Faith let out a long breath. The room felt claustrophobic. It was about to get smaller. Faith thought she had figured out the answer to the question that Will had been asking since they’d tossed around theories in the prison chapel this morning.
She started out gently. “Mr. Caterino, why did you send Daryl Nesbitt those newspaper articles? There was no note, no letter. Just the articles.”
“Because—” he caught himself a second too late. “He still insists he’s innocent. I wanted him to feel as trapped, as helpless, as I do.”
Faith believed that he was trying to torture Daryl Nesbitt, but there was more to the story. “I’m sorry to ask this, but why are you so certain that Daryl Nesbitt isn’t the man who hurt your daughter?”
“I never said—”
“Mr. Caterino, five years ago, you spent good money on lawyers to pay for Daryl Nesbitt’s civil suit against Jeffrey Tolliver’s estate.”
Gerald’s face registered surprise.
She said, “A lot of times, civil cases are used to get police officers on the record so that the evidence can later be used against them in criminal proceedings.”
His lips closed into a tight line.
“Five years ago, you started Beckey’s Facebook page and website,” Faith continued. “For the last five years, you’ve been collecting articles about missing women you think link back to your daughter’s attack.”
“These other women—”
“No.” Faith stopped him again. “You started your investigation five years ago. Some of these cases go back eight years. What made you believe five years ago that Daryl Nesbitt wasn’t the man who attacked Beckey? There had to be a compelling reason.”
Gerald bit his lip to keep it from quivering. He couldn’t stop the tears when they returned.
Faith slowly walked him through it. “You post about a lot of things, Mr. Caterino, but you never post about your son.”
He wiped his eyes. “Heath understands that Beckey has to be the focus.”
Faith didn’t let up. “I’ve noticed all the cameras you’ve got around the house. Inside and out. Is this a dangerous area, Mr. Caterino?”
“The world is a dangerous place.”
“This seems like a very safe neighborhood.” Faith paused. “It makes me wonder what you’re protecting.”
He shrugged defensively. “It’s not against the law to have security cameras and a gate.”
“It’s not,” Faith agreed. “But I wanted to tell you how impressed I am with your little boy. He’s really smart. He’s hitting a lot of benchmarks ahead of time. Has your pediatrician told you that? He’s almost like an eight-year-old.”
“He’ll be seven at Christmas.”
“Right,” she said. “His birthday is about thirty-nine weeks after Beckey was attacked.”
Gerald could only hold her gaze for a few seconds before he looked down at the floor.
“Here’s what I think,” Faith said. “I think that five years ago, Daryl Nesbitt wrote to you from prison.”
The muscles along Gerald’s throat tightened.
“I think you saw that letter, and you realized that Daryl Nesbitt licked the flap to seal the envelope. His saliva was on the back of the stamp.” Faith tried to be as gentle as she could. “Did you test Daryl Nesbitt’s DNA from the envelope, Mr. Caterino?”
Gerald kept his head bent, his chin touching his chest. Tears splattered onto the carpet.
“You know what would scare me, Mr. Caterino? What would make me put up security cameras and gates and fences and sleep with a gun by my bed?”
He took in a deep breath, but still kept his eyes on the floor.
“The thing that would keep me up at night,” Faith said. “Was worrying that the man who attacked my daughter would find out that, nine months later, she gave birth to his son.”
9
Sara looked at the clock on the stove.
7:42 p.m.
Time had slipped away from her while she was taking care of Alexandra McAllister. First, there were the logistics of getting Ezra Ingle to change the official cause of death. Then Amanda had started working with the sheriff’s office to put through the formal requests to allow the GBI to take over. Next, Sara had to transport the body to GBI headquarters so she could perform the autopsy. Then she was dictating her report and signing off on all the evidence and lab orders and forensics. Then a junior medical examiner had asked her to review the autopsy records on Jesus Vasquez, the murdered inmate from the prison riot. Then Sara had sat at her desk for God only knew how long trying to bring some clarity to her endlessly troubling day.
Sara hadn’t registered how late it was until she’d walked out of the building and looked up into the black, moonless sky.
She stood up from the kitchen barstool. The dogs looked up from the couch as she started to pace. Sara felt useless. Tessa was on her way from Grant County with Jeffrey’s files. She’d hit the tail end of rush-hour traffic. There was nothing Sara could do right now but wait. The dogs had been fed and walked. She had straightened up the apartment. She had fixed herself a dinner that she could barely eat. She had turned on the TV, then turned it off. She had done the same with the radio. She was so antsy that her skin itched.
She scooped her phone off the counter. She re-read her last texts to Will: A telephone with a question mark. Then a dinner plate with a question mark. Then a single question mark.
He had not
