by Debra Webb
After things went south between her and Lex, Sarah had come to terms with the idea that she didn’t have the proper foundation for building a relationship. The Popes, the Conners, all had something she didn’t: a childhood that included the necessary pattern for developing relationships.
She hadn’t gotten that from her parents.
Again, Conner attempted to elbow his way into her thoughts. No way. He was one of them. Sure, the sex had been great but that was where their connection began and ended. Besides, on some level his life was just as screwed up as hers, he simply hadn’t recognized it yet.
The last thing either of them needed was each other.
“Did you formally study for your chosen profession?”
Sarah blinked. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Of course she studied,” Pope said to his wife. “Sarah has spent her life analyzing people. My guess is she has it down to a science. Isn’t that right, Sarah?”
“That’s right. College and I didn’t mix.” Probably had something to do with the alcohol and the bad memories of her childhood. She’d leave that part out of the conversation. Not that it mattered. Pope could very well have a copy of her college transcript.
“Are you analyzing us right now?” Lynda searched Sarah’s face. The green eyes were stunning with her black hair and porcelain skin.
The question allowed Sarah’s tension to recede a fraction. She laughed softly, then allowed her face to show just how dead serious she was. “Of course.”
The Popes had a good laugh over that one. But it was the look they shared that gave away the slightest hint of their own tension, at least from the wife.
Sarah made her nervous. Or maybe it was the subject. Not everyone was immune to the emotional impact of murder discussed so casually.
“Which has been your most difficult case?” Pope asked, keeping the conversation moving.
“Definitely the—”
A door slammed in the foyer. Pope pushed to his feet. “It sounds as if the errant offspring has returned.” He glanced at Sarah. “Excuse me.”
“It’s about time.” Lynda watched her husband go, then turned back to Sarah. “You were saying.”
Sarah decided to change her answer. “I think the most difficult case has been this one.”
Lynda looked surprised. “Really? You’ve only been here a couple of days. Has this one proven that unsolvable already? The police are equally puzzled, I hear.”
“Yes. This one has the police bewildered as well. I can’t explain it...but...” Sarah might as well say it. “Nothing is what it seems. I’m certain we’re missing something that’s right under our noses.”
“My, my,” Lynda noted, her tone amused but carefully so, “you’ve been in Youngstown a mere two days and you’ve already found us out.”
“Don’t misunderstand me—”
“No. No.” Lynda held up a hand. “You’re correct in your conclusion.” The polite, collected expression shifted, the change ever so subtle. Her lips tightened. Eyes tapered in unconcealed derision. “Our village is filled with good, decent people but they are very shortsighted and incredibly narrow-minded.”
“That’s a polite way to size it up.” Sarah had found the fire and she wanted to stoke the blaze. She could educate the lady in the ways of small-town America. The smaller the town, the smaller the minds.
“The kids are no different. They run in cliques. You’re either in or you’re not.” Lynda shook her head in something like disgust, then took a long swallow of her wine. “And if you’re not, you’re left out.”
There it was. The jealousy Sarah had expected. Honest human emotion from someone with the cajones to say it out loud.
“Jerri Lynn has never been accepted here.” Lynda stared at the glass in her hand. “I was so disappointed when she didn’t elect to go away to college. A change of venue would have done wonders for her.”
“Moving on to a new place with new faces can certainly do wonders for self-esteem.” Sarah had firsthand experience on the subject.
“That’s exactly my point,” Lynda agreed adamantly. “That’s what I tried to tell her father. She needs real friends. Tagging along after a group that is never going to invite you in or settling for less than what you deserve is self-defeating.”
Sounded as if Mommy wasn’t happy with her daughter’s choices in associates. But then, what mother of a teenager was?
Pope reentered the room, his tardy offspring at his side. “Sarah, this is Jerri Lynn.”
Sarah set her glass aside and stood. “It’s a pleasure, Jerri Lynn.” She offered her hand.
Jerri Lynn shook Sarah’s hand and managed a smile but it was less than enthusiastic. Like her mother, she had the infinitely dark hair but the eyes were more blue, like her father’s, than green.
“Our MIA daughter got caught up in a grief session at the high school auditorium with her friends.”
“It was too sad,” Jerri Lynn said, her expression downtrodden. “Alicia’s brothers were there.” She leaned into her dad. “It was just awful.”
“Are you all right?” Lynda asked, the frustration in her expression softening to concern.
“I suppose.” Jerri Lynn shrugged. “It was just awful, that’s all.”
Pope ushered his daughter to the sofa next to her mother. Sarah resumed her seat.
“As difficult as it was, showing your support was the right thing to do,” her father assured her.
Jerri Lynn abruptly turned to Sarah. “Is it true they were stabbed through the heart?”
Her parents both jumped to scold her for asking such a thing.
Sarah saw no reason to pretend she didn’t know the answer. “I believe that’s correct.” The news had reported that detail. The kids at school were likely talking about it.
“That would be a gross way to die,” the girl said with a shudder.
“I can’t imagine any parent recovering from losing a child,” Pope offered.
