“This is the story,” I said, feeling bitterness as I looked at the records. I pointed to the newspaper article about Lawrence Gage. “Lily is the villain.” I pointed to the charity records. “But not Beth. He wants us to see Beth as the heroine, the one who selflessly saves orphans and single mothers. She’s the sweet one, not a killer like her sister.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. Ransom had told me he’d be loyal to Beth to the end.
Michael put the file down. “It’s late.”
I looked at the clock on my phone. It was nearly ten thirty. “I’m sorry,” I said, getting up and grabbing my coat, my cheeks burning. “I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
“Of course you haven’t,” Michael said, standing up. “I’m a night owl. I just don’t want you to miss the last bus.”
I zipped my coat, busily grabbed my bag, and started to put the papers in it.
“Because you’re going to take the bus, aren’t you?” Michael said into the silence. “You’re not going to take me up on my offer of a ride.”
“I know it’s weird,” I said. “I just . . .”
“I know.” He put his car coat back on.
“What are you doing?”
“Walking you to the bus stop.”
“You don’t have to.”
He looked amused. “You, of all people, are going to tell me that?”
It was cold out, the air full of the promise of oncoming winter, but for once it wasn’t raining. I zipped my collar all the way up as we walked.
There was no one else at the bus stop. The lights of the houses and apartment buildings glowed yellow in the night, a reminder that although this was a lonely spot, there were people nearby. I had no desire to live outside the city, in the unbroken darkness, where there was no one around. I needed the lights and noise of people, even if I wasn’t talking to them.
I turned to find Michael looking at me. How was he this handsome? Even his jawline was nice. Since when did I ogle men’s jawlines? That wasn’t like me.
Then again, maybe it was.
I didn’t think. For once, I didn’t drive myself crazy. I just leaned up, put my hands on his shoulders, and kissed him.
His lips were soft, his skin faintly rough with stubble. He kissed me back, not even hesitating, before he put his arms around my waist and pulled me closer. He deepened the kiss, running his hands up my back, and my body started to hum in a way I hadn’t felt in years, or maybe ever. Everything got warm, even in the damp cold of a fall night in Oregon. I was pressed up against him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then, as we heard the bus pull up, he broke the kiss and stroked his fingers gently through my hair.
“Be careful,” he said. “Be safe.”
I nodded, pulled reluctantly away, and got on the bus. My skin was prickling, and my lips were still warm. I sat down and stared ahead, my bag in my lap. I could still taste him.
Slowly I came back to myself. I watched Claire Lake out the window, the lights going by, and my phone pinged with a text.
It was from Beth Greer.
It was a photo. An old one, black and white, a picture of two teenage girls sitting on the sofa in the Greer mansion—the exact same sofa where Beth had sat every time I interviewed her. One of the girls was Beth, aged around thirteen. The other girl was Lily.
Both girls were wearing sweaters and wool skirts. There was a Christmas tree out of focus behind them. Beth was easily recognizable, even though this photo was from so long ago—her cheekbones, her lips, her large dark eyes. She was leaned in toward her sister, a smile on her face that was tentative and yet so hopeful it was a little heartbreaking. This was Beth when she still thought that things might work out somehow. Beth when she still had two living—if unhappy—parents. Beth who was in the middle of the much-looked-forward-to yearly visit from her sister, who was obediently posing for a Christmas photo taken—obviously—by Mariana.
Lily, two years older, was blond. She sat upright, her hands folded on her lap, her shoulders straight, her chin angled just so. She looked straight at the camera with eyes that were dark like Mariana’s. Her face was narrower than Beth’s, her lips thinner, but the girls were so clearly related—it was in the set of their bodies, their cheekbones, their identical hands. But Lily sat more confidently, and her smile only played at the corners of her mouth. It didn’t reach her eyes, which were curiously flat as she looked at the photographer—her mother.
Another text came after the photo. I thought you might like this, Beth wrote. It’s Christmas 1967.
Sweet and bitter, I thought, looking at Lily and remembering the article about Lawrence Gage, shot in the face in his own home. Remembering that Julian Greer was about to die the same way a few years later. I wanted to reach back through the doorway of this photo and—what? Stop Lily? Change everything? Save Julian’s and maybe Mariana’s lives?
I put my phone away. I didn’t answer Beth. I didn’t have to. She knew I’d seen the picture, and she’d probably guessed every thought that went through my head as I stared at it. She knew she had me as obsessed as ever.
Be careful, Michael had said. Be safe.
The sweet girl in that photo had stood by and done nothing after her father was killed, after her mother somehow died in the fallout, after two men were shot point-blank on their way home from work. She had known who the killer was, and she had done nothing about it. She had even gone to trial for capital murder to cover her sister’s crimes.
Why? I wondered. What was so compelling about Lily Knowles that would make Beth go to such lengths to protect her?
What if I found out Esther was a murderer? What would I do?
The right thing, of course. I’d do the right thing.
But I didn’t know what that was anymore. Maybe I had never known.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Excerpt from trial transcript, People v. Elizabeth Greer, February 1978
Prosecution examination of Dr. Oliver Da Sousa, psychiatrist
CHARLES MANKOWSKI (prosecuting attorney): Dr. Da Sousa, did you examine the defendant, Miss Greer?
OLIVER DA SOUSA: I did not.
MANKOWSKI: But you have given advice on other cases similar to this one?
DA SOUSA: Yes, I have worked extensively with the criminally insane, including women who are criminally insane.
MANKOWSKI: What were your conclusions when presented with the facts of this case?
DA SOUSA: In my opinion, these murders were committed by a woman who is mentally ill, possibly delusional, and has a pathological hatred of men.
RANSOM WELLS (defense attorney): Objection.
JUDGE HEIDNIK: Overruled. I’ll allow it for now. Dr. Da Sousa, please continue.
MANKOWSKI: Thank you, Your Honor. Dr. Da Sousa, you were saying that the murderer in this case is mentally ill.
DA SOUSA: Yes. It is my assessment that this person, this woman, has violent tendencies brought on by fantasies in her mind. She is dissociative, sociopathic, and possibly psychotic.
MANKOWSKI: How would such a person appear to the people around her? Would she appear as normal?
WELLS: Objection.
[Disruption in courtroom]
JUDGE HEIDNIK: Order.
WELLS: Objection.
[Disruption ceases]
JUDGE HEIDNIK: I will allow the question since it calls on the doctor’s expertise. Dr. Da Sousa, please continue again.
DA SOUSA: Okay. Thank you. Yes, such a person can appear as normal to the people in their lives. They can even appear to be successful and charming when they choose to. It’s a form of camouflage for them. But underneath the surface, this woman would be very angry, would feel out of control.
MANKOWSKI: Have you studied Miss Greer, and this case, even though you haven’t examined her directly?
DA SOUSA: Yes, I have.
MANKOWSKI: And what is your conclusion?
DA SOUSA: Given that both of her parents died violently, Miss Greer, or such a person like her, could be dissociative. Possibly even sociopathic. It could have started from an early age.
WELLS: Objection.
JUDGE HEIDNIK: Sustained. The jury is asked to disregard that question and answer.
MANKOWSKI: Okay, we’ll return to the woman who committed these murders. Dr. Da Sousa, you have said that it’s your professional opinion that this murderer, whoever she is, could appear normal?