CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
He’d almost lost her on Interstate 5
but managed to keep a tail on her car from the Marriott—all the way
to a grimylooking pool bar called the Side Pocket on Aurora
Boulevard in North Seattle. The name was on an illuminated sign
advertising Budweiser on the side of a squat one-story, gray
building. BAR—POOL—GAMES—FOOD was painted in big red letters on the
building. Neon signs for Rainier and Corona lit up the only
window—by a red door that had ENTRANCE painted across it in
white.
Pulling over on a side street, he
watched her park the car and walk inside. She wore her sunglasses
and a trench coat. But he could still picture her naked from
forty-five minutes ago, when she’d stood over Jeff Dennehy in that
poolside hotel room.
He counted until two hundred before he
climbed out of his car, cut through the parking lot, and stepped
inside the tavern. Peanut shells littered the floor, and Jimmy
Buffett’s “Come Monday” played over the speakers. The gloomy
place’s only good source of light was above the three pool tables,
where some good old boys were racking them up. No one was playing
darts or pinball at the moment. A few people hunched on their
stools at the charmless bar and only one of the booths was
occupied—by Dennehy’s girlfriend and a lean, swarthy man with shiny
black hair and a pockmarked face. It looked like she was having a
Coke. The man was cracking peanuts and nursing a shot glass of
something with a beer chaser.
At the bar, he ordered a Corona and
paid for it. Dennehy’s girlfriend and the thug she was with didn’t
seem to notice him wandering over to the next booth. He set his
beer down on the varnished wood tabletop.
“No, let’s put a hold on the Lynette
Hahn hit for now,” she was whispering. “She’s still suffering and I
want to prolong that. I may even save you the effort and take care
of her myself. I’ve gotten a taste for it now.”
“Well, if you think I’m giving back
your down payment—”
“Relax, Aldo,” she said, cutting him
off. “You can keep your lousy down payment.”
“You bet I will,” he replied, a bit
huffy. “I still think I should have been paid more for the Alder
Court job. . . .”
Sipping his Corona, the man in the next
booth listened carefully. This was what he’d wanted to
hear.
“I was paid to take care of only one
person, not three. And that teenage bitch bit me, too. I should get
workman’s compensation.”
“It was just supposed to be Angela in
the house that night,” she replied. “I had no idea they’d canceled
that field trip for her boyfriend’s daughter. You’re right when you
say the job was only for one. But you should have aborted instead
of doing all three of them.”
“I think I was pretty damn creative,
making it look like another cul-de-sac killing,” the thug bragged.
“And the cops are none the wiser.”
The man in the next booth took a peanut
from the basket on his table and cracked it open. So—his copycat
was a hired killer named Aldo, and he was working for Jeff
Dennehy’s girlfriend—or former girlfriend. From the look of things
back in that hotel room, he was pretty certain Jeff Dennehy was
dead.
“You know”—the woman sighed—“a simple
robberymurder setup—like the one you pulled on my late
husband—would have been infinitely better. Copying a high-profile
murder spree only invites a more scrupulous police investigation. I
think your ‘creativity’ there is going to turn around and bite you
on the ass.”
In the booth behind her, the man
grinned. He kind of liked her. She was very astute.
“Well, if you’re not happy with my
work,” Aldo was saying, “maybe you should hire someone else to
handle the Dennehy woman and the two kids.”
“I don’t want to close the door on our
relationship yet, Aldo,” she replied. “But you’re right about Molly
and the two kids. I think I want to handle them myself. Like I
said, I’ve developed a taste for it now.”
He didn’t linger. He’d heard enough to
know who had imitated his work and why. Dennehy’s girlfriend and
Aldo didn’t seem to notice him when he scooted out of the booth and
ambled to the doorway.
Even with the overcast skies, it seemed
bright outside compared to the gloomy bar. He returned to his car
and waited there.
She stepped out—alone—ten minutes
later. She put on her sunglasses and headed to her car. He watched
her drive off. He didn’t need to follow her. He already knew where
she lived.
He stuck around for Aldo, who remained
inside the Side Pocket for the next few hours. It grew darker, the
streetlights went on, and the tavern’s parking lot became more
crowded. Under the car seat, he kept a small hunting knife, the
same one he often used when cleaning a house. He took it out and
admired it several times while waiting for his prey.