Lynda shivered visibly. “I can’t imagine what kind of nightmare this must be for those families.”
“Is it true your mother killed your father, Ms. Newton?” The question caught Sarah so off guard it took her a moment to realize Jerri Lynn had actually posed it aloud.
“Jerri Lynn,” Lynda chastised. “Why would you ask something so personal?”
Pope didn’t reprimand his daughter this time. Instead he appeared equally interested.
“It’s true,” Sarah confessed. She couldn’t expect people to open up to her if she didn’t do the same, but she set the pace and boundaries. It wasn’t like Pope didn’t have a dossier with all the dirty details. “My mother killed my father as well as seven other people.”
“Why?” Jerri Lynn asked in spite of her mother’s obvious mortification.
“Because my father was unfaithful. Over and over again. When she’d had enough, she got even.”
“Wow.” Jerri Lynn scooted to the edge of her seat. “Did you see the bodies?”
“That’s quite enough,” her father cautioned. “Don’t be so forward.”
Sarah shook her head. “It’s all right. The truth is what it is.” She met Jerri Lynn’s curious gaze. “Yes. I saw several. I’ve seen more since. I guess my profession is a little gruesome but it’s what I know better than I know anything else.”
Maybe that was a little more honest than she’d intended to be.
“Do the police have any clues about the killer?” Jerri Lynn wanted to know. “Everybody says they’re totally lost.”
“Unfortunately, no clues yet. But they’ll figure it out.” At least, not unless there was something Sarah didn’t know about yet. She’d been shut out of the Appleton briefing.
“I knew that curse stuff was crap.” Jerri Lynn scoffed at the idea. “The police are just too stupid to figure it out.” A pointed look from her father had her backpedaling. “Sorry. I guess they’re doing the best they can.”
“Do you think this case will go unsolved like the one from t
wenty years ago?” Lynda asked, her own curiosity showing.
Sarah weighed the question. “I think this case will go unsolved until they have some evidence or get extremely lucky.”
The evening dragged on another hour. Sarah used that time to further analyze the Popes. Jerald was difficult to read. Careful. Polite. The daughter was another story. Outspoken. Curious. The mother was a little jaded but honest. Sarah appreciated honesty.
When Sarah announced that it was time for her to go, Pope walked her to the door.
“You are a genuinely fascinating woman, Sarah Newton.” He helped her into her coat.
She’d worn the same black dress from dinner with the Conners. It was the only dress she’d brought on the trip. It was her stock packing item. Wrinkle-free, slinky material. No buttons, no zipper. Just stretchy, clingy material that looked elegant without maintenance.
“Thank you for dinner,” Sarah said to her host. “And for a pleasant distraction.”
“I would like to ask one last question,” Pope said before opening the door for her.
“Ask away.” Sarah looped her bag onto her shoulder.
“Do you believe that who we are is entirely genetic?”
That was easy. “Pretty much.”
“So you ultimately become some version of who your parents are or were?”
Sarah stiffened. She should have seen that one coming.
“To some degree,” she answered carefully, after all, she’d told him to ask, “everyone does.” Her pulse reacted to an adrenaline charge. Her heart pounded. Her muscles tensed with the fight-or-flight response.
“If that’s true”—he pushed the issue when she was more than ready to let it go—“one with the misfortune of being born to parents who kill, could, in fact, become a killer simply by virtue of DNA.”
Sarah couldn’t respond for a pulse-pounding moment. She’d asked herself that question a million times. She’d researched the subject. Read every relevant published journal and book.
And the conclusions were always the same.
She could walk out the door and not answer the question. Instinct compelled her to play along...see where this went.
“Some say,” she ventured, “that we make our own choices regardless of DNA. Their opinion is that those who make the wrong choices use their genetic history as an excuse. Others insist that we do what we’re hardwired to do with no real free choice. Bottom line, in my assessment, inheriting the DNA of a killer puts the potential into play.”
He searched her eyes as if looking for her thoughts beyond her words. “That,” he said finally, “is a very heavy burden to wake up to each morning.”
Yes.
It was.
Chapter 26
Sarah sat at the intersection of Calderwood Lane and Beauchamp Road.
She stared into the mist swirling around her headlights.
Not once, except for maybe when she and Lex parted ways, had Sarah felt the compulsion to kill anyone.
To actually commit the act.
Okay, so she hadn’t really wanted to kill him, but the temptation had crossed her mind. For about two seconds.
But there wasn’t a day that passed that she didn’t wonder if, forced to defend herself, the act would plunge her into a different reality. One where she couldn’t resist the desire to take another life given the proper motivation or not.
Her mother had killed eight people and kept the ongoing activity hidden for a decade.
Sarah’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Her father had been a cheat who cared about no one but himself. For the duration of his short life, if Sarah had her guess. According to her aunt, he’d always been a lying, two-timer.
Sarah’s entire genetic makeup, all that she was...resulted from the combination of deceit, uncontrollable urges, and lies.
She understood, even before her shrink had told her as much, that her past was the reason truth was so intensely important to her. She damned sure hadn’t needed Lex to tell her so.
