The Row(41)

“I’ve been arguing for that evidence because I believe my own dad is a good cop.” He lowers his chin and finishes, “I think your father is probably guilty, but with this new murder, I’m really not sure right now. And I definitely don’t hope he is.”

I force myself not to flinch when Jordan says those words. I’m used to everyone thinking that Daddy killed people, but I’ve learned not to get close to people who believe that, and this is why—no matter how I prepare myself for it, it hurts to hear them say it. I don’t blame Jordan for it, but it still stings.

I push aside the pain by pointing to a different note I have written down. “Okay, so this evidence could speak to his guilt because all of the victims of the East End Killer are blond, attractive women in their thirties.” This is a good place to start. It’s one piece of evidence for which I remember the reasoning of the prosecution at trial very clearly.

Jordan switches gears, too, having no problem keeping up. He takes the notepad from my hand, frowning as he reads through it. “But it really means nothing, because thousands of men across Houston are attracted to women like this.”

“It’s common for serial killers to have a person they fixate on and then for them to kill people who look similar. In this case, evidence suggests he has a carefully constructed f-fa?ade.” I falter for only an instant and then push forward with the prosecution’s words that still haunt my nightmares sometimes. “An intricate smokescreen of a life that he cares greatly about protecting. He feels a great desire to kill his fixation, but it would threaten his lifestyle. So he replaces her and kills these victims to satisfy that urge.”

I organize the papers in front of me into a pile and make sure no emotions show on my face. He looks sad, but the expression disappears the moment my eyes meet his and I’m grateful.

“You’re talking about his wife,” Jordan says, carefully following my wording to leave any mention of my relationships with these people out of our conversation and again I’m filled with a brief rush of gratitude.

“Yes.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Jordan says simply. Hearing him truly defend my dad is so unexpected that my jaw falls slightly open. “The argument could just as easily be made that this victim profile makes him an unlikely suspect. He and his wife have a good relationship, a happy marriage. She hasn’t cheated—that anyone knows of. There has been no evidence of any reason he should have that kind of anger toward her.”

He shrugs at the end and waits for me to refute him, but I’m too overwhelmed to speak or say anything. I’ve never, ever had anyone, besides Mama or someone who was being paid to do it, defend my father in front of me. It doesn’t matter that in the moment I know he doesn’t believe it. It doesn’t matter that I know he’s just meeting his end of our arrangement. All that matters is that he has a choice right here and right now and he is choosing to argue for my father’s innocence in order to help me.

I scoot forward and quickly put my arms around his neck in a tight hug. Tears I don’t expect wet the shoulder of his shirt and I try to wipe them away before he notices. I whisper, “Thank you.”

Jordan seems alarmed at first, then he leans forward and wraps both arms around me. I withdraw before I become too comfortable in that position and clear my throat, trying to carry on as though nothing strange has just happened.

“Reason doesn’t apply here. Sociopaths don’t need reason,” I say, daring him to refute the statement that has kept me awake at night.

“Yeah?” Jordan smiles, and doesn’t mention my more than slightly awkward and abrupt display of emotion. Instead, he plays right along with me. “Well, then prove to me that David Beckett is a sociopath.”

I smile back, thinking for the first time that looking at all the facts presented in Daddy’s case ourselves might not be the worst idea I’ve ever had.





19

AFTER THE INITIAL FINDING of—and subsequent arguing over—the details of the case for the last two hours, Jordan and I have come to one conclusion. The relatively small amount of information in the papers isn’t of much use without specifics from the new case.

Unfortunately, since that case is still open and active, there are even fewer details about it online than about the other murders.

“The victim is—” I look down at my notes again—“Valynne Kemp. She’s blond, same age range as the others, and she was strangled like the first three.”

“Does it say if she was beaten first?” Jordan asks.

I shake my head, wishing I had that detail. “Not anywhere I read.”

Jordan nods and then chimes in, “I found an article that quoted a source within the police department. He said that the bodies were posed in a similar fashion.”

“All things that could’ve been copied,” I answer softly.

“Or done the exact same way because it was the exact same killer,” Jordan says, refuting my argument without even raising his eyes from the paper.

I scan my notebook one more time before dropping it back to the table. “I think that’s about everything the Internet will be giving us today.”

Jordan sighs and sits back in his chair, stretching. “So what’s next?”

I’m quiet for a moment, debating whether to ask the question I have on my mind before diving in. “I don’t suppose your dad would be open to answering questions you asked him about the new murder, would he?”