At 8:20, Aldo finally came out from
behind the bar’s red door. He weaved a bit as he walked to his car,
but he didn’t seem too drunk.
The man followed Aldo’s black BMW down
Aurora to a Jack in the Box. Aldo used the drive-thru, and then he
continued down Aurora. Eventually, he turned onto a side street and
pulled into the driveway of a tall apartment complex. It was
comprised of three buildings that were connected, but varied in
style and color—like something out of Disneyland. A beige cedar
shaker was sandwiched between two Cape Cods, one moss green and one
rose colored. Aldo parked his BMW alongside the rose-colored
building.
Meanwhile, the man pulled into a spot
in front reserved for visitors. He waited until Aldo started down
the walkway to the center building, and then he hurried out of the
car. He caught the lobby door before Aldo let it swing shut behind
him. “Thanks,” he said, though Aldo paid no attention to him. He
guessed from the size of the Jack in the Box bag in Aldo’s hand
that the hired killer wasn’t having dinner with anyone else
tonight.
He touched the knife concealed inside
his jacket while Aldo checked his mailbox in the lobby. With his
back to Aldo, the man pressed the button for the
elevator.
It arrived a bit too soon. Aldo was
still getting his mail.
The man waited, and then the elevator
door started to shut. He grabbed it, stepped inside, and held it
open. “Going up?” the man called to Aldo.
Mail in one hand and the Jack in the
Box bag in the other, he nodded. “Yeah, hold it,” he grunted,
trotting toward the elevator. “Thanks,” Aldo said, stepping inside.
“Could you hit four?”
“That’s where I’m going, too,” he said,
pressing the button for the fourth floor.
They rode up in silence. The man stared
up at the lighted numbers above the door.
As they passed the third floor, he
turned to Aldo. “Say, do you know me?” he asked.
Aldo narrowed his eyes at him. “No,
why? Should I?”
He waited until the elevator door
opened on the fourth floor. He nodded for Aldo to go first. “No,
you shouldn’t know me,” he said, walking with him down the dimly
lit corridor. The carpet was pale green. Somebody had a potted
plant outside their door; another tenant had one of those
catscratching poles. He and Aldo were the only ones in the hallway.
He could hear a TV blaring in a nearby apartment.
“In fact,” he continued, reaching
inside his jacket, “you don’t know me at all. So you really have no
business imitating my work.”
Aldo turned to stare at him. “What the
fuck?”
Then he suddenly seemed to realize just
who he was talking to. Aldo’s eyes widened as he stared at him. He
didn’t appear to notice the hunting knife—not until it was too
late, not until the sharp blade slashed across his
throat.
Blood began to gush down his neck to
his shirt. The envelopes in his hand fluttered to the floor, while
his other hand crushed the Jack in the Box bag against his chest.
Several fries spilled out. He slumped against the wall, and his
legs started to give out from under him.
Knocking the fast-food bag out of
Aldo’s grasp, the man began to search his pockets while Aldo was
still vertical. He wanted to make sure there was nothing on Aldo’s
person linking him to the woman on Willow Tree Court. He took
Aldo’s wallet and his cell phone.
His face a bluish-gray, Aldo numbly
stared at him and blinked a few times.
Blood drops dotted the fast-food bag,
the scattered envelopes, and the pale green carpet. The man was
careful not to get any on his hands. He let Aldo drop to the
floor.
He didn’t wait for the elevator. He
took the stairs, moving at a brisk clip. But he didn’t run. On his
way down to the lobby, he thought about Jeff Dennehy’s girlfriend.
After listening to their conversation in the tavern, he guessed she
was finished with Aldo and no longer had any use for him. In fact,
he had a feeling he’d beaten her to the punch with
Aldo.
He hoped the hired killer didn’t have
anything in his apartment or in a safe deposit box that showed
she’d paid him to carry out those killings.
As far as the man was concerned, it
just wouldn’t do to have the police sniffing around Willow Tree
Court. No, it just wouldn’t do.
He’d made up his mind. He still had
some work there.
He had a house to clean.
Molly tossed what remained of the
chicken casserole into the garbage disposer. There was still one
good-sized portion Jeff could have eaten. She’d cooked dinner for
his children tonight, and covered for him, too. She’d told Chris
and Erin that their father had an “after-work thing.” Now, it was
eight o’clock, and he wasn’t home. He hadn’t even phoned. She’d
tried his cell several times since early this afternoon, but it
kept going to voice mail.
