'Was it your brother who chased us?'
He still tensed whenever Steve uttered a word. The defiant mask on the boy's face quivered, as though some exhalation disturbed a reflection in a pool...or as though something deep below struggled toward the surface.
'Look at me when I'm talking to you!'
'Steve...'
'Answer me.'
The questions hammered on until the boy's determined stillness began to crumble, first in small flinches--as one hand found the other and clasped it--then in gradual gestures and shifts of posture, as he sank farther into his chair, shoulders bowed. Trying to cover himself, he clutched and pulled at the coarse fabric of the blanket.
'Do you hear what I'm asking you?'
'He hears,' she insisted.
Slowly the boy's face tilted, and Kit squirmed before the smoldering delirium of that stare. For a moment, it seemed he might finally speak; then his lips jammed together.
'Damn it.' Grappling his own blanket with one hand, Steve perched on the edge of the desk. 'You're going to have to answer me sooner or later. What happened to your father?' He leaned forward. 'That was him we found in the basement, wasn't it?'
The boy rubbed one bare foot against the other, then yanked both feet back under the blanket.
'He's shivering still. Look, his lips are practically blue.'
'Who hid the body in the basement? Did Ramsey do it?'
Again, something seemed to stir beneath the boy's features.
'Perry?' She kept her voice gentle. 'You've just been moving around ever since, right?' She watched emotions drift across his face: cloud reflections on window glass. 'Going from apartment to apartment?'
'No, don't look away. Answer her.' His hand shot out.
'Steve!'
The slap stopped short of the boy's cheek, and Steve turned to her, sadness in his voice. 'Not exactly what we were expecting, is he?'
She got up from her chair. 'Let me try again.' She knelt by the boy. 'You're going to have to trust somebody sooner or later, Perry. Believe me on this.' Her face hovered inches from his. 'All that blood. Who tried to clean up the house? Did you do that?'
He might have nodded, the movement so slight as to be barely discernible.
With a sudden gesture, she reached out and pushed the tangle of damp hair back from his forehead again, and for once, he didn't pull away. She stared at a face so pale each eyelash stood out darkly. The flesh felt hot now, moist. He shuddered painfully, while his eyes wheeled around the room, shimmering like glass. He made her think of a stuffed fox, frozen in a semblance of futile cunning. 'Lashes like these wasted on a boy.' She almost stroked his hand, and he jerked reflexively. 'And this coloring.' The raw entreaty of his stare stunned her.
'Kit. Come away.'
Again, she stroked his head, watched primal shadows flutter across his face: panic, rage, and always, just below the surface, hopeless sorrow. And suddenly she knew who he reminded her of. She watched him force his feelings back down, one by one, watched grinding determination return to fill the delicate, sullen features: she'd seen Steve do the same thing countless times. Setting his mouth in a hard line, the boy folded his arms across his chest. 'That was quite a workout you gave us before,' she continued before their tenuous contact could fade. 'You're pretty strong.'
Finally, his lips moved feebly. 'Sometimes I am.'
Behind her, Steve rose.
Her own voice emerged a conspiratorial whisper. 'How do you get into the apartments?'
Wide with hurt, his stare probed the room, seeking a rift in the glare. '...knew Daddy had keys.' He drew a damp, snuffling breath. '...took the office key. From his pants...after...went and got them.' The soft rasp grated more rapidly now, as though he'd lost some struggle against the need to talk. 'Lights weren't turned off in some of the places, you know, for the winter yet, you know, the electricity, so when the bills came...I just copied his signature on the checks.' He panted, his mouth twitching.
'You forged his signature? That was pretty clever.'
'Used to do it in school anyway. Report cards and stuff. Had to. When I went, I mean.' His voice became a thin croak, and he sounded older now, though his expression remained vulnerable, dreamy, unconnected to his words. 'Stella never went.'
'Never?'
'Went to a special place...for a little while.' Ashamed, he choked it out. 'But Daddy didn't like it.'
The floor felt icy on Steve's bare feet. 'Special how?'
Perry flinched.
'This is your sister you're speaking of?' She wanted to keep him from going silent again. 'No, don't look at him,' she prompted gently. 'Look at me. How was the school special? Don't you like talking about Stella?'
'Did you kill her, Perry?'
'Steve!'
The boy's chest rose, and the expulsion of air seemed to push him limply back against the chair.
She crouched beside him. 'Perry?' For an instant, she thought something flickered in that grimed face, not trust so much as a yearning to trust. 'Why couldn't she go to a regular school?'
He turned away, and his hands locked, the fingers working against each other in a deathly clutch. 'Didn't use to be smart,' he said finally.
'How do you mean?'
The boy shrugged. 'Slow.'
'Used to be?' The pink bedroom in the Chandler house surfaced in her mind--the frills and dolls--preserved like a museum exhibit. 'Is she dead?'
'...still gets like that sometime. Stupid like.'
'Where is she?' Steve barked.
Slow tears glistened on the boy's cheeks, but he didn't cringe.
Lightly, she stroked the back of his hand with her fingertips, admiring the courage of this child. This time, he didn't snatch his hand away, and she clasped his fingers between hers, trying to sooth their tension. They burned, small and damp, and she noticed the scaled-over scratches on the backs, the dirt caked around the fingernails. A killer? This child? What were they thinking?
'...goes back to the house sometimes.' The husking whisper drifted. 'Once...found her at Daddy's office...crying...think sometimes he used to bring her there.'
'Why would he do that?'
The boy didn't answer.
'Did you kill him? Answer me.'
Whatever nebulous feelings had lingered in Perry's expression instantly hardened into hate.
'Steve, maybe we should...'
'Okay, okay,' he stopped her. 'Never mind. We'll chill out a minute. Something's just hitting me, and I can't even believe that...' Lowering himself back onto the desk, he seemed to consider his next words very carefully. 'Jesus, I'm stupid sometimes. You ever have ghosts in your house, Perry?'
'Steve? What...?'
'Did you?' Suddenly, he loomed above the boy, the blanket slipping down. 'Or something like ghosts?' Blood worked to his contorted face. 'I can't believe I didn't see it before.'
She stared: almost naked, enraged, he towered over Perry...and he looked completely deranged. She struggled to sound calm. 'Why would you ask him something like that?'
'Because that's part of it! That's how it starts!' His voice rose ecstatically. 'They don't control it. It just surges out of them. All that power. Answer me, boy. Did things ever move around your house? Move by themselves?'
The thin frame trembled.
'It happened, didn't it? You know what I'm talking about. I can see you do.'
'Stop it.' Her voice quavered. 'You frightened him.'
