Down the Rabbit Hole

“It looks like that’s what she went there to do.”


“Yeah. What if she thought she was doing something else? It’s not Red Horse, it’s not Jess Barrow’s version of mind-control VR, but we’ve dealt with fatal delusions before. She was smiling,” Eve added. “That ‘I’m sorry, and I know you’ll forgive me’ smile. She wasn’t pissed or afraid, she wasn’t nervous. A woman who’s never committed a criminal act, who’s lived a responsible life, goes to her brother’s door intending to kill him and herself? I should be able to see some nerves. Or at the very least, resolve.”

“Not if someone put the whammy on her. I know what you’re going to say,” Peabody continued in a rush. “There is no whammy. But there sort of is, or could be, when you factor in the drugs.”

“Drugs are drugs, and not a whammy.”

“They assist the whammy, that’s what I’m saying. Make her more susceptible. Then?” Peabody lifted her hands, flicked her fingers out. “Whammy.”

Eve disliked the idea of the whammy, but had to acknowledge it fit. “And what form would this whammy take?”

“Maybe it’s like internal VR, or brainwashing. Brainwashing is a true thing. Documented.”

“I’ll give you brainwashing,” Eve said as she looked for a parking space on Charles and Louise’s pretty street. “Internal VR makes no sense. But some form of brainwashing paired with drugs. When Cerise Devane jumped off the Tattler Building a couple years ago, and I sat there on the ledge trying to talk her in, she was perfectly lucid. She knew who I was, who she was. But she was compelled to fly off that ledge—thought I’d enjoy going with her. So maybe that sort of mind-control paired with drugs, with brainwashing. Maybe a whole new fucked-up way to make people die.

“But why—that’s a key. What’s gained?”

“A lot of money’s at stake now.”

“Yeah, and greed’s a favorite for a reason.”

Eve looked down the street toward Louise’s home when they got out of the car.

The doctor and the former licensed companion were building a good life here, a happy, settled one. On the surface, it had looked the same for Darlene and Henry. Nice house, comfortable and settled.

As shattered now as Darlene’s bones.

“Sometimes people get off on fucking things up. Not much of a motive,” Eve said, considering. “But some people do.”

“Somebody who had a grudge against Darlene or Marcus or Henry Boyle,” Peabody speculated. “Or the Fitzwilliamses in general.”

“Possible,” Eve said as they walked. “The parents—straight accident. I checked it in and out, so their deaths aren’t connected—not in an overt way. But months later both of their children are dead, so . . .”

“A family member who wants more, taking advantage of Darlene’s vulnerability.”

“Yeah. You’ve got to look at it.” She went through the little gate, down the short walk through what had been a garden in the summer, and up to the front door of the dignified brownstone.

Louise answered. She wore leggings and a black sweater—and shadows under her eyes.

“Dallas, Peabody. You have news?”

“Not really, but some questions.”

“We’re in the back. Charles and I cleared our schedules for the next couple of days. We want to be here for Henry. Marcus’s uncle’s on his way here from Europe. The family has a pied-à-terre here, and there’s the estate on Long Island. Gareth and Bria’s New York home,” she explained. “It came to Marcus and Darlene. That was one of the things they were to talk about . . . God.” She rubbed her hands over her face. “Sorry, none of that matters. Come on back.”

“It all matters. Were they going to sell the Long Island house?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s been in the family five, maybe six generations.”

The kitchen and great room sprawled over the back of the house with views of the patio beyond through wide glass doors.

Henry pushed up from his chair, misery and hope warring on his face.