“Here,” Shelley said, breaking thesilence and pulling Zoe out of her spiraling thoughts. “I have something.”
Zoe got up, and if she wiped her handsacross her eyes as she went over to Shelley’s chair, surely it was just to ridherself of a speck of dust or the strain of looking at a computer screen. “Whatis it?”
“Just over a month ago. There was an oldman, ninety years old. He was a Holocaust survivor. It says so right here, inhis obituary.”
Zoe leaned in, peering at the screen.There was a photograph accompanying the obituary, which declared in capitalletters that it was for a man named Zeke Rosenhart. He was old already in theimage, white-haired, but standing tall and proud. On his arm, Zoe could justmake out the serial number tattoo, though the picture was far too small andlow-quality to be able to read what it said.
“Zeke is remembered by his daughter,Olivia, his son-in-law, Mike, and his granddaughter, Chrissie,” Shelley readaloud. “It could be her, couldn’t it? Chrissie. She’s the right age group to beinterested in the trend. She has that close relationship. It could be her.”
Zoe bit her lip. There was no way totell. Not for certain. It could be her, but it could be that this was just thefirst red herring in a long line of many. There was no telling how many otherHolocaust survivors just happened to have lived and died in LA in the last fewmonths—never mind about those who died out of state but whose grandchildrenwere studying or working here.
It was the very definition of a longshot.
“I will look up his name and see if Ican find out his prisoner number, see if it fits the pattern,” Zoe said. “Youlook up Chrissie Rosenhart. If you can find her picture, you can show it toFranks. See if he recognizes her.”
“We’re going to have to let Franks gosoon,” Shelley said. “I think you and I are both in agreement now that he didn’tdo this, and you’re right about the lack of evidence. We’re going to have tolet him go.”
“Then we had better hope that this isthe right girl,” Zoe said. “Or that we manage to find someone who is before itis too late.”
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
He had been waiting in the dark for solong. The only thing he dared to do was to change his position, stealingsilently across the room until he could stand behind the door. It was the idlehiding point, even if it was a terrible cliché.
He could just see through the crackbetween the door and the frame, make out the slice of light that spilled out ofthe front room and into the hall. It was lucky that he had chosen to hide inthe office room, which seemed to be more or less abandoned. In the chip oflight that illuminated his surroundings, he could make out textbooks onshelves, volumes on nursing and medical practices. It was just pure irony thatsomeone about to put an evil, cursed mark on themselves should be a nurse. Hewas about to do her a favor. If she really wanted to help others, then shewouldn’t want to infect them with the burden that she carried.
He had been waiting for such a longtime, and his legs were stiff and sore from the lack of movement. Standingupright in the same position for so long was tiring, even if it seemed torequire little energy. He had managed to move to a position where he could leanhis back against the wall, under the cover of a loud burst of laughter from astudio audience on the show she was watching with her friends, but the paintedsurface was cold and hard against his skin.
He now regretted getting into positionbefore she came home. He should have learned from the last one. Stupid, stupid,stupid. The one thing that could always mess up even the most perfect of planswas the randomness of humanity, the way they could follow a set routine everyday of their lives for years without deviation and then throw it all down thedrain on a whim. He had been listening to their inane talk as they laughed andwatched show after show, some ridiculous reality concept that they were allheavily emotionally invested in. Flinching every time one of them walked by inthe hall, on the way to the kitchen or the bathroom. Wishing they would allleave.
Either the friends would all go and hecould finally strike, or she would go with them, and at least then he couldslip out. Live to fight another day. This waiting, this long, dry waiting, wasinterminable. He thought of his car, parked down the street, maybe attractingsuspicion. Maybe in front of the wrong house, causing a problem for others whowanted to park their own vehicles.
He couldn’t be caught here. He couldn’t.
Hours had passed; he knew it because ofhow many episodes they had watched. But at last he heard the closing creditmusic again, now familiar to him, and there was an abrupt change in the noiseas the television set went dead.
Now there was conversation only, voicesoverlapping in sweet entreaties to have a safe journey home and to come overagain soon. Through the crack in the doorframe, he caught a glimpse of femalebodies embracing, pulling apart, moving to embrace again in a newconfiguration.
He could hear them so clearly. He pulledaway from the crack, not wanting them to be able to glance over and see his eyesshining back. His heart pounded in his chest in rapid time as he listened totheir words and movements, and even felt the blow as one of them bumped intothe other side of the wall he was leaning