Let the lying, cheating
son of a bitch fend for himself, she figured, flicking on
the switch for the disposer. With a loud roar, it ground up what
could have been his dinner. Then she shut it off and went back to
washing the dinner dishes. Chris was upstairs in his room, and Erin
sat at the kitchen table, doing homework with the big TV
on.
So—where was their father?
Standing over the sink, she wondered if
Angela had put up with this kind of crap. She had a whole new
sympathy for Jeff’s late ex-wife.
She wasn’t sure what to do. Though
she’d had her rough patches with Chris, she was very fond of Jeff’s
kids. She hated the idea of them being without a mother. And she
hated the idea of her baby being without a father. After leaving
Jeff’s office, she’d come home and worked on her cola painting all
afternoon. She’d figured she might have to start earning money to
support herself—and her baby.
She was loading the dishwasher with the
last of the glasses when the doorbell rang. Grabbing a dish towel,
she dried off her hands and then headed to the door. She checked
the peephole and saw Chet Blazevich standing on her front stoop.
The last time he’d been there was the night after Angela was
murdered.
Molly unlocked the door and opened it.
“Well,” she said.
“Hi,” he said. “Is Mr. Dennehy home?”
He seemed distracted by something behind her.
Molly glanced over her shoulder and saw
that Chris was at the top of the stairs, staring down at them.
“It’s okay, Chris,” she said. “I’ve got it. . . .”
He frowned a bit, then turned and
headed back toward his room.
Molly worked up a smile for the cop.
“I’m sorry, but Jeff isn’t here. I’m not really sure when he’ll be
back—soon, I hope.” She opened the door wider. “I’m sorry. Would
you like to come in?”
“Thanks.” He stepped inside. He wore an
old tweed jacket with jeans and a loosened tie.
Erin came into the hallway from the
kitchen. “Molly, can I have an ice cream sandwich?”
“Are you done with your
homework?”
She nodded.
“Okay, but just one,” Molly
said.
Erin didn’t seem interested in an
introduction to Chet Blazevich. She turned and scurried back to the
kitchen. Molly led him into the living room and nodded at the easy
chair. “Can I get you something? Coffee or water? An ice cream
sandwich?”
“Thank you anyway,” he said, with a
nervous laugh. He sat down in the chair.
Molly settled at one end of the sofa.
“What did you want to see my husband about?”
“Well, there’s been some confusion
about where he was the night the former Mrs. Dennehy was
killed.”
Molly didn’t say anything.
“We checked with the Hilton in
Washington, D.C.,” Blazevich explained. “In fact, we checked with
all of the Hiltons in D.C., and your husband wasn’t staying at any
of them.”
Molly shifted on the sofa. “Is it
really so important where he was?”
“It might be,” Blazevich said. “We’re
now considering the possibility that the Alder Court murders
weren’t the work of the Cul-de-sac Killer. . . .”
Molly stared at him. “You mean, they
think it was some sort of—copycat killing?”
He nodded. “It’s looking more like
that, yes.”
“What makes them think
so?”
He let out a wary sigh. “Without
getting into too many details, Molly, the Cul-de-sac Killer is
quite neat and deliberate—methodical. In the houses where he had
struck, most of the blood has been inside or around the closets
where the bodies were found. With these multiple slayings, it
appears he ties up the victims, puts them in their respective
closets—and then takes his sweet time with them, one by
one.”
Wincing, Molly felt gooseflesh
prickling on her arms, and she nervously rubbed them. She’d read an
account of the murders that indicated as much. But it was still
unsettling to hear someone say it.
“From the looks of things inside the
house on Alder Court,” Blazevich continued, “they were all killed
very quickly, almost haphazardly. I saw photos of the scene, and it
was a mess. There was blood all over the kitchen. They think Taylor
Keegan almost got away—or at least, she put up a good fight. Her
body was stashed in the kitchen pantry. She hadn’t been tied up at
all.” He shook his head. “That’s another thing. The Cul-de-sac
Killer rarely kills anyone on the first floor. The only
exception—until Taylor—was Kurt Fontaine, who was murdered along
with his wife in the Madrona neighborhood. They found his body in a
coat closet on the first floor. But all of his other killings have
taken place on the upper levels of the victims’ homes. The
Cul-de-sac Killer would have tied up Taylor Keegan and put her in
her bedroom closet upstairs. He wouldn’t have killed her in the
kitchen.”
