by Ellie Marney
“Tell Dad yourself,” Robbie says.
There’s a fumbling exchange on the line, then her father’s voice in her ear. “Are you okay there, Emma Anne?”
He sounds old, Emma thinks. She blinks hard before replying. “Dad, I love you and yes, I’m doing fine. Tell Mama I’m hugging her from far away—it’s okay, I know she’s at work, but just give her my love.”
“Will do. You eating right? Looking after yourself? Don’t let them push you around, you hear?”
When the phone call is done, Emma walks back to the Dodge, where Bell is waiting with a paper sack of burgers.
“Thanks.” Emma takes the bag of burgers and the cardboard drinks holder while Bell opens the tray of the pickup. “I just realized I hadn’t called my folks for days.”
He lays down a rug, reclaims the drinks. “They get nervous if you don’t call?”
“Sometimes still, yeah. But I mainly wanted to hear their voices.” Emma hoists herself up. “Nowadays, I get the urge to call, I call.”
“You don’t know what’s gonna happen one day to the next, right?”
“That’s it. I remember…” Emma hesitates, continues. “When Huxton had me, I remember thinking I wished I could hear them. Talk to them. Anyway, I don’t leave things the way I used to.”
“I get that.”
They tuck into the food, suck pop through straws. The burgers aren’t bad, but there’s a lot of ketchup. The calm from her phone conversation hasn’t yet dissipated and it makes Emma grin.
“My sister, Robbie, said I should wear a suit like you, to annoy Cooper.”
Bell is surprised into a laugh. “Now that I’d like to see.” He licks ketchup off his lip. “So… are we still mad at Cooper?”
“He should’ve been straight with us from the beginning.” Emma softens. “But I can understand why he did what he did.”
Bell nods. “He wants to stop teenagers from dying.”
“His intentions are good. But my mom has a proverb about that.” Time to change the subject. “You been in touch with your family since you arrived in Virginia?” She realizes that could be misconstrued as scolding. “Sorry, that’s none of my business—”
“I called them yesterday.” Bell busies himself wadding up the paper from his burger. “They’re doing okay.”
“What are your sisters’ names?”
“Selena and Connie.” He smiles softly. Wipes his mouth and fingers with a napkin, and the smile becomes muted. “Lena’s still angry with me. I just gotta let it go. I keep reminding myself she can’t stay pissed forever.”
“She’ll come around.”
“I’m hoping.” He jumps down off the tray. “I’m just real glad my family’s in Texas right now and nowhere near I-81. Let’s move, I want to get this visit done.”
The urgency is part of her, too, Emma realizes. The goalposts have shifted. The trip to see Simon Gutmunsson and the photos in the Pennsylvania case file have tilted the world. Emma’s hoping they can both keep their balance.
She puts the trash in a dumpster at the edge of the parking lot. Bell’s revving the engine by the time she climbs back into the cab of the Dodge. Humidity makes Bell’s shirt look wilted; Emma hits the air-conditioning. The change in the weather sings June, June, June. Time is their enemy. Somewhere—somewhere close, Emma’s sure—the Pennsylvania killer is considering his next move.
“Rosanna” is playing softly on the car radio as Emma provides directions from a map they picked up at a Texaco. She’s glad they’re driving the old West Hundred Road and not the turnpike, because she’s tired of staring at traffic.
Bell clears his throat. “Listen, there’s something you need to know. I might have trouble with this. With Gutmunsson’s sister.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“She was there.” He stares forward, fingers gripping the steering wheel. “When my dad was killed. She was Gutmunsson’s hostage during the arrest.”
“She what?” Emma hasn’t yet had a chance to read through all the details of Simon Gutmunsson’s arrest. She knows nothing about this.
“My dad persuaded Gutmunsson to trade the sister as a hostage. He let my father take her place. But then Gutmunsson knifed him, so Kristin stabbed her brother in the neck. That’s how they caught him. My dad still died, though.”
All the things that can’t be helped, Emma thinks. All the things that circle back around and find us again. She wants to put a hand on Bell’s arm, stops herself. It won’t make him feel better.
