His father smiled. “Let’s get some balls. We’ll go to the field after this. I’ll pitch.”
Nick shook his head. “I’m tired. Maybe later.”
He saw disappointment flare in his father’s eyes. Nick turned and walked toward the checkout.
His father followed, grabbing a package of balls on his way.
30
Sunday, 4:19 p.m.
Ethan sat at his desk, the file with Elise Vanderzell’s crime scene photos and phone records spread out in front of him. He dialed Dr. Jamie Gainsford’s phone number. He used the one from Elise’s cell phone records, not the business number that was listed on the Ontario Yellow Pages website, hoping that Dr. Gainsford would answer this number on a Sunday.
“Hello?” The man’s voice was calm, crisp. Slight accent. Australian, Ethan guessed.
“Dr. Jamie Gainsford?” he asked.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Detective Ethan Drake, Halifax Major Crimes Unit.” Ethan let that sink in. “I’m calling regarding Elise Vanderzell. One of your patients.”
Dr. Gainsford hesitated. “She is one of my clients. Is she all right?”
“I regret to inform you that Elise Vanderzell died early yesterday morning.”
“Oh, my God.” Dr. Gainsford paused, cleared his throat. “What happened? I’d only just spoken to her on Friday night.”
Ethan’s gaze fell on the crime scene photos. “She fell over a balcony at the house she was visiting.”
“Dear God. When did that happen?”
“On Friday night.”
“Good Lord. What time?”
“Just after one in the morning. What time did you speak to her?”
“She phoned me around eight. Eight-thirty. I don’t know.” He spoke quickly.
“Why did she call you?” Ethan hoped the doctor’s shock might keep him talking.
No such luck. “Detective, she was my client. I am bound to keep those conversations confidential.”
Damn. Ethan stared at the photo of bloody concrete where Elise Vanderzell had landed. “We are trying to establish her state of mind. We aren’t sure if she fell, jumped or was murdered.” He added, “You were the last person to speak to her before she phoned her husband. You aren’t betraying a confidence by telling us what might have led to her death.”
Dr. Gainsford swallowed. “I can hardly believe she’s dead.” He cleared his throat again. “I can’t give you specifics of our sessions, but in my opinion, she wasn’t suicidal. The reason she called was that she’d had an argument with her ex-husband. She wanted some advice.”
Ethan’s neck prickled. “What advice did you give her?”
“I advised that she call her ex-husband and tell him they needed to behave like caring parents.”
Ethan scanned the phone record. Six minutes after Elise Vanderzell ended her conversation with her therapist, she phoned Randall Barrett. “Do you know what they said to each other?”
Dr. Gainsford exhaled. “No. I’m afraid I don’t. I wish I did…”
You and me both, Doctor. “At present, we are still determining whether Ms. Vanderzell’s death was accidental or an act of homicide. If she was killed, we will need to trace her movements and talk to people who knew her. Including you, Doctor.”
“As I said before, our communications were confidential.” He paused. “However, if it appears that Ms. Vanderzell was a victim of homicide, I have provided evidence in domestic homicide situations with the approval of the College of Psychologists of Ontario.”
He absorbed the implications of what Elise Vanderzell’s therapist was telling him: the psychologist thought if his client had been murdered, her husband could have killed her. He wouldn’t push Dr. Gainsford for more information. Yet. He’d wait until they got the toxicology reports. “Thank you, Doctor.” Ethan hung up.
He ran through what information he knew. Elise had called her ex-husband. But it was a brief conversation.
Then Barrett got drunk.
And she fell off the balcony.
Her therapist, one of the last people to speak to her and probably the person most privy to her mental state, did not think she was suicidal.
And yet her son said he saw her jump.
Who was right?
Had her son killed her?
Or had Barrett killed her—and Nick was protecting him?
Ethan scratched the last possibility off his list. He could not believe Nick would protect his father.
So, if the therapist was right and Elise wasn’t suicidal—then why did Nick say he saw his mother jump?
He stared at that bloody patch of concrete in the photo. It had told the FIS team everything it could.
But he didn’t think Elise’s family had done the same. He needed to bring Nick in again. He’d ask Tabby to conduct another interview tomorrow. The kid was not playing straight with them.
Then he’d bring in Nick’s father. He wasn’t playing straight with them, either.
Like father, like son.
Who knew that there was so much psychology in color? Kate thought, swiping her hair off her face with the back of a paint-splattered hand. Paint cascaded down the front of her T-shirt in a trail of yellowy cream puffs.
It was disturbing to think how her mood could be manipulated by the hue surrounding her. Was she really so suggestible?
Hell, yes. And she needed a dose of bright, mood-lifting color right now. Too many things had upset her equilibrium this weekend. First the unpleasant Naugler discovery on Friday afternoon; then her chilly encounter with Randall in the elevator; then the disastrous one-night stand with Curtis; and finally, and most disturbingly, the death of Randall’s ex-wife.
She still didn’t know why Randall had called her. She sensed he was asking for more from her than just looking after his dog. And she sure as hell didn’t know what she was willing to give him.