“Jeff isn’t a suspect, is he?” Molly
whispered.
“Not really,” he replied. “But—well,
let’s just say that he’ll have to account for where he was that
night—for both the police and the press.”
Molly’s eyes searched his, and all at
once she realized something. He knew.
The police had to know Jeff was at the
Chateau Granville Hotel in Vancouver the night Angela was killed.
They’d obviously checked his story about having stayed at the
Capital Hilton in D.C., and known it was a lie from the start. All
it would have taken was a check of his credit card records—just as
she’d done. The police had probably figured out a lot sooner than
she had that Jeff had been wining, dining, and screwing some woman
in Vancouver the night his ex-wife was butchered. Maybe Jeff had
used his connections to get investigators to clam up about his
little indiscretion. Or perhaps the cops had decided to do him a
favor and not expose him as a lying, cheating scumbag. For a while,
there was really no reason for him to get his alibi straight—as
long as they knew the truth. But soon the murders of Angela, Larry,
and his daughter would no longer be considered another cul-de-sac
killing—and Jeff’s lying about where he was that night would become
a major issue—and an embarrassment. The press would eat it
up.
Molly locked eyes with Chet Blazevich
again. She realized he was doing her a favor, bracing her for the
potential scandal. “Can I ask you something?” she whispered. “Is
this an official police visit or did you come here on your
own?”
Blushing, he gave a little shrug. “I
came here on my own,” he admitted. “So this visit is very
unofficial.”
“You’re looking after me, aren’t you?”
she asked. “You don’t want to see me get hurt.”
He nodded. “I think you’ve been hurt
enough, Molly. I think you deserve a break. And I think that
husband of yours must have rocks in his head.”
Molly reached over and put her hand on
his arm. “Thank you, Chet. Thank you, very much.”
Chris stood at the railing by the top
of the stairs. He couldn’t see them down in the living room. But he
could hear them pretty well—when they weren’t whispering. He’d
gotten the gist of their discussion.
Molly and the cop were talking about
his dad. He hadn’t been where he said he was the night of the
murders. Chris remembered something his mother had said:
“Every time he goes out of town, it’s just another
opportunity for him to screw whomever he wants. . . .” Was
that what he’d been doing the night she was killed?
Last night, Molly had stormed out of
the house, telling them they could get their own dinner. She’d said
something to him before she left, too—something about not being
able to get a straight answer from his dad. Chris had thought at
the time that she almost sounded like his mom used to.
The cop claimed his dad wasn’t really a
suspect, but in all the TV crime shows, the cops always said that
about the guy they ended up arresting. Chris knew his dad was
capable of a lot of things, but not murder.
Right now, Molly and the cop were
whispering back and forth. It was kind of weird the way they called
each other by their first names. Their voices got a little louder,
and he spotted them downstairs stepping into the foyer from the
living room.
Chris quickly stepped back so they
wouldn’t see him. He heard the front door click open while they
murmured to each other. After a few moments, the door shut, and the
lock clicked. He was about to head back into his room, but he
hesitated. He heard her crying down there. Chris moved to the top
of the stairs. “Are you okay?” he called to her.
She quickly wiped her eyes and glanced
up at him. “I’m fine, Chris.”
“What did that guy want?”
“Oh, he’s a policeman,” she said, her
voice a little shaky. “He just wanted to follow up on some stuff
about the prowler I spotted in the backyard
yesterday.”
He couldn’t help frowning at her for
lying—again. His dad wasn’t the only one who didn’t give straight
answers. The other night, Mrs. Hahn had said everyone’s troubles
started when Molly had moved onto the cul-de-sac. She kind of had a
point.
Chris wished he could run around the
track with Mr. Corson after school tomorrow. Everything in his life
was falling apart again, and he missed his counselor.
He turned and headed into his bedroom,
leaving the door open a crack. He wanted to hear when his dad came
home.
A few minutes later, Erin stomped
upstairs and got ready for bed.
While his sister was in the bathroom,
he heard Molly coming up the steps. He crept to his door and saw
her from behind—going down the hall toward the master bedroom. She
was carrying a steak knife. She held it tight against her side—like
she was trying to hide it in case he or Erin spotted
her.