“The police told you all this?”
“I read the arrest transcripts and the incident notes.”
For a moment, Emma marvels that while the reports and notes from her own case gave her such relief, the reports on Simon Gutmunsson have done the complete opposite for Bell. The Huxton reports were something she could read and absorb—a firm account, to fill in the gaps when the lived experience had been so jumbled and fast.
For Bell it was different. For him, the reports about Simon’s arrest were just a horrifying, drawn-out description of his father’s death. He knew all the facts, and they’d worn a groove in him, but they didn’t bring back what he’d lost.
“Do you want to stay out in the truck for this interview?” Emma’s tone is cautious.
“Not this time,” Bell says grimly. He takes the turn past the Walgreens to get them where they need to go.
“Travis. Can you run through this?”
He rolls his lips between his teeth. “Let’s hope so.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Chesterfield Clinic is in an affluent area of sprawling Virginia hillside, with lots of pretty trees. The clinic is more like an expensive health spa, Emma thinks, with chalet-type bungalows, each set in its own garden. The mental health care of the privileged few.
Bell cuts the engine in the parking lot. “Why’s Kristin Gutmunsson living in a place like this anyway?”
“I don’t know exactly. Her lawyer said she needed peace and quiet, after the court case. God knows if Simon were my brother, I’d want some peace and quiet, too.”
They sign in at a genteel reception office and ask for Kristin’s location. It’s sunny back out on the manicured lawns. At the correct bungalow porch, they smooth their clothes, knock. Emma notes the potted geraniums, the unobtrusive lock on the outside of the door. Chesterfield is another asylum, just a nicer-looking one.
They have permission to visit, and they were told Kristin’s expecting them. Yet she still seems surprised when they enter in answer to her call.
She is sitting on a high-sided white couch with too many throw cushions, reading a book in the light-filled, open living room of the bungalow. Her gaze darts over them, settles on Emma.
“Miss Gutmunsson,” Emma starts, “my name is Emma Lewis and this is Travis Bell. We’re with the FBI. We’ve come to talk with you about your brother, Simon.”
Kristin breaks into a smile and puts her book aside, claps her hands.
“I thought they said Emmett.” Her smile is wide and artless. “When they explained you were coming, I thought they said Emmett, not Emma. But you’re lovely! Oh goodness.”
Kristin Gutmunsson’s resemblance to her twin is striking. She has the same gifts of good breeding, the poise and length of bone. She’s barefoot, in a simple cream linen shift that likely cost about as much as a small car. Her hair is ice-white and hangs down in long tassels that remind Emma of Spanish moss—which makes her think of chiggers. Then she feels bad, as if her thought associations are dishonorable. Better to note the rest of the girl’s features without judgment: the bee-stung lips, blue eyes, high cheekbones, aristocratic nose covered with a smattering of pale freckles, the only ordinary thing about her.
Bell shifts on his feet, uneasy. Emma realizes it’s more than the connection to his father’s case. It’s because Kristin is beautiful. Some men find beauty discomforting, and Emma’s not sure why.
Kristin sees Bell’s movement and transfers her attention. “Hello. Are you all
right? You look as if you’ve had a shock.”
“I’m… I’m fine,” Bell says, blinking.
“I’m sorry I look so much like my brother,” she says. “I can’t help it.”
“I know.” Bell looks awkward all the same.
“Do you know that the word ‘twin’ comes from the Old Norse word ‘tvinnr’? It means ‘double-born.’ In Latin, the word is ‘gemina.’ They thought twins were two halves of one soul.” She looks at Emma, her expression so open it’s disconcerting. “Although you probably don’t want to think I share any part of my soul with Simon. It’s hard, looking so like him. People find it off-putting.”
Emma searches for something appropriate to say. “I understand. Thank you for seeing us.”
“Oh, I never say no to police asking about my brother. I feel responsible, so I do everything I can to help.”
“You feel responsible?” Emma asks.
