“You know what, Vicks? I’m happy.”
“I’m happy too.” He stopped at the door, turned around, and took a step toward her, holding her face in his hands, concentrating on her eyes, the black dilated pupils surrounded by pure blue. Within moments, they moistened, water overflowing onto her cheeks. He took his thumbs and swept them along her lower lids. “Seems like I’ve been waiting a lifetime to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Wipe away your tears.”
He broke away and opened the door. Haley and Lilly looked up with apprehension. Lilly held out a plate. “Cookies?”
“Sure.” He swiped two. “I’m starving.”
Ro hung up her cell. “I’m about to pick up Griff and Ezra. How about we all go out to an early dinner? I haven’t eaten all day. I’m famished. It’ll mean you’ll have to squish in the backseat, but something tells me that’s okay.”
“It’s four thirty,” Haley said. “What’s even open?”
“Pantry.” Ben took another cookie. “I could use a burger. I’ll drive.” He put on a jacket and opened the front door. The storm had picked up again. Rain was coming down in torrents. “Wait here, guys. Let me warm up the car. It’s freezing outside.”
Haley touched her brother’s arm. She whispered. “Everything okay?”
Ben grinned as he pointed outside. “As right as rain.”
Sometimes there is a happily ever after.
They darted outside, headed toward a white Explorer: a boy and the three girls, each female looking yummier than the last.
Not that he planned on doing anything. Those days were over. He’d done it and no one was the wiser and he knew he had to stop before someone put the pieces together.
He was only in New Mexico for a short time. He didn’t even have to be here. He chose to be here. He chose to come and to drive out of the way just to stare, just to imagine, just to wish he had the opportunity— No, no, no. No more opportunity, no more, no more, no more.
Take a deep breath and settle down.
There were other things in life.
Maybe.
Settle down, settle down, settle down.
Deep breath. Deep, deep breath.
Minutes passed.
Okay, he convinced himself, no more.
This was just a whim, a passing fancy.
To come here and relive.
And relive and relive and relive and relive and relive . . .
Snowstorm
Prologue
The thought kept pulsating through his brain—an arterial beat with synapses jumping one after the other and the other and the other until he wanted to scream.
One more time, one more time, one more time, one more time.
He had sworn that if he did manage to complete a cycle without detection, he would stop. He wanted to stop. Truly and sincerely, he wanted to quit. He had an astronomically high IQ. Men like him didn’t self-destruct. Internal immolation was for the mentally ill, those with flawed frontal lobes who couldn’t contain their impulses. He was no psychopath. He had fear. He had a conscience. He had empathy and sympathy and all those things that were necessary to live in a social world.
Except, once in a while, things got to him.
Hence the repetitive thought.
He didn’t fear the obsession. As long as he kept it inside his brain, he was fine. But from past experience, his obsession—a disorder of thought—often led to a compulsion—a disorder of action. That’s what he was fighting against: acting on his obsession. He didn’t want to do it anymore. Because once he started with the first one, he’d have to go through another cycle. And now he was older and much wiser, and the task in front of him just seemed so onerous.
But the thought was making him anxious. Interrupting his sleep and giving him panic attacks. He was too young for that. He was too smart and too savvy and he had to do something to quell the obsession even if it was a temporary fix.
He decided to meet it halfway . . . obsession leading to partial compulsion.
He’d dig a grave.
He hoped that the act of bringing shovel to dirt would stanch some of the nervous energy. There was physicality in breaking ground, in pushing a spade into hard-packed dirt, hoisting the soil over his shoulder until it became a mound of clotted mud. Surely that would deter him . . . all the force needed to shape the precise dimensions. All the cunning required to pick the spot and hide it from the dozens of trackers and hikers who crisscrossed the area (although very few came once the ground froze over).
The solution was in front of his face: just dig the damn grave. Even if he decided not to fill it, it would make him feel warm and fuzzy knowing it was there.
Just in case.
Chapter 1
Winter came on like a beast.
By late December, northern New Mexico howled with cold winds, freezing rain, and harsh temperatures. Out came the boxes packed with winter wear: the boots and gloves and parkas and waterproof jackets that Ro was sure she wouldn’t need when the family moved to the Southwest. But Santa Fe was high desert and that meant occasional blizzards with bitter nighttime temperatures. It was weird for her to see cacti covered in snow.
School was out for the holidays, allowing normal families the opportunity to vacation in hospitable climates. Of course, her family chose to stay put, because why tan in Hawaii when you could be a paleface with chapped lips in the zero humidity of the mountains? It had been ages since her family had gone anywhere fun. Her parents existed, but they didn’t do a lot of living.
Her mother threw herself into redoing the house with Christmas cheer. There were wreaths of holly on every door; dozens of red, pink, and white poinsettia plants placed at strategic locations; and garlands of juniper and gold tinsel around the staircase banister and the second-story railings. In the center of the living room sat a ginormous Christmas tree dripping with tinsel and ornaments both old and new. There was white fluff under the tree and gaily wrapped presents. But the scene, instead of coming across as jolly, looked more like a funeral parlor. That’s what happens when decorating is less an act of joy and more like a compulsion to stave off depression.
Their temporary house was a modern take on a traditional adobe home. Instead of fluid, undulating walls and rounded corners, it was all sharp angles and lines with tall windows and baronial doors. Vicks had told her that it was typical of a house built by part-timers—some rich Texan or Californian erecting a visible paean to a sizable ego. But Ro loved living in something modern. Their place in Scarsdale was as traditional as the mores of the suburb.