by life in prison. He would never do anything, anything, that might jeopardize his freedom. I’m not an idiot. I’m a trained professional. My job is to help people like him. If I thought he was a threat, I’d have tossed him out on his ear. Like I said, he was never alone with Evie. Either her mother or I, or one of her brothers, was always in attendance.”
“Ralph?” Mrs. Kilmeade had been silent up to now, but her eyes were rimmed in red from the pressure of the tears she was holding back.
“Yes, honey?”
“May I be excused? I’d like to go lie down for a few moments.”
“Goodness, my dear, of course. I’ll come to you in a moment. I’m just going to see the agents out. We’re finished here, correct?”
There was a note of finality to the question. They were done, whether Baldwin wanted to be finished or not.
Baldwin nodded. Everyone hastened to their feet as Mrs. Kilmeade exited the room. Sparrow met Baldwin’s eyes, and he felt the message being sent. There was something very wrong with this picture. He couldn’t agree more.
Regardless, Kilmeade had said all he was willing to on the subject. They had what they needed anyway. Little Evie’s death could certainly be interpreted as a stressor for Arlen.
At the door, Kilmeade left them with a final thought.
“I’d appreciate it if any future conversations be conducted at my office. My wife is having a difficult time with the pregnancy, you see, and with all the hubbub still lingering over Evie’s death, it’s been terrible for her. You understand.” He shook their hands and shut the door behind them softly, leaving Baldwin and Sparrow on the porch, staring across the street.
What sort of monster lived behind those four walls?
And what kind of father let his dying daughter play with a sex offender?
Charlotte
It was late. Charlotte was hungry and thirsty, but she stayed rooted in her chair at her desk. She chewed on the end of a pen, thinking hard. She agreed with Baldwin that Harold Arlen was their suspect. The problem was, they still had exactly zero proof. Where was the evidence? And where was that warrant they needed so desperately? Maybe she’d have to take a trip down to the courthouse later, lean on some doors. See if that shook things loose. She hated having to take matters into her own hands, but they needed to get this case wrapped up. Child murderers gave her the creeps. She didn’t know how Baldwin could stand it.
Speak of the devil. Charlotte saw Baldwin approaching and felt her pulse race. She was always struck by his looks; he epitomized the very being of tall, dark and handsome. Now that she was in, she didn’t plan on letting go anytime soon. He was the perfect catch, the perfect man. Attentive and loving in bed, willing to take a few risks and not afraid to show his own feelings. He didn’t even snore. What a combination.
He was getting attached. She could feel that. Every look, every touch, screamed, you’re mine, woman. It made her feel all warm inside. She had to admit, she’d had him pegged from day one. He was a natural savior, a white knight, the kind of man who hated to see a woman cry, who was instantly drawn to fragility. She’d have to keep it up just a bit longer, then he’d be on the hook and she’d be set.
She hadn’t given a great deal of thought to settling down with one man, or one woman, for that matter, until recently. It seemed…an interesting concept. One person, for a lifetime. She wondered how long it would really last.
She may have to switch departments when they got married, but that was fine. She could easily lead in other areas. That might not be necessary after all: Baldwin was sure to be promoted out of the BAU-he was too good at his job, too adept, too thorough. He had Director written all over him. Oh, the power he would have. And she’d be at his side, the perfect helpmeet.
They would have to get a new place-his apartment wasn’t anything to write home about. There were plenty of lovely suburbs in the area north of Richmond, providing for a short commute. And they’d certainly need a place in D.C., preferably in Georgetown, so she could rub elbows with the real money. There was power in D.C., that’s what attracted her to the feds in the first place.
Oh, it was so nice to be with him at last. She’d been so careful, so subtle. And he’d always seemed so sad. Now, despite the horrific case they were working, he seemed almost chipper. Downright happy.
When he entered her office, Baldwin gave her a heart-stopping grin.
“Guess what we have?” he said.
“Herpes?”
He stopped in his tracks, eyebrows creasing. “What?”
“I’m kidding, silly. What do we have?”
“Oh. God, Charlotte, that’s not remotely funny. Goldman just called. They got the warrant for Arlen’s place signed five minutes ago. The Kilmeades admitted that Arlen had regular contact with their daughter. That’s a probation violation, which is enough for the judge. We’re in.”
Waning Crescent Moon Twenty Percent of Full Feast of Odin
(All Souls’ Day)
Twenty-Nine
Nashville Midnight
T aylor was in bed, watching a replay of the late local news. She was fighting sleep, but would succumb at any minute. She’d been awake for thirty-six hours, and even by her insomniac standards, it was time for a rest.
Nashville would never get used to news about dead teenagers. Especially around the holidays and graduation, the nightly news brought stories packed with grief and remorse. Brave girls fighting meningitis. Silly young boys who drank to excess then wrapped their cars around trees. Cheerleaders text messaging their football- hero boyfriends and crashing into oncoming tractor-trailers.
But Nashville had never seen coverage of a tragedy of this magnitude. It was made worse by the extended horrors-nearly two days into the news cycle, when the gaping holes in the collective hearts were beginning to clot and crust, the sweet young face of Brittany Carson, smiling to the masses through the television screen, ripped them open all over again.
Her death had first been reported in a breaking news alert by a teary-eyed rookie reporter, one too young to have hardened to the nearly daily depictions of death and violence that roamed Nashville’s streets. On the 10:00 p.m. news, Brittany’s organ donation was the lead story-some vulture inside the hospital reported that she’d signed a donor registration card during a school campaign and the media seized upon it, getting a confirmation quote from her mother, Elissa, still dressed in the red blouse streaked with her daughter’s blood.
She wasn’t the only one; the entire city had been holding out hope that one of their children would make it through this tragedy alive. Sons and daughters, brothers, sisters, couples, loners, all marked for death. There seemed to be no real rhyme or reason to the victimology, not yet. They had nothing concrete, nothing except the knowledge that a teenage boy gave a teenage girl a pill laced with poison designed to kill her, then masturbated while he watched her die.
Taylor sighed, rolled onto her back to stare at the ceiling.
The images on the screen had been littered with smiling faces, full of hope. It was near impossible to imagine those same boys and girls lying on stainless-steel trays at the medical examiner’s, brutal Y-incisions demarking their virginal flesh.
The ME’s office was overwhelmed. Parents who’d been out of town returned with the knowledge of their children’s deaths weighing heavily on their consciences, needed to say goodbye. They had been camping in the lobby of Forensic Medical until their time came, were ushered one by one into a side room with a closed-loop video feed to identify their dead.
The first official comprehensive toxicology screens were rolling in. All eight victims had high levels of Ritalin,