For the tenth time today, she pushed the thought of him out of her mind. She slapped the paintbrush on the wall, adding more cream puffs to her shirt. Despite her lack of skill, the freshly gleaming walls of her kitchen looked pretty damn good.
Although it would look so much better with white cupboards, like Randall’s.
Stop it. When you make partner, you can afford your dream kitchen. Just be grateful the paint was on sale. Now you can get new blinds.
“Almost done the closet,” Finn said, backing out from the pantry with a roller, pan and two brushes in his hands. Finn Scott, dog walker extraordinaire, had adopted her house like a mangy dog in need of a good grooming. Since he’d begun walking Alaska in May, he’d put dead bolts in her bedroom, fixed her screen door, replaced the rotting boards in her back porch and replaced leaky faucets. Twice.
“It’ll take a couple of days to dry in this heat,” Finn said. Sweat dampened his still-pristine Green Day T-shirt to his back.
He knelt down, placing the pan on a drop sheet, and poured more paint into it. Not a drop spilled. How did he do that? It was like the guy had been born with a Mr. Fix-It gene that had an extra shot of neat added to it.
Finn picked up the roller, then balanced the paint pan on his forearm as he straightened. Kate rolled her eyes. “How do you do that?”
“It’s all in the wrist.” He grinned.
“I owe you a nice dinner. Big time,” Kate said. “Too bad I can’t cook.”
Finn’s eyes lit up with mischievous excitement. She should have guessed what was coming, knowing there was one thing Finn wanted from her that she had so far refused to give.
“Instead of dinner,” Finn said, “let me look around that secret staircase of yours.”
The blood drained from Kate’s cheeks. Finn didn’t know what he was asking, she knew that. Just a few months before, Kate’s elderly neighbor Muriel Richardson had pried away an old bookcase in the closet and revealed a half-door to a “secret” staircase. She and her sister, Enid, had played in the staircase as children.
Every night, when Kate woke up drenched with sweat, h
er mind filled with Craig Peters and his bloody hands, it was the staircase next door to her bedroom that fueled her insomnia.
“Come on, Kate, you’ve never even looked up there.”
His eyes beseeched her. On the wall behind him, the fresh paint gave the kitchen a radiance and warmth that made her nighttime fear of the staircase seem remote. Silly, even.
“We’ll go together,” Finn added, sensing her indecision.
Maybe going up there, seeing the plaster and feeling the wood under her feet, would dispel her aversion. After all, wasn’t it fear of the unknown that made it all seem so much worse at two in the morning?
He put down his painting gear and rummaged through his toolbox for a hammer. Kate followed him into the closet. Despite the fan that spun with a low hum, the small area was stifling.
Finn had painted all the walls except the back wall. It loomed, muddy brown and gloomy, over the half-door, like an entrance to a troll’s cave.
Hooking the hammer’s claw into the nail heads, Finn’s back muscles strained with the effort of pulling out the nails he had so thoroughly hammered only months before. With a grunt, he removed the final nail. He yanked the board off the wall and pried the small door from the wall.
“Ta-da!” He opened the door with a flourish, turning to grin at her.
Sweat, which had until now been a light dampness on Kate’s skin, erupted in a stream under her arms. “You go first.”
He knelt in front of the half-door and poked his head inside. “We need a flashlight.” He backed up, wiping his hands on his shorts.
It took only two strides for Kate to return to the kitchen, but the contrast hit her immediately. Light. Air. Safety. She found a flashlight, pushing the switch to check it worked. But in reality, she was working up her courage.
Shake it off, Kate. Shake it off. Dr. Kazowski will be proud of you. She’ll think you’re making progress. That would be a change.
Kate spun on her heel and strode into the closet before her courage left her.
“Here.” She shoved the flashlight into Finn’s hand.
He dropped to his knees and shone the light up into the stairwell. He gave a low whistle. “Very fancy.” He crawled through the doorway. Kate watched his ankles, then feet, disappear into the black hole.
Taking a deep breath, she lowered herself through the doorway. And inhaled a large dust bunny. She coughed, swiping at a cobweb by her hair, and crawled into the stairwell.
The temperature was at least ten degrees hotter than the kitchen. Sweat matted Kate’s hair to the back of her neck. She straightened, conscious of the ceiling just above her head. There was maybe two inches’ clearance. Finn had to keep his neck bent. He shone the light on the steps between them. “How are you doing?” he asked.
“Fine.” She forced a smile on her face. It was just as dark and unpleasant as she thought it would be. She wondered at the young children who had thought this was a fun place to play. They were made of stronger stuff back then, she supposed. Or just had fewer options.
Finn stood one step above her. “Cool, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.”
He ran his fingers over the wall. “You know, I think I should paint these walls. I could install a light in here. It would really brighten it up.”
And stop me from being scared. She rubbed her arms. “I’m not sure, Finn…”
“Choose the brightest, funkiest color you like and we’ll transform this space.”
“This isn’t a home reno show, Finn.”
He grinned. “Not yet. But this old house has good bones, Kate. She deserves some TLC.”
“She’s getting it.”
Finn crossed his arms. “Come on, Kate. It’s just a staircase.”
