“What was their relationship like?”
Jasmine’s gaze wandered around the café, pondering the question. “It’s hard. I keep trying to think about signs, things I saw in how they interacted, that could’ve tipped me off to the fact that he was … murdering people.” She shook her head. “Their relationship was fine, I guess. They spent time together. Sometimes they fought, sometimes they didn’t. He never hit her, at least not that I ever saw.” Jasmine looked down at the table, no doubt replaying her childhood in her mind’s eye. “They weren’t very demonstrative.”
“Demonstrative?”
Jasmine shrugged. “They didn’t hold hands in public. I never saw them kissing. It’s—it’s almost like they were more friends than lovers.” She stopped talking, then took a bite of her scone.
“Some couples are like that,” Vail said. “I wouldn’t read too much into it.” But it could definitely be significant. “Do you think it’s possible he’s gay?”
“What?” Jasmine began rolling the edge of the cardboard jacket between her thumb and index finger. “Why would you ask that?”
“Just something we’re looking into.” Vail watched her a second, sensing there might be more to it than she was letting on. Now did not seem like the time to press it. “You going to tell me where you’re staying?”
She hesitated a moment. “I think it’s best that no one knows. For now.”
Vail nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll respect that.” For now. She drained her cup and dabbed her mouth with the napkin. “But I want you to promise me you’ll stay in touch. I text you, I want you to answer me right away. I could have something important to tell you, for your safety, and I need to know you’re getting my message. If I call, answer it.”
“Got it.”
Vail frowned. “I still don’t like it. Who knows where your father is? You have habits you’re not conscious of, things that he knows you do, places you go—and have gone.”
“I’m doing my best to be aware of things like that.” She placed a hand on Vail’s. “I’ll be okay, Karen. I may not be trained in this kind of thing, but I’ve got my intuition. And so far, it’s served me well.”
“You’ve done okay. Lucky?”
“Nope. Just being smart about things. Really, I’m going to be fine.”
Vail crumpled up the wrapper and dumped her empty cup in the recycling bin behind her. “I have to get back.”
They stood up and Vail gave Jasmine a hug. “I’ll be in touch. Be careful.”
Jasmine grinned weakly. “Always. Especially now.”
18
Marcks awoke with a start. He had fallen asleep a short time after preparing his bed, which, when he settled into it, was more comfortable than he thought it might be when he gathered up the sundry materials. Then again, he had been sleeping on prison cots that dated back five or six decades. Anything better than that would feel like duck feathers.
He sat up, taking in his environment: he was in the barn and light was streaming in through cracks and spaces between the wood slats that formed the walls.
And there it was again. The creak of rusted hinges. It’s what had jostled him from a deep sleep, deeper than any he’d had since his arrest—definitely not his intention when he put his head down last night. He did not have a watch but it looked to be late morning. He thought for sure he would be up at dawn, his routine at Potter. Now free, without the regimen of a highly structured schedule, he should have realized that his body might react differently.
And right now it had apparently let him down.
He relaxed, his normally razor-sharp senses going on vacation. He would not let that happen again.
Marcks glanced across the barn at the entrance, which was located to the right of an extensive tool rack. A man, silhouetted against the gray light, stood in the doorway.
“Hey! Who’re you?”
Marcks stood up. “I needed a place to sleep. It was snowing, I was cold.”
The man squinted, clearly trying to make sense of what was happening: Did he have a squatter? Was this going to be a problem? Or could he merely ask his house guest to leave?
“What’s your name?” Marcks asked.
“William. What’s yours?”
“Bart.”
William appeared to be a bit over seventy. In decent shape but probably no more than a hundred and fifty pounds. Not much of a challenge for a violent criminal with multiple murders under his belt and seven years of hard time in a max-security prison to his name.
“You have to go,” William said.
“I’m leaving, no worries.” But Marcks knew that he could not trust William to keep quiet about his presence, especially when there had to be police reports detailing the brazen, bloody escape of a convict from Potter yesterday. Not just a convict, a convicted murderer.