“None of those searches were legal,” Trina said. “None of them.”
“My father killed those women.” Dean paused. “But you know that, don’t you?”
“Your father is a brilliant man,” Trina said. “Every brilliant man needs outlets. He can’t be expected to live as other men can. You know that.”
The familiarity with which Trina spoke sickened me. She thought she knew Dean. She thought he knew her.
But did she kill Emerson Cole? Did she kill the professor? That was why we had come here. That was what we needed to know.
“It must be hard for a man like Daniel,” I said. Dean’s hand found mine. He squeezed in warning, but I already had Trina’s attention. “To be caged, like an animal, like he’s less when really—”
“He’s more,” Trina finished.
“That’s enough,” Christopher said, crossing the room. “You need to go.” He reached for my elbow and wrenched me off the couch. I stumbled, trying to catch a look at Christopher’s eyes, to know what he was thinking, whether he’d meant to grab me so hard—
One second Dean was next to me, and the next he had Christopher pinned to the wall, his forearm pressed against Trina’s son’s throat. The contrast in their skin tones was striking—Dean’s tan and Christopher’s pale.
“Christopher!” Trina said. “This young lady is our guest.” Her chest heaved with agitation. No, not agitation, I realized. Seeing the look in Dean’s eye, the way he’d moved, she was excited.
Michael walked over to Dean and hauled him off his prey. Dean fought Michael’s hold for a second, then went still. Michael let him go and patted the front of Christopher’s shirt, like he was dusting off the lapels of a suit jacket, even though Christopher was dressed in a worn and battered tee.
“Touch her again,” Michael told Christopher conversationally, “and Dean will be the one trying to pull me off of you.”
Michael told me once that when he lost it, he really lost it. I could hear it beneath his pleasant tone—if Christopher laid another hand on me, Dean might not be able to pull Michael off.
Christopher’s hands knotted themselves into fists. “You shouldn’t have come here. This is sick. You’re all sick.” The fists stayed by his sides, and a moment later, he stomped out of the living room and out of the house. The front door slammed.
“I’m afraid Christopher doesn’t quite understand my relationship with your father,” Trina confided to Dean. “He was only nine when his own father left, and well…” Trina sighed. “A single mother does what she can.”
Dean came back to sit beside me. Michael stayed standing, and I realized he was watching Trina from an angle that decreased the chances that she would notice his attention.
“How long have you and Daniel been together?” I asked. You aren’t together, I thought. He’s using you. For what, I wasn’t sure.
“We’ve been seeing each other for about three years,” Trina replied. She seemed pleased to be asked—which was, of course, why I’d chosen that question. If she believed that we were on board with the relationship, it would feed into the happy little picture she’d painted in her mind. Dean was visiting. This wasn’t an interrogation. It was a conversation.
“Do you think this new case will affect his chances of an appeal?” I asked.
Trina frowned. “What new case?” she asked.
I didn’t reply. Trina looked from me to Dean.
“What’s she talking about, Dean?” she asked. “You know what a crucial time this is in your father’s legal situation.”
His legal situation is that he’s a convicted serial killer, I thought. Based on my interactions with Briggs and Sterling—and Dean himself—I was almost certain this appeal was as fictional as Trina’s misguided belief that if the older Redding was released, Daniel and Dean would move in here.
“That’s why I’m here,” Dean said, casting me a sideways glance as he followed my lead. “That girl who was killed at Colonial? And then the professor who was writing the book?”
“The FBI tried to talk to me about that.” Trina sniffed. “They know I’m your father’s support. They think they can turn me against him.”
“But they can’t,” I said soothingly. “Because what you have is real.” I swallowed back the guilt I felt, playing on this woman’s delusions. I forced myself to remember that she knew Daniel Redding for what he was: a killer. She just didn’t care.