“They might have caught him faster, if I’d been more cooperative from the start. But there were lots of reasons why that wasn’t possible.” Kristin’s expression is saddened, but she brightens in an instant. “Please do sit down. Would you like coffee? Let’s have coffee.”
Kristin uses the coral-colored telephone to call down to “the main house” for a tray of coffee. Then she ushers Emma over to sit on the white couch and takes her hand. Emma can’t think of an excuse to pull away.
“Have you seen him already?” She leans forward and peers at Emma’s face. “Oh, I can tell that you have.”
Emma finds it disturbing, the idea that her visit to Simon Gutmunsson is still written on her somehow. “Yes. Yes, I visited your brother late last week.”
“Did he insult you?” Kristin’s brows lift. “He uses insults like meat tenderizer, to soften people up. Then he’s friendly, so they get confused. That’s how he slips inside, you see.”
“I know what you mean,” Emma admits, although privately she thinks Simon Gutmunsson never really got to the “friendly” part of their conversation.
“He would like you, though,” Kristin says.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you look closed-up and spiny, like a crab in a shell. He’s so curious about locked boxes. He would like to crack you open.”
Emma swallows. “He gave it a good shot.”
Kristin smiles craftily, like she’s sharing gossip. “He can’t handle me, because I’m like marshmallow. Soft and amorphous. There’s nothing to hold on to and I keep changing shape. It drives him crazy.” She chuckles, then her smile droops. “And I’m his sister, of course. His blood. He has to love me. Shall we have our coffee in the garden? It’s warm inside, isn’t it?”
She leads them out a set of French doors on the left, across a small, brick-paved, sunny area, and onto the lawn, where a rattan lounge setting is casually arranged like a bower beneath a spreading oak. The smell of green is so intense it’s like a haze. Insects tick in the grass.
Once they’re all settled—Emma and Kristin on the couch, Bell standing nearby, acorns crunching under his boots and clearly unsure where to put his hands—Emma decides it’s time to press for details.
“Kristin—” She pauses. “Can I call you Kristin?”
“Oh, please do.” Kristin smiles eagerly.
“When I visited your brother, he shared some insights he had. Not about his own case—about a current murder investigation.”
“Yes, Simon is very clever. And of course that’s his particular area of interest.” Kristin plucks a stray blade of ryegrass at the base of the couch, brushes the feathery bud against her cheek.
“We think he might know more. So I may have to go see him again. I was hoping you might be able to give me some ideas about getting this information from him, and also about…” Emma opens her hands to complete the sentence.
“How to handle him?”
“Yes.”
Kristin almost bounces. “You could ask him about me! That would put him off guard. He’s very protective of me.”
“Except for that time he held you hostage at knifepoint,” Bell grinds out, and Emma wants to kick him.
Kristin seems unaffected, though. “Oh yes—he was really not in his right mind that day. Officers and agents were everywhere, pointing guns at him.… I think he felt cornered. He was upset and scared, and even I didn’t know what he would do. Simon behaves according to a certain logic most of the time, but that day he wasn’t thinking at all.” She angles her head and looks right into Bell’s eyes. “He hurt you, didn’t he?”
Bell’s posture and face stiffen in a way Emma’s becoming familiar with. “I think I’d better go wait in the truck.”
He starts to turn and Kristin stands, tugging at her own fingers.
“Mr. Bell—I’m sorry.” Expression fraught, she waits until he’s turned back before continuing. “My brother has done a lot of awful things, and I’m always apologizing to people for them.”
Bell’s throat works but he stands his ground. “It was my dad. He was the one who took your place the day your brother was arrested. He was the one your brother stabbed.”
“Oh my god.” Kristin’s hands fly to her mouth.
Bell looks at his feet. “But then you put a letter opener in your brother’s neck, so I guess that evens the scales a little.”
Emma’s surprised he spoke up. She’s even more taken aback when Kristin Gutmunsson crosses quickly to Bell—and hugs him.
“Oh my god, I’m sorry.” Kristin’s voice is muffled in Bell’s shirt. “I didn’t realize—I’m just so sorry.”