And Sarah could live with that.
But, if the trigger for one or more of those bad traits—and all addicts had triggers for their vices—was ever tripped, would there be any turning back?
The age at which her hair grayed or wrinkles developed or the propensity for illness kicked in—it was all genetic. The color of her eyes...her hair...her height...every damned thing.
Her mother had been thirty when she’d murdered her first victim. Did that make Sarah’s upcoming birthday a long-buried trigger? Was she more likely to commit the act at that point, the same as she might expect certain physical changes?
If she knew for certain that would happen...was there anything she could or should do about it? Put herself on house arrest? Kill herself before she could kill anyone else?
Did repeat murderers consider killing themselves to stop the compulsion? Or was the power and excitement of the act far too big a rush to miss?
Sarah scrubbed at her eyes. She was definitely losing her perspective, maybe even her mind.
This case hit far too close to home...for reasons she couldn’t yet discern.
Was staying another day, even another minute, a mistake?
Conner had tried to reach her five or six times.
She wasn’t calling him back. He was a distraction she didn’t need.
His family, like the Popes, made her too keenly aware of what she’d missed growing up.
And he, Kale Conner, the good-looking fisherman who’d given up his own future to live out his father’s dream, was some kind of kryptonite to her.
He made her wonder...made her want to be a part of something...
Yet, he was ultimately no better than she. He was faking it, too. Pretending that work was all life was about. No wife, no girlfriend. Just his work to keep him company. Oh, and the dog. How was his life so different from hers?
They weren’t good for each other. He needed her about as much as she needed him.
Taking her foot off the brake, she headed for the inn. Sleep would do her good.
And maybe for once she’d follow the doctor’s orders and take the stupid medicine.
Yeah, right. The ability to function at full capacity was far too important to her.
Chief Willard had shut her out of the investigation. Lex would ensure she didn’t get back in. If new evidence had been discovered, the cops might just eventually find the killer with or without her participation.
Maybe Tae was right and she should go back to New York. If she couldn’t accomplish anything here, why stay? The only mystery that needed to be solved was identifying the scumbag who liked murdering young women.
No spooks, curses, or boogeymen here.
The fog hovering around the harbor obscured the lights, giving it a definite creep factor and seeming to defy her conclusion.
It was too dark to see much of Bay View Cemetery. Just that foreboding black iron fence.
Were the two crows still waiting on Mattie Calder’s headstone?
Sarah shook her head. She’d drifted way off course, intertwining fact with fiction.
Time to set a new one.
The inn stood alone atop that steep hill, the few illuminated windows staring out like pale eyes watching over all of Youngstown.
Tomorrow morning she would need to get a foot in the reverend’s door. Or catch him away from the house. Or the niece. The niece might even be better. She appeared anxious to talk. Possibly to get even with her uncle for whatever he had done to her.
Maybe Sarah would catch Barton Harvey in a good mood and go over a few details with him. Like whether or not he wanted to chase her through the woods again.
Yeah, and maybe it would be a pleasant eighty degrees tomorrow.
Not going to happen unless she hopped a plane south.
Her headlights flashed across a silver vehicle.
Jeep.
Conner was waiting for her.
Anticipation shimmered, warming her in ways that should set off any number of alarms.
But that didn’t happen. Instead, she made excuses for not turning around and driving the other way. Maybe he had news he intended to share on the investigation.
But then he would only give her what the chief had authorized. She could get that on the nightly news.
Sarah parked her car and got out. The Jeep was deserted. She glanced at the inn. He would be waiting for her in the lobby.
Or in her room.
Another rush of heat, this one lower, deeper.
The lobby was closed for the night; a small desk light spread its glow across the registration counter, otherwise the room was dark.
Sarah climbed the stairs, listening to the silence. No television noise. No chatter of conversation. Not even the roar of the oil furnace.
But he was here, she didn’t have to hear him...she felt him.
Sure enough, down the hall, propped in front of her door, was Kale Conner.
His coat lay on the floor at his feet. With his head leaned against the wall and eyes closed, he looked asleep but she knew better.
As she came closer, he lifted his head and turned toward her. She braced for the confrontation.
“You have a message.” He unfolded his arms and held a piece of paper in her direction.
She took the paper in one hand and dug for her key with the other. “Thanks.” The number on the message was her shrink’s. She wadded the note and shoved it into her coat pocket. “You been waiting long?”
He picked up his coat. “Long enough.”
She wondered how long they could dance around the real reason he was here. He would want to know if Lex had told the truth...how she’d managed to survive...et cetera, et cetera.
She didn’t want to talk about it.
In her room, she tossed her bag on the floor by the bed and shrugged off the coat. “Have you been authorized to bring me up to speed on the case?”
“No.”
Well, that was short and direct.
She looked him square in the eyes. “How much do you plan to tell me off the record?” The man had something on his mind. That was certain.
He dropped his coat onto the chair next to the seriously lacking excuse for a minibar. “Everything.”
Surprised, she took a step in his direction. “You’re going to break the rules?”
