A shudder shook Blanche’s thin shoulders, and her stare went blank for a moment.
“Then why?” Blanche asked, her voice filled with immense regret. “Why did you destroy us? Just to punish him?”
Carole straightened her back, shaking off whatever guilt had rubbed onto her. “Can you imagine the scandal, if people would’ve learned that my husband brought a slut’s child to my doorstep?”
“Who would’ve known? And who would’ve cared?” Kay asked, curious to see how Carole’s mind worked. Rarely she had the chance to watch a sociopathic narcissist unravel.
“This is not for people like you to understand,” the woman replied, each word dipped in venom. “I believe I’d asked you to leave. Now, please.”
Kay ignored Carole’s request, staring at the family portrait hanging above the fireplace. Her gut kept nudging her about that image. There was something else she needed to see in that photo, something relevant. She stared at it for a moment, seeing how Bill and Blanche were lost in each other, their foreheads together like she’d seen them the day before, her hands on his face, wiping his tears.
Then Kay looked at Carole, who’d started calling for a housekeeper, pacing the room furiously. The help must’ve been hiding from her, anticipating her rage at the slightest mistake.
The entire situation seemed familiar in a strange kind of way, as if she’d seen it before, only from a vast distance. How? What was her gut trying to tell her?
She closed her eyes for a moment, structuring what she’d seen unravel, what she’d learned about the players. Carole was a narcissist, a malignant one, and a sociopath. She’d abused her children psychologically, but mostly Bill. She’d had them all play her games, but the youngest two had saved themselves and put distance between them and their mother, even if that forfeited their right to inherit. Smart people. Bill and Blanche had stayed, overcome with guilt, yet still in love with each other. Bill’s first romance had been stifled by Carole brutally, who had effectively castrated the young man. He grew up resenting her, never recovering from the trauma he’d suffered at her hands, carrying a burden of guilt and shame for decades.
And he’d raped Shelley Harrelson, evolving into criminal behavior from a young age. Then he’d grabbed her daughter when it had served his purpose, with no remorse and no concern for the family he’d destroyed. Like mother, like son.
She’d confirmed what she’d only suspected before. Bill Caldwell was a psychopath, and he had his mother’s genes and upbringing to thank for it, his trauma, the life of lies she’d built for him. But the nature of the trauma, his fixation with Blanche, his mercurial moods, and the short temper he’d plentifully demonstrated etched the portrait of a serial killer. One who hadn’t discovered himself, one who hadn’t killed yet.
When the next thought rushed through her mind, Kay gasped, feeling a chill run through her veins. What if he had?
“Show me her photo again,” she told Elliot, unable to take her eyes off the portrait. “Your missing kid from Oregon.”
He took out his phone, still holding Bill’s arm with one hand, and brought up Kirsten’s photo, then showed Kay the screen. She looked at the portrait again, and Elliot followed her gaze. Goosebumps churned her skin.
“I’ll be damned, she looks just like Blanche,” Elliot whispered.
Did that mean anything? Was it another coincidence, on top of Bill owning a gray Lincoln? Maybe, but the chances of it being coincidental had just dropped dangerously close to zero.
As if reading her mind, Elliot started typing quickly on his phone’s screen, and moments later, a chime announced a new text message. He tapped the screen again to open it, then showed it to Kay.
The Lincoln Bill Caldwell was driving earlier that day had been tagged in San Francisco under the company name. That’s why it didn’t pop up in the first search.
Coincidence seemed less and less likely. She needed to stir things up a little bit more.
“However disheartening the family drama we’ve witnessed,” Kay said, raising her voice a little to command attention from everyone, “the reason for our visit here is to investigate the death of Bill’s daughter.”
Bill pulled himself away from Blanche and looked at Kay as if he had difficulties remembering he used to have a daughter. He seemed as if he’d been awakened from a trance, his stare vacant and immensely tired, drawn, devastated.
“Where is he?” Kay asked, approaching Bill, inserting herself between him and Blanche, forcing him to focus on her instead. “You paid him then, didn’t you? You paid him to bury the kidnapping case.”
Bill nodded, then lowered his head, staring at the gleaming hardwood floor.
“Where is he?” Kay asked again, grabbing his other arm and shaking him a little, forcing him back to reality. “When she found the locket, and saw the photo, your daughter must’ve reached out to him, asking questions. She must’ve somehow found out who was the detective in the Rose Harrelson kidnapping case, right?” He slowly raised his eyes, looking at her with an unspoken plea to be left alone to grieve. “But Scott couldn’t risk it, could he?” Kay pressed on, feeling in her gut she was getting close. His shoulders had dropped, a sign of relaxed muscles that come with abandonment, with the admission of defeat. She lowered her head to catch his eyes and held his gaze imperatively. “It fits,” she said, some of her words intended for Elliot although she didn’t break eye contact with Bill. “Scott has a military background, and can slice a throat without hesitation. Make no mistake: the cop you paid off fourteen years ago is the killer of your child. And you’re protecting him.”
He stayed silent, seemingly lost in his thoughts.
Then Elliot showed Bill Kirsten’s photo. “How about her?” Elliot
