.
But he had gone inside. And Gretchen had been waiting.
He stood just inside the door for another minute and then finally called: “I’m home.”
Debbie’s voice called back: “We’re in the kitchen.”
Archie took his briefcase into his office, still stalling. He didn’t like to leave it out where the kids might get into it. No one should have to look at photographs like the ones he had to look at. His office was one of the extra bedrooms on the far end of the hall. A square, carpeted room with a desk, a fake Eames chair, and a sofa that folded out for the overflow visitors who never seemed to come. On the surface, the office looked innocuous enough. Shelves of forensic pathology books and crime references, a few commendations framed on the wall, a computer, three file cabinets teeming with reports and notes. There was a large closet with an accordion-style birch door. Inside on the back wall was a collage of photographs of every Beauty Killer victim that Archie had closed. Sometimes he would open the door, turn on the closet light, and just sit and look at them. Forty-two faces. Men. Women. Children. He knew every detail of each photograph. They were burned into his consciousness.
He sat down at his desk and unclipped his holster from his waistband, pulled his weapon out, and emptied the bullets into his hand. They were never as heavy as he thought they should be. He unlocked his desk drawer with a key from his key ring, and set the bullets in a cubby. Then he unlocked another drawer, laid the gun and holster in it, and locked it. This was their agreement when Ben was born. No loaded guns in the house. Even Henry had to lock his gun up when he came for dinner.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a small face in the doorway. When he looked, it was gone.
“Sara?” he said.
She poked her head around again. “They’re making me a cake for my birthday. I’m not supposed to look.” She grinned and clapped her hands together. “For tomorrow,” she said. She spun around in a little circle, danced in place for a moment, and then ran over to Archie, her dark braids swinging. Sara ran everywhere. She set a chubby hand on Archie’s. “Did you have fun today?” she asked.
Archie hesitated, trying not to let his face betray his mental state. “I was at work. Work isn’t always fun.”
She gazed up at him, eyes bright, cheeks glowing. “When I’m seven, will I get to meet her?”
“Who?” Archie asked.
“Gretchen Lowell.”
It took the breath out of him. Like a fist to the chest. His hand went up to the scar reflexively, like you might cover an old injury in the path of a blow. He could barely speak. “Where did you hear that name, sweetie?” he asked finally.
Sara, sensing his uneasiness, took a tiny step back. “Jacob Firebaugh gave Ben a book about you.”
Archie’s heart pounded in his chest. “What book?” He knew what book. The Last Victim. It was a trashy tale of Gretchen’s escapades and Archie’s suffering at her hands. He knew that they’d see it eventually. But he thought he had time.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Did it have a picture of a woman on the cover?” he asked.
She smiled up at him, two rows of tiny teeth. “I want to meet her. I like her.”
It was the saddest thing Archie thought he’d ever heard anyone say in his whole life. “Don’t say that,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You like her, too, don’t you, Daddy?” Sara said. “You used to go and see her all the time. Ben heard Mom and Henry talking.”
Archie ran a hand over his face and worked to keep breathing. “Do you know where Ben keeps the book?”
She looked back toward the hall and then whispered: “He hides it.”
He sat still for a moment, gathering himself. Then he wrapped a hand behind her head and kissed her on the forehead. “Okay,” he said. He held out his hand and she took it, wrapping her fingers around his index finger. “Let’s go.”
He led her out into the hall, toward the kitchen.
She stopped, her face concerned. “I can’t go in there, Daddy. My surprise.”
Archie glanced up at the kitchen. The music. The cake. “Of course,” he said. “Go to your room, okay?”