Kate pushed a wisp of hair off her face. “Exactly. It’s a staircase I don’t use and will never use. Why waste our time on it? I’ve got a ton of work to do tomorrow.” She grabbed his elbow. “I don’t have time to take on another project for something I plan on locking up.”
She dropped to her knees and crawled out of the half-door before he could say any more.
It was true. All of it. She would never use the staircase—over her dead body, which had a strangely prophetic ring. And she had that load of case reports sitting on a chair in her spare bedroom upstairs. Tomorrow was a holiday. She needed to buckle down and get work done before Tuesday’s discovery.
Oh, man, and wasn’t that something to look forward to. Discovery with Curtis Carey.
She definitely needed to be prepared. She didn’t want to look like more of a fool than she already did.
After dinner, she’d put a bolt on the half-door that led to the secret staircase. That should end any further debates about giving her house extra TLC.
It was getting lots of TLC. Way more than she was.
31
Monday, 12:48 a.m.
Nick sat on the bed in his father’s house, his iPhone plugged in his ears, dressed in a black T-shirt and black track pants. The stretchy kind, not the nylon ones that crinkled when you moved.
He hit the bat in rhythm to the music. Every time the wood smacked his palm, his fingers curved around it, feeling the cool, smooth wood. The weight of it.
Earlier this evening he’d practiced swinging it until the motion came naturally. Then he’d pounded the bat against his pillow. Again. And again until the pillow had given way at the seams. Then Nick had thrown himself onto the bed, sweat slicking the bat in his hand.
He took a shower. Ate supper in his room. His father had not protested. He seemed to want to play nice, going out of his way to please Nick, as if he was trying to prove how glad he was Nick had done an about-face and decided to stay with him. But every time Nick looked at him, all he could think was, You know I saw you. You make me sick.
He stood. He stretched his muscles, warming them up. He played the song on his iPhone one final time. Cranked it up even louder. The drums stirred a primeval instinct, the electric whine of the guitar screeching through his muscles. His adrenaline pumped higher.
The moment of reckoning had come. Nick whacked the bat against his palm. Those visualization techniques he’d been taught over the years were finally worth something. He pictured his father’s head on its king-size pillow.
It’s like a melon.
It’s like a melon.
A bloody, bursting melon.
The song ended. He turned it off quickly, before the next song could begin. He didn’t want anything to break the rhythm of rage coursing through his blood.
He needed to do it.
Right now. Before his brain could think.
32
Monday, 12:49 a.m.
Kate leaned her head against the screen of her bedroom window. A breeze stirred the damp hair on her neck.
She closed her eyes. Then opened them wide, not even daring to blink. Craig Peters crept behind her eyelids, skulked deep in her mind, lurked in the blood that flowed through her veins. She could not get him away from her.
Her fingers gripped the window ledge. In a few moments, when the air had sufficiently cooled her sweat-drenched body, she would close the window and lock it. The air in her room would become stifling. Again.
But she had no choice. She could not sleep with the window unlocked. Nor could she sleep with the staircase that Finn had unboarded. Because in her dream, Craig Peters had crept up those stairs.
Tears of frustration sprang behind her eyelids. She hated being held hostage to this nighttime terror. It was eating her up.
Sometimes when Kate lay awake at night, trying to calm her racing heart after another terror-inducing dream of Craig Peters, she thought of Ethan. He’d told her once that he’d killed a man in self-defense.
She’d been sympathetic, stroking his chest, murmuring her condolences. But she’d never understood. Never truly comprehended what it was like to end another human’s life. To see that person’s life force drain in front of your eyes. To know that it would stain your soul for the rest of your life.
>
Sometimes, in the very deepest part of the night, she was tempted to call Ethan. He would know what to say to her.
But then her conscience would demand: Did he still harbor feelings for her? Or was that declaration of love in May simply miscategorized relief that she had survived the Body Butcher’s final—and most brutal—attack?
She’d never know. She didn’t want to know.
She wanted it to be a chapter in her life that wasn’t dog-eared from return visits. She didn’t run the same route in the park anymore. She avoided Ethan’s favorite coffee shops.
So every time her hand crept toward the phone, toward reassurance and maybe just a hint of salvation, she would snatch it back under the sheets. She couldn’t ask that of Ethan.
Then she would cry. Not because she regretted her decision to end the purgatory they’d been in since New Year’s Eve, but because she knew she was completely alone. Just her and her pathetic memories.
She locked her window and returned to her bed. The bottle of sleeping pills sat beside her bedside light, the two objects lined up like sentinels against the terrors of the night. The light guarded her against her fears; the pills warded off insomnia.
Her fingers trembled—just once—as she slipped the pill between her lips, washing it down with a sip from the glass of lukewarm water on her bedside table.
33
Monday, 12:52 a.m.
Nick glanced to his left. Lucy’s door was still closed. He’d checked an hour ago, and she’d been asleep. She was a sound sleeper, so he was positive he didn’t have to worry about her.
His father’s bedroom loomed at the end of the hallway, the door open. Just in case any of his grieving children needed nighttime solace.
He stopped in the doorway. Through the blood pounding in his ears, Nick heard the sound of his father’s heavy breathing, punctuated by Charlie’s snores.
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