“She still does,” Lucy said. “I get something almost every month.”
“I do, too.” Lucy could hear the smile in Nelia’s voice, and somehow, that made the conversation a little bit better, a little bit easier. “In the package was a letter from Danielle. She wrote that she’d raised money from the neighborhood and donated it to the parks district to rename the park where Justin died. The Justin Stanton Memorial Park. She said she debated asking my permission, but in the end didn’t want to hurt me so did it on her own, but wanted me to know. I’ve never gone back—I visit Justin’s grave once a year, but I haven’t been to the park. I can’t.”
“I went yesterday,” Lucy said.
“Is it nice?” Nelia whispered.
“It’s clean, larger, safe. They play soccer there.”
“Good.” Nelia’s voice cracked and Lucy found her own eyes moist. “Did she kill him, Lucy? Did she really kill him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
How much should Lucy tell her?
“I can take it,” Nelia said. “Tom’s here with me. I’m not broken, not like before.”
She still hesitated. How much to say? How to say it?
“It’s okay, Lucy,” Dillon said.
She sighed. Having Dillon validate her theory helped, but it was still dark and twisted. “There’s a lot we don’t know about Danielle Sharpe,” Lucy began, “but I believe she lost her son. I suspect something happened to him when he was young—either an accidental death or murder, and that’s when she found out about her husband’s infidelity. Maybe her husband was supposed to be watching him, or maybe her motives go back even further, to her own childhood. I’m sure there’s more about her past that we need to know. But it’s clear her husband was with his mistress when their son died and she blames him. She’s completely blocked out her own grief to the point that she doesn’t feel emotions like you and I do.” Lucy knew she processed emotions differently than other people. Maxine Revere had been looking at her in that odd, inquisitive way when Lucy talked about motive … and it bothered Lucy that she’d revealed so much about herself. But she couldn’t dwell on it now, and had to trust that Max would honor her privacy.
“She moved,” Lucy said, “we’re still working on finding out where she’s from. She moved to San Diego and possibly shut out her past life. Worked, did what was expected of her, kept a distance from people. She was friendly but quiet and aloof. Something triggered her—she may have figured out Andrew was having an affair.”
“Andrew was discreet, out of respect for me.”
That was interesting—Donovan hadn’t been discreet, but he also hadn’t worked with Danielle Sharpe. “We believe she stalked Andrew for some time. It could be she stalked several men who fit her profile—men who had a son and a working wife—and when she confirmed Andrew was having an affair, it caused her to relive her own pain discovering her husband had an affair.”
“Why kill Justin? I don’t understand.”
Lucy did. She understood this woman—at least how Danielle Sharpe thought. Normal people didn’t understand these disorders. Normal people didn’t feel like they were sharing their skin with psychopaths.
Dillon spoke up, “To you and I and Lucy, it makes no sense. But to Danielle Sharpe, it does. She couldn’t stop what happened to her son—and she couldn’t do anything to her husband, at least back then. I suspect she may have gone after him at some point, however. There could be a restraining order against her, or maybe she really did kill him—though killing her husband does nothing to make him suffer. I think that’s how she’s thinking—she wants to make these men suffer. And the best way to do that was to take from him the one thing they love the most—their child.”
“Does Andrew know this?” Nelia’s voice cracked. She was crying.
“Yes,” Lucy said.
“Dear God, he must be in so much pain right now.”
“He’s strong. He’s a good man, Nelia, faults and all.”
“I know he is. I’d like to call him.”
“I think he’d like that, too.”
“You’re going to find her, right?”
“Yes. Do you still have that letter?”
“No, I threw it away long ago.”
“That’s okay.”
“It was postmarked Tallahassee, Florida.”
“Are you certain? You remember that after all these years?”
“I’m certain. It stuck out to me.”
“That helps. Thank you, Nelia.”
“Lucy, I’m not good with people anymore. Honestly, I never was a people person. But I’d like to see you sometime. Without the family, without pressure. If you’re up near me, please let me know, okay?”
“I’d like that, Nelia. Thank you. Good-bye, Dillon.”
She hung up and immediately called Max.
“Max, I have something that takes priority for your research staff.” It irked Lucy that she could do this herself if she could access her FBI account—but she didn’t want to cross that line, not yet. Not until she had to.
Max didn’t say anything for a moment.
“Are you there?” Lucy asked.
“I’m here. What is it?”
“Danielle Sharpe in Tallahassee, Florida. I think that’s where she’s from, that’s where her son died.”
“You’re a psychic, aren’t you?”
“My sister Nelia got a letter from Danielle a year after Justin’s murder—which was after she left San Diego. It was postmarked Tallahassee. Danielle is the one who paid for Justin’s memorial at the park. Not Andrew like I had assumed. She killed Justin, stayed for a few months, then went back to visit her son’s grave or her ex-husband. Maybe there was another reason, but my educated guess is that Tallahassee is her home base. It’s where she goes after she kills. Sharpe may be her maiden name, I don’t know, but if she was married there should be a record of that.”
“I’ll do what I can. Are you joining us for dinner? We haven’t ordered.”
Lucy wasn’t that hungry, but she hadn’t eaten much today. She should eat.
“I’ll join you—sorry, I’m distracted. Dillon had Nelia on the phone as well.”
“And Nelia is … good?”
“She gave me her blessing.”
“And yet everyone thought she was going to fall apart at the mention of an investigation.”
Lucy wasn’t certain she appreciated Max’s tone, but she didn’t comment. “I’ll be down in five minutes. Thank you.” She hung up.
She got up from the desk and looked at the timeline again. She wrote at the beginning under Victim 0: Tallahassee, Florida.
She was about to walk away when she saw something on the desk. A note, in Max’s bold handwriting.
What makes Lucy Kincaid tick?
That was it. Nothing more, as if she were doodling.