He watched Molly duck into the master
bedroom and close the door.
At 9:05, someone gently knocked on the
front door.
Molly jumped up from the sofa in the
family room. By now, she was convinced something awful had happened
to Jeff. She’d been waiting for the sound of his key in the
door.
He wouldn’t have knocked.
Hurrying down the hall, she checked the
peephole. Rachel stood on the other side of the door. Molly
unlocked the door and flung it open. “Hi,” she said a little
breathless.
“Sorry to drop by so late,” she said,
wincing. She wore jeans and had a cardigan over her pink T-shirt.
“I saw your lights were on, and I—well, I just got another call
from that freaky woman.”
“Oh God, come in,” Molly said, stepping
aside for her.
“You must think I’m such a baby,”
Rachel said. “But after that creepy guy in the backyard yesterday,
I’m so jumpy it’s not even funny.”
Molly motioned to her. “Please, come
in,” she said again.
Rachel stepped into the foyer. “I’m
pretty sure it was the same nutcase,” she said. “The phone rang,
and I saw the number was blocked. But I picked it up anyway, and
this raspy, weird breathing came on the other end. They didn’t say
anything. Like an idiot, I kept asking, ‘Who is this?’ Then they
hung up.” She rubbed her forehead. “It’s silly of me to get so
scared. I’m sorry to bother you. I hope I didn’t wake anyone
up.”
Molly shook her head. “No, it’s fine.
Erin’s in bed, reading, and I think Chris is taking a shower. In
fact, I could use a friend just about now. . . .” Molly couldn’t
help it. She started crying.
“You poor thing, what’s going on?”
Rachel asked.
“Jeff still hasn’t come home from work
yet,” she admitted. She led Rachel into the living room, where they
sat down on the sofa together. “I’m so worried about him—and so mad
at him! I have no idea where he is. I talked to his assistant. Jeff
took off from work at noon, and he never came back. I keep calling
his cell, and I keep getting his damn voice mail. . .
.”
Even though she didn’t give Rachel the
whole story, it felt good to cry on someone’s shoulder. Molly went
through three Kleenexes from the pockets of her jeans. She was just
wiping her eyes, when she heard Chris coming down the
stairs.
“Dad?” he called. He rounded the corner
and stopped at the living room entrance. “Oh, hi,” he said to
Rachel. “I thought you were my dad. . . .”
“Well, there’s my hero,” Rachel said,
“the handsomest fireman in North Seattle. Chris, could you do us a
huge favor, and pour Molly a great big glass of wine?” She patted
her arm. “That’ll help take the edge off. What do you want, white
or red?”
“No, I can’t,” Molly said, shaking her
head. “I—thanks anyway, no.”
Rachel gave her a look. Then she turned
and smiled at Chris. “Never mind, honey. We’ll give a yell if we
need you.”
He nodded. “I’ll be downstairs,
watching TV.” Then he headed toward the kitchen.
“He’s a sweetie pie,” Rachel
said.
Molly just nodded. She heard the
basement door yawn open, and then Chris’s footsteps on the
stairs.
Rachel took hold of her hand.
“So—what’s going on with the no wine?” she whispered. “Are you
pregnant?”
Molly hesitated, and then nodded.
“Nobody else knows yet,” she said, her voice still hoarse from
crying.
“Oh, that’s so exciting!” Rachel
whispered, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. “And guess
what?”
Molly numbly gazed at her and
shrugged.
“I’m pregnant, too, Molly!” Laughing,
she squeezed her hand. “I’m about eight weeks along. That’s what I
get for sex with the ex. But I’m keeping it. . . .”
“Well, congratulations,” Molly said,
with a dazed smile. But then she started to cry again. “I’m sorry.
I’m happy for you, really. But I’m such a mess right now. I’m just
so worried about Jeff, and so uncertain about everything. . .
.”
“You’re just so
hormonal, is what’s going on,” Rachel said. She dug into her
pocket, pulled out a tissue, and handed it to Molly. “Believe me, I
know. I’m going through the exact same thing. Every day I’m on an
emotional rollercoaster ride. And nauseous? Let me tell you, I’ve
got a tiger in my tank.”
Molly blew her nose, and leaned back on
the sofa. She laughed.