“It’s, uh… it’s all right.” Bell’s face suggests he’s regretting he spoke, but Kristin’s arms are wrapped around him, holding him fast. “Miss Gutmunsson—”
“Kristin.” Emma helps peel the girl away. “It’s okay. You’ve done nothing wrong. You tried to help, remember?”
“I tried my best.” Kristin’s eyes are glistening. “But Simon was so strong.…”
This is a girl whose entire life has been defined by what her sibling did. It tempers Emma’s queries, but she needs answers.
“Kristin, you still seem loyal to Simon. Can I ask why? He killed almost a dozen people, some of them your friends. But you’re still connected to him.”
“I can’t give up on him.” Kristin sinks back onto the couch, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “I sometimes wish I could. But he’s my brother. My twin.”
“You still care for him.” Emma is shocked into saying it out loud.
“Of course. Simon still needs love. And I have to hold on to the love I have for him, in the hope that he’ll see, and remember love still exists.” Kristin looks over at Bell. “But I’m so, so sorry for the hurt he caused you. It doesn’t mean I’m apologizing for him, or that I excuse him, in any way. That’s the difference between Simon and me—I know that what he’s done is wrong. It’s part of my family’s history of shame,” she says sadly.
Bell takes a step forward. “Then help us. What can we say that will make your brother give us the information we need?”
Kristin swipes her face once more, settles her hands in her lap. “Well, you can’t make Simon do anything. But to be honest, I think your best asset is Emma.”
“Me?” The hair on Emma’s nape lifts.
“Why yes.” Kristin’s expression is tear-stained and guileless. “I already told you. He likes locked boxes. He would be curious about you, and I’m sure he would appreciate some stimulating conversation.”
Emma catches Bell’s quick, fierce look in her direction; she cuts her eyes away. “What exactly would Simon like to talk about?”
Kristin waves a hand. “Oh, lots of things—Simon has broad interests. Art, music, history, literature…”
“We’ve already touched on literature.” Emma’s voice is dry.
“Perhaps you’d like to tell him a little about yourself, your background and family.…” Kristin falters, as if only just realizing that revealing personal information to Simon may not be altogether wise.<
br />
Emma thinks it might be best to redirect the conversation. “Kristin, can I ask what happened the day of Simon’s arrest? Why did he take you hostage?”
Kristin blushes. “I told him to.”
Bell jerks forward involuntarily. “You what?”
“It was all so fast and muddled.… Simon rushed into the piano room, rambling about police, saying he had to run, and I…” She examines her hands. “I said he couldn’t run, he’d never get away. That maybe he should try another strategy. I said maybe he should use me to get to Father’s car.”
“And that’s what you did.” Now Bell seems frozen.
“Yes. But then the Marshal—” Kristin corrects herself. “Your father. He offered to take my place. But as soon as we changed places, I knew Simon wouldn’t do the right thing, that he wouldn’t be able to resist.…” She blinks at the grass. “When Simon stabbed your father, I had to do something. So I picked up the letter opener, and I…” She swallows. “Well, you know what happened. And now here we are.”
Emma can feel that her mouth has dropped open, so she closes it. Looks over at Bell and immediately thinks of a quote: And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on. The expression on Bell’s face is unbearable. But even as she watches, he composes himself, with a gargantuan effort, into impassivity.
“Anyway.” Kristin clears her throat, smiles to lift her mood. “I don’t know if I’d bring up that subject with my brother. But there are lots of other things you could chat about. You could appeal to his intellect, too—he enjoys puzzles. And he must get very bored, sitting around all day long at St. Elizabeths.”
Emma recovers enough to speak. “You’re saying Simon might help us because he’s bored?”
“Oh yes.” Kristin nods. “He hates being bored. And your mysterious murder investigation is just the sort of thing he would like. He’d make a wonderful detective if he weren’t so…” Kristin searches for the right term.
Evil? Emma thinks. Then she looks quickly at Bell, willing him not to say it.
“… him,” Kristin concludes, oblivious to the interchange and distracted by something in the middle distance. “Oh, look, here come the puppies!”