A Merciful Silence (Mercy Kilpatrick #4)(27)

“Mr. Baldwin,” she finally said, “are you saying you’ve been watching her for over twenty years? Don’t you think that’s a bit . . . abnormal?”

“If there was one thing that might lead to your release from prison, wouldn’t you keep tabs on it?” he said angrily.

“But twenty years—”

