“I know what she means,” said Vega. “Kylie didn’t look enough like Cole. Ashley Cahill, Sydney McKenna—they both did. Blond, slight, petite. Young for their ages.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Linsom. She nodded to Vega, like she was proud of her. “Yes, that’s right. But the opportunity presented itself with Evan Marsh. It felt fated to me—that was the feeling I had. A boy she had met by coincidence happened to have a tragic story and was desperate for money. Although not so rare in this town.”
“So you tracked him down,” said Vega.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Linsom. “Not difficult. I found him at the supermarket.”
Vega saw them, by the loading dock where she’d talked to Marsh. They go for a walk. Evan looks at her like she’s crazy.
“He wasn’t interested at first…then he thought about it. He wasn’t stupid.”
Vega thought of his face changing, softening as he considered the money, the possibility of finding his brother.
“He had a need too, you understand. Also, of course, a conscience.”
She shook her head, disappointed.
“That was really my mistake. I should have known.”
“Did you kill him, ma’am?” said Cap.
“No,” she said, shifting where she sat, smoothing her robe underneath her. “Evan called and said he needed to talk to us. I could tell from his voice, he wanted to go to the police. So Press went to see him.”
“So your husband killed him?” said Cap.
Mrs. Linsom appeared taken aback by the question.
“Yes, Mr. Caplan, he did. He has two guns.”
Why is she telling us that? thought Vega.
“None of this was planned,” she said, her eyes on some distant point. “Well, that’s not entirely true. It was planned; I only mean that when we started we didn’t plan on all this damage.”
“Do you mean death?” said Cap, sounding just a little bit impatient. “Is that what you mean when you say ‘damage’?”
“Yes, I suppose. Death…damage.”
“So why don’t you tell us where Kylie is, ma’am, and then we can talk about what you did and didn’t plan on?” said Cap.
Vega heard anxiety in his voice. Mrs. Linsom focused on him and smiled rather kindly.
“Of course. First, though, Mr. Caplan, you should really speak to my husband. He’s not as levelheaded as I am. Maybe you can reach him. Man-to-man. Father-to-father.”
Vega thought there must be a window open or a busted air conditioner unit blasting cold air on her neck. She felt she was about to discover the source of a recurring wound, that thing that you did over and over again without realizing you were hurting yourself in the same spot.
Mrs. Linsom tilted her head, reminded Vega of a raccoon about to hiss, guarding the garbage cans. There’s no question these belong to me.
“I had a feeling about both of you after you left the other day,” she said. “You’re both famous. You have a lovely daughter, Mr. Caplan.”
Vega didn’t move, didn’t want to call attention to the bluff. She knew he was too smart to flinch, but she could see his posture change, head up, shoulders back, hands near the belt, ready to pull the gun.
“She said such sweet things about you on Facebook,” Mrs. Linsom said, without a single note of sarcasm. “It’s like she’s your friend, but she respects you also. It’s extraordinary. People write parenting books on how to do that using positive discipline—I’ve read them all.”
Vega felt a trickle of liquid on her brow. She wanted badly to touch it, to see if the cut had started bleeding again. Don’t do it, she told herself. This is not your body.
“They put everything online, teenagers,” Mrs. Linsom said, shaking her head. “I’m not planning on letting Cole have her own social media accounts unless I create all her passwords so I can monitor what she posts. It’s just not safe.”
She shook her head again, eyes momentarily fearful.
“Where’s your husband, Mrs. Linsom?” said Vega.
Vega put one hand on the grip of the Springfield, no longer attempting to hide it, pushing back the flap of her jacket so Mrs. Linsom could see it.
Mrs. Linsom saw it but seemed just a little concerned, her light eyebrows barely creased.
“You know, he’s not always like that, how he was when you met him the other day. Only when he’s under a lot of stress and not able to relieve it.”
“Where is he right now?” said Vega again, placing her hand on the grip.
“He went to find you, Mr. Caplan,” said Mrs. Linsom. “To talk man-to-man. Father to father. He’s been at your adorable house on Pixley Road for a couple of hours now.”
Vega drew the Springfield, pointed it at Mrs. Linsom’s left eye as Cap stumbled back two or three steps, losing his balance.
“Pick up your phone, call your husband,” said Vega, steady. “You can tell him I will shoot you in the head if he touches her. If he has already touched her, I’ll shoot you anyway. The only way you won’t end up getting shot is if he hasn’t touched her yet. So you’d best hope for that.”
Vega angled her chin in Cap’s direction.
“Caplan, move. Go.”
She didn’t turn but watched the shape of him run from the room, heard the door slam, his steps on the path outside.
Mrs. Linsom kept her eyes on Vega, not the gun, which was rare. People tended to stare at the barrel when it was pointed at them. Mrs. Linsom seemed mostly indifferent toward it.
“You can’t shoot me,” she said plainly. “You want to know what’s happened to Kylie, don’t you? You can’t know that if I’m dead.”
Vega took three steps closer, keeping the Springfield aimed at her eye socket. Now Mrs. Linsom watched the gun.
“Not real concerned about it,” said Vega. “Call your husband.”
Mrs. Linsom blinked slowly and brought her gaze back up to Vega’s.
“Even if I called, Press wouldn’t pick up right now,” she said.
Focus, said Perry in her head. If Nell’s dead she’s already dead. She’s not the body you’re supposed to bring home. One thing and then another.
“So tell me where Kylie is, and we can get this over with,” said Vega, very quiet.
Mrs. Linsom rolled her shoulders back.
“It’s not as if I can run away from you, Miss Vega; you don’t have to keep the gun on me.”
“I’d prefer to,” said Vega.
She was so close she could see the light glint off the small diamond studs in Mrs. Linsom’s ears.
“Well, then,” she said, lifting her chin, looking just above the gun, like she was peering over a hedge. “Like I said, none of this was planned. The first time was an accident, really. I’d been married to Press for five years before he told me. I remember the day too—it was when we got home from the twenty-week sonogram, when we found out Cole was a girl.”
She looked drunk with the joy of the memory, smiling broadly. Then, suddenly, the smile evaporated, and she continued.
“When we got home, he told me that sometimes he had these feelings, urges he was ashamed of. And he was afraid that eventually he might not be able to control them, now that he knew we were having a girl.”