A Killer's Mind (Zoe Bentley Mystery #1)(49)

“Mom? Why didn’t you wake me up?” Zoe asked.

“She said you need to sleep,” Andrea squeaked. “And I wanted to sleep too, but she said that I have to wake up, which isn’t fair because I’m also tired—”

Her mother turned around, and Zoe saw the exhaustion on her face. She hadn’t slept well either, it seemed. “Andrea, eat your cereal already. We’re going to be late. Zoe, I thought you might like to stay home today,” she said, trying to insert a fake cheerful tone to her voice.

Zoe thought of her meltdown the day before. “Okay, yeah,” she said hesitantly. “Mom, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“What is it?” Her mother began smearing cream cheese on the toast in angry, sharp strokes.

“Uh . . . can we talk somewhere else?” She glanced pointedly at Andrea.

Her mom glanced at her watch. “I have to go, Zoe. And I think you really should get back to bed. I heard you moving around in your room all night. Let’s talk in the evening.”

“Mom, it’s important.” She lowered her voice. “It’s about the girls who were—”

Her mother’s eyes widened, and she gripped Zoe’s arm tightly. She dragged her out of the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Andrea piped.

“I’ll be back in a minute, sweetie,” their mother said. “Eat your cereal.”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“Andrea, I’ll be right back. And you’re not alone. We’re in the next room.”

Once they were reasonably out of earshot, her mother hissed, “I asked you not to talk about it in front of Andrea.”

“That’s why I said we should talk somewhere private,” Zoe answered, exasperated. “Listen, I had some thoughts last night. About the killings.”

“Honey, it’s perfectly natural to—”

“Mom, listen for a second.”

Her mother became silent. Zoe tried to organize her speech, the thoughts jumbled in her head. Everything had seemed so sharp during the night, but now it just felt like a hazy clutter of half-formed ideas.

“I think I know who the killer might be,” she said in a shaking voice.

Her mother’s eyes widened, but she said nothing.

“A few weeks ago, after Jackie . . . died, I went to Durant Pond.”

“What?” Her mother’s voice came out sharp, furious. “Why did you go there? Did you go with friends? I told you—”

“I went alone, Mom, on my bike. For just a few minutes.”

“Why? Do you want to die like . . . like . . .” Her mother’s lips quivered.

“Mom, listen. I saw Rod Glover there.”

And then she realized that to fully explain to her mother what she was talking about, she’d have to tell her about serial killers masturbating at the crime scene. No. There was no way.

“He was. I mean . . . did you know that serial killers sometimes return to the scene of the crime?” she asked helplessly.

“You think that Rod Glover is the killer?” Her mother stared at her. “Because you saw him at the pond? Zoe, hundreds of people—”

“There’s more,” Zoe hurriedly said. “There’s a checklist for psychopathy. I learned about it . . . in school. And Rod matches some of those traits.”

Her mom straightened. Zoe knew she was losing her. “Like what?”

“Like . . . superficial charm and . . .” She tried to remember the list, but her mind was fuzzy, and she felt panic rising. “He’s weird. I heard you say that to Dad once. You know that he’s weird, right? And he was at the pond. He was . . . he was . . . he told me about a fire, and I think he was lying and—”

“Who are you talking about?” Andrea asked from the kitchen’s doorway.

“No one,” her mother said quickly, her voice strained. “Did you finish your cereal?”

“Not all of it. Some of it is squishy.”

“Okay, go brush your teeth. We need to go.”

Andrea bounced to the bathroom, and their mother turned back to Zoe.

“Listen,” she said quietly. “I understand. Your friend’s sister died, and you’re hurt. We’ll find someone for you to talk to—”

“Mom. It’s not that. She wasn’t even really my friend.”

“But until then”—her mom raised her voice, ignoring the interruption—“I want you to rest, and don’t you dare go anywhere alone. There’s a killer out there, Zoe. Do you understand? He kills young girls like you, and he . . . he . . . rapes them first. I know you think that it can never happen to you, but it can. You can never go anywhere alone until they catch him. Do you get that?”

“But . . . will you tell anyone about Rod Glover?”

“Honey, Rod Glover is a nice man. He’s a bit strange, that’s true, but that doesn’t turn him into a monster.”

“The killer isn’t a monster, Mom. He’s a—”

“Yes, he is,” her mother whispered ferociously. “He’s a monster.”

The spare key to Mr. Glover’s front door turned in the lock smoothly. Her parents and Glover had exchanged keys a year before, in case of an emergency. At the time, it had seemed like a smart move. Glover could drop by and check if her mother left the stove on, a concern that had driven her to return home early on more than one occasion. But now the thought of Rod Glover having a key to her home gave her chills.