A Killer's Mind (Zoe Bentley Mystery #1)(36)

He wanted to spend the rest of his days with her. Could he really afford to skimp on formaldehyde? Wouldn’t a little rigidity be worth ten more years in her company?

He smiled to himself, imagining getting old with her by his side. Spending the cold winters cuddled on the couch, covered in a blanket, watching TV together. Lying in bed, her head leaning against his chest, a book in her hand as he hugged her waist. Sitting by the dinner table, telling her about his day as she listened with adoring affection. He was surprised to realize that he had a tear in his eye. He was so happy.

He definitely needed to get some more formaldehyde.

He glanced at his watch. Too late to do it this evening. He would have to get some tomorrow.

A twinge of impatience nearly made him change his mind. He glanced at the noose on the table, imagined it tightening around her throat. The final spasm as life fled her body. He felt the tightening in his pants as he thought of her inert body, at his mercy. He turned back to the formaldehyde bottle. Surely it was enough. He picked up the bottle, his hand trembling with excitement.

No. He would spend the next few decades with this woman. He could wait another day. He put the bottle down, taking a deep breath. Tomorrow. He would do it tomorrow.

He thought of opening the door and apologizing for the delay, but he doubted she’d be very understanding. None of them were, before the procedure.

Instead, he left the workshop, locking the door behind him. He was glad to notice that her faint screams couldn’t be heard at all beyond the walls.





CHAPTER 24

Maynard, Massachusetts, Sunday, December 14, 1997

Zoe stared at the open coffin, trying to feel what she was probably supposed to. Grief, horror, fear.

All she felt was emptiness and regret for not going to the bathroom earlier.

When the principal had walked into class two days before, informing them that Nora’s big sister, Clara, had been killed, Zoe heard the kids around her sobbing, screaming, whispering in shock. She could only gaze at the principal’s red eyes, thinking she had never seen him cry before.

Nora was her age, was in most of her classes. Zoe had been to her house three times when she was much younger. They had been friends when they were six years old. She had hazy memories of Clara, then a beautiful ten-year-old girl whom Nora had idolized.

Zoe was worried about her own reaction. She had been borrowing books about serial killers lately and reading a lot about psychopaths. People who had no empathy for other human beings. There were a surprising number of psychopaths. One percent of the general population. Was she a psychopath? Was that why she couldn’t feel anything for Clara? Was that why she hadn’t shed a tear for Nora’s suffering? Her mother cried by her side, and she didn’t know Nora or Clara as well as Zoe did. The chapel was full of people crying, their sobs echoing in the spacious hall. Zoe tried to make herself cry, tried to think how Nora felt right then. Clara, her only sister, taken by the Maynard serial killer. Raped and killed, discarded like trash in the Assabet River.

Nothing.

The school counselor had told them that all reactions were normal, that people experienced grief in different ways. But surely she didn’t mean not having any reaction at all. That was not normal. And obsessing about a murderer, collecting all the articles that mentioned him—that wasn’t normal either; she was certain of it.

When it was time, she made herself approach the coffin, look at Clara’s face. Only four years older than her, killed brutally.

Clara didn’t look like someone who had been killed brutally. She looked as if she were asleep.

Zoe turned away, facing a crowd of teary eyes, searching for anyone who, like her, felt absolutely nothing. Some small kids seemed quite calm. They couldn’t understand what was going on. But every adult face Zoe glanced at was full of tears or seemed as if it were on the brink.

She started heading outside. Her mother followed her, stroking her hair.

A small hand grabbed her own. She looked down at Andrea, who walked by her side, her face serious. Did Andrea know what was going on? She was sleeping in Zoe’s bed every night now. She knew something was very wrong.

The world was white, snow carpeting the chapel’s yard, covering the trees, the grass, a thin layer of snow on the low wall that stood between the yard and the street. She followed her parents to the car, everyone completely silent. Got into the car. Heard the engine start, its sound strangely muffled. She felt lightheaded, almost somewhere else.

No tears in her. No empathy. Just like the killer.

Andrea laid her head against Zoe’s arm as they rode home. She played with Zoe’s fingers, like she sometimes did at night, caressing Zoe’s thumb over and over. Zoe said nothing, even though it tickled.

The car ride was quick, like every ride inside the tiny town. When they reached home and got out, Zoe couldn’t figure out why the world kept tilting.

And then she was kneeling on the ground, throwing up her breakfast, her heart beating fast. Her mother pulled back her hair, talking, but she couldn’t understand the words. They seemed to blend into each other, and she was coughing and spitting, looking at the lumpy yellow sludge spattered on the snow, trembling violently.

Zoe checked the time again. It was seventeen past two in the morning, and she suspected sleep would not come, ever. Andrea was curled by her side, the blanket covering her up to her neck, a loose strand of hair dangling on her cheek. Zoe had gotten used to sleeping on half a bed. She hardly minded it anymore.