Ben’s eyes shifted between Ro and his mother. He said, “Hi.”
There was an electric stare between them. His hair—unruly at times—was a nest of interlocking waves and curls. She thought he looked as though he just rolled out of bed, except the eyes were on hyperalert. Sometimes the color morphed from gold to muddy green, especially when he was angry. Ben’s complexion darkened and Ro knew she was blushing because she was hot. The mom was still appraising them, her eyes moving back and forth between their faces.
Haley called out, “Mom?”
The sound broke the trance. The mom said, “I’d better see what she wants.”
As soon as she left, Ro butted her way inside, past Ben, before he could stop her. She had a wide smile on her face. “What are you doing so secretly, Vicks? Watching porn—”
Her mouth dropped open and her eyes became saucers. She put her hand to her lips as she looked around the room in astonished silence.
It seemed like every square inch was covered in paper: on the bed, on his desk, on the floor, on top of his dressers. Stacks and stacks of files, dossiers, folders, reports—some of them printed text, but there were others with pictures . . . revolting pictures.
Murder cases—at least fifty of them. Glancing at the pages Ro saw young girls who had been slaughtered, shot, sliced, burned, trussed, and tortured. The first picture that caught her eye was of a blonde who appeared to have been scalped. All of them were graphic . . . explicit in their violence. Up close and personal.
She looked down, then looked around again—like witnessing an accident, she couldn’t stop staring. Along with the pictures were horrendous words—“rape,” “sodomy,” “sexual mutilation.” It took all her strength not to upchuck her breakfast.
She knew she was breathing rapidly. Her head felt light.
Focus.
Her eyes found the sole exception to this house of horrors. There was a corkboard above Ben’s desk and on it was a collage of photographs of the same girl: gold eyes, dark hair, olive complexion, and a sunny smile. Her stare engaged from any point in the room, and maybe that was the point. The happy pictures were in stark contrast to everything else. The living and the dead . . . or maybe it was the dead and the dead. Whatever it was, it made her nauseated.
It was a gorgeous day outside—low sixties, crystalline air, and the bluest of skies that can only be seen in mountainous regions. And this was how Vicks chose to spend his Sunday.
He said, “Let me get rid of—”
“Don’t.”
Ben said, “At least let me shut down my computer.”
Ro’s hand was atop his. “Don’t do that either.” She took the mouse and scrolled down. More cases and more gruesome pictures. A moment later she heard a loud click. Her head spun around. Vicks had locked the door behind them.
“I don’t want my mom coming in. It would upset her.”
“Y’think?” She gawked at him and he looked away.
He said, “If you feel uncomfortable being alone with—”
“Stop it. I’m fine being alone with you, okay?”
“Surprising . . . seeing as you haven’t talked to me for the last two weeks.”
“I talk to you all the time.” But her defense sounded lame to her ears. She had been avoiding him, but not for the reasons he thought. She had wanted to talk to him, but she wanted him all to herself. She didn’t want Shannon or Chelsea seeing them together, asking questions. She especially didn’t want JD to be around. He was always quizzing her specifically about Vicks.
Why do you talk to him? he would ask.
Why not?
’Cause it’s weird. He’s weird. He’s not interested in you, he’s not interested in the world. He’s on his own planet. Let him be.
His own planet. That was an understatement. Ro said, “It’s true. I was avoiding you. I get tired of people staring when we talk.”
“I do have a phone and you do have my phone number.”
She nodded. She looked again at the corkboard. “Ellen?”
“Yes.”
Looking at his dead sister made her eyes get wet. But the entire room was so filled with disgusting images it was hard to tell where the tears were coming from. She knew that some of Ben’s obsession had to do with survivor’s guilt, but this went so far beyond. She picked a file and read another case—fourteen-year-old girl strangled, burned to a crisp with gasoline, and then dumped in a rural road.
“I’m not saying this to criticize you or pass judgment. That’s the truth.” She turned to him. “But why are you doing this to yourself?”
“Keeps me busy.” His voice was a hush. “I don’t have a plethora of friends.”
“No, that’s not it.” She managed to meet his eyes. “You don’t have friends because you choose to sequester yourself and concentrate on your sister’s murder. So I repeat. Why are you doing this to yourself?”
“I dunno . . . really.”
“Yes, you do. You do know. Why?”
He exhaled forcefully. “Okay. I’ll tell you. But you’ve got to listen.”
“Okay. I’m listening.”
“Suppose . . . suppose you could find a cure for osteogenic sarcoma. It would be too late to save your sis—to save Gretchen—but you could prevent other teens from suffering what she went through. Wouldn’t you give it your all? Wouldn’t you work every single neuron of your brain to stop this disease from ever killing again?”
“Of course.” She nodded. “I understand what you’re saying, Vicks, but I’m not a doctor. And even if I were a doctor, I’d never be smart enough or lucky enough—or both—to cure my sister’s disease. And even if I turned out to be a brilliant doctor, I couldn’t do anything about it now, right?”
“Of course.”
“The difference between your case and my case . . . is really the difference between you and me. I know I’m helpless. But you . . . you believe that you can do this better than the professionals.”
He didn’t answer.
“Am I right about this, Ben?”
He said, “I understand what you’re saying and maybe there is a bit of truth in that. The real story is the professionals here are overworked and underpaid. Detective Shanks is a good guy. He’s worked the case for over two years and he really, really wants to solve this. A suspect would be a good start. His heart is in the right place. And I’ve been doing nothing but pestering him since my sister went missing. But he’s not getting anywhere. This newest arrest—Billy Ray Barnes—was sort of his last hope. I saw it, Ro. I saw the wind knocked out of his sails . . . the boat capsized, actually. He doesn’t have it in him anymore. Someone has to fight for Ellen.”
“Who’s Billy Ray Barnes?”
“A serial killer. The Albuquerque Demon.”
“The guy they arrested several months ago.”
“Yes. He’s responsible for at least four murders in the Albuquerque and southern New Mexico regions. Shanks was hoping that he was responsible for Ellen. We were all hoping he was the one, although I knew he wasn’t. I was right. None of the biological evidence matched.”