To Catch a Killer(59)

There. That’s the truth. I’ve admitted it and I dare him to deal with that.

Victor sits back in his chair, his voice neutral and his face a mask of calm. “Okay,” he says. “We might be getting somewhere.”





29

People lie to avoid getting caught. It’s that simple.





—VICTOR FLEMMING


Victor and I are in a stare-down.

No one, not Rachel or any of my many therapists, has ever provoked me to this level of rage. All Victor did was talk about my mother like she was a real person and not a curse on my life.

He stands up, breaking our gaze.

Is he going to walk out and leave me hanging? If I screamed at Rachel like this, she would be fluttering all over. She would do anything to keep from having to let her real feelings out or having to deal with mine.

Victor doesn’t leave, though. Instead, he takes off his jacket and walks to the nearby closet to hang it up. “Does my sister know this is how you feel?”

I shake my head. “I’ve tried to tell her but she always comes back with How can you feel alone when I’m right here? Or I’m sorry I’m not enough for you.” I wrap my arms around my middle. “Oh, and I’m supposed to not care who my father is, either. He’s just genetic material, she says. Any questions about who killed my mother? Whoa. That topic is way off-limits.”

Victor rolls up his sleeves and slides back into his chair. He rests his elbows on the table, rubbing his hands over his face.

“How about this?” he says. “I’ll tell you a dark secret of mine—something that no one else knows.”

Uhhh. I didn’t see that coming. I peer at him through a safety curtain of hair. “That’s kind of random.”

“It’s not random. It’s an exchange. This way you’ll have the same power over me that you’re afraid I will have over you if you talk to me about this box and your stuff up in the attic. How’s that sound?”

I shrug because I don’t know how it sounds. I can’t imagine what he could tell me that would give me any power over him.

“I think I’m about to get fired.”

“What?”

He nods. “Yeah, no one knows that. But I’m pretty sure it’s coming.”

“Why?”

He pulls his phone off of his belt and checks it, then turns it upside down on the table. “I helped to put an innocent man in jail.”

“On purpose?”

“Not on purpose. But in this case, intent isn’t the issue.”

“Why not?”

“Because the man was killed three days after he was incarcerated. It was a setup. Somebody tampered with my lab in order to make sure he went to jail, where they could get to him. I can’t prove it, not yet, and since he’s dead, I can’t fix it, either.”

“But if it wasn’t your fault…”

“That’s the whole point of what I do. It’s all about what you can prove. And everything that happens in my lab is my responsibility.”

I sit back. I don’t know if Victor’s overshare makes me trust him more. But I do feel for him. “So, what are you going to do?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” His phone vibrates and he ignores it.

“Is this why you came home?”

Victor shrugs. “I came because Rachel asked me to come. Something she’s never done before. She’s worried about you. But, now that I’m here, I can see that it’s not a bad thing to know you have some family who’s got your back.”

He presses the fingers of both hands together as if trying to squeeze out the words. “I’ll admit, I don’t quite know how to address the way my sister handles your situation. I’m not a therapist … or a parent.”

I gnaw on the corner of my lip.

“But I do believe that a lifetime spent blocking feelings can lead to sociopathic behavior.” He stops and looks at me. His expression is not the normal angry adult look, but more like he thinks I’m an interesting puzzle. “You don’t strike me as the serial-killer type.”

I didn’t expect that, so of course I laugh. “Whew. That’s a relief.”

“If what you need is the free space to talk about your mother, I’m here. I can be your uncle and your friend. I can also just sit and listen. Or, you can tell me to go to hell.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“But if the unsavory things that have been going on lately have anything to do with what’s in this box, well, then you really do need me.” He smiles, and it’s not a creepy I’m-trying-to-be-your-friend smile, but a real I’m-here-for-you smile. “I’m thinking that first you’d like to know more about your mother, right?”

“Well, there’s almost no way I could know less.” The snort that follows is automatic. I can’t help it. “Sometimes at night I play this game where I lie in bed and try to think of everything I can remember in my whole life. I work my way back year by year. I start by trying to remember all the things that happened when I was twelve … then nine … then six. I keep working back to the very earliest thing I can remember. Then I lie quietly, eyes closed, and I let my mind float, like a feather in a breeze, hoping to latch on to something. Maybe I’ll remember how she smelled, or the tone of her voice.… I go back really far in the remembering game. I can remember a lot of things: a special dress, a favorite bunny toy. But she’s like an itch I can’t scratch—a memory of her is there, but I can never quite latch on to it.”