“Don’t worry,” Rachel said. “I’m sure
Jeff will be home soon.” She leaned back on the couch so they were
shoulder to shoulder. She took Molly’s hand and placed it over her
belly, and then she put her hand over Molly’s belly. “Meanwhile,
the four of us will all wait up for him.”
“Rachel, thank you,” Molly whispered.
“I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here. . . .”
Maria was listening to “Walking on
Sunshine” on her iPod, and she was in a pretty good mood that
Saturday morning. The guest who had checked out of room 102 had
left a five-dollar bill on the TV—along with a Thank You! scribbled on the notepad. Plus they’d left
behind a People magazine, two unopened cans
of Coke, and an unopened bag of Cheetos. Not a bad
haul.
Wheeling her cart to the next room down
the hall, she noticed there wasn’t a sign on the door. Putting her
iPod on pause, she plucked out her earplugs, took out her passkey,
and knocked. “Housekeeping!” she called.
There was no response. Maria unlocked
the door with her passkey, then propped it open with the cart. “Oh,
phew,” she grumbled. Every once in a while she got a really smelly
room. This one was a mess, too. The bedspread and sheets had been
pulled off the mattress and strewn onto the floor. On the
nightstand were a glass, a tipped-over ice bucket, and some powdery
substance that had to be drugs. The flickering TV was on the adult
channel menu.
Maria started across the room so she
could open the sliding glass door. She stepped on something lumpy
beneath the white sheet. She almost tripped over it. That was when
Maria noticed the blue-gray hand sticking out from that
sheet.
She realized she’d just stepped on
someone’s arm. Then she saw the man, lying there naked on the
floor. Maria screamed so loud she might have woken the
dead.
But she didn’t.
The clipping from Jeff’s T-shirt was
under the doll’s right leg—just where she’d left the shirt. One of
the dark-haired doll’s little arms was covered with the miniature
bedsheet.
She was almost finished with the
hotel-room scene, which was slightly bigger than a large shoe box.
It just needed a few more flourishes. She’d gotten a head start on
the project. She’d been in several hotel rooms with Jeff, and they
all looked alike after a while. She just needed to capture the
essence of it. She was particularly proud of the tiny light that
flickered in the miniature TV. It cast an interesting shadow on the
nude doll when she turned off the lights in her workroom. She could
imagine it was how Jeff looked last night, on the floor of the
hotel room—nothing on but the TV.
And nothing on
him, she thought. She was toying with the idea of drawing on
the doll to make it anatomically correct and accentuate the nudity.
And the thought of drawing a penis on the doll gave her a
melancholy smile. She would miss him in bed. She’d have to do Jeff
justice with her rendering.
Justice, she
thought, gazing at the unfinished Dennehy dollhouse on her
worktable.
Her cell phone rang. It was also on the
worktable.
She checked the caller ID and let out
an exasperated sigh. She answered it anyway. “Hi, Elaine,” she
said. “Now really isn’t a good time.”
“Well, Jenna,” her sister said on the
other end. “Why don’t you tell that to your son? He asked me twice
today when you’re coming to see him.”
“I’ll be there next weekend, I
promise,” she said. “In fact, let me tell him myself. Is he there?
Can you put him on?”
She heard her sister mumbling
something, and then after a minute: “Hello, Mommy?”
“Hi, Todd,” she said, tearing up a
little. “How’s my guy?”
“I just killed a bug,” he
said.
She smiled. “I killed one yesterday. Do
you miss me?”
There was no response on the other end,
and she knew he was nodding. He still did that over the phone
sometimes. “When are you coming back, Mommy?” he asked,
finally.
“Soon, maybe next weekend,” she said.
“And we’ll definitely be together for Thanksgiving, don’t you
worry. My work here is almost done. Sweetheart, can you keep a
secret?”
“Yes!” he replied eagerly.
“You can’t even tell Aunt Elaine. Cross
your heart. Did you cross it, honey?”
Again, silence. She knew he was
nodding.
“Next time you see me, I might be
bringing you a sister. She’s a little older than you, and she’s
very sweet. Her daddy just died yesterday. . . .”
Jenna Corson wandered back to her
worktable and the Dennehy dollhouse. She put her hand on the roof.
“And her brother and stepmother will be dead soon, too. She’ll be
all alone. So we’re going to be her new family. Won’t that be nice,
sweetheart? Won’t that be lovely?”
She listened to the silence and knew
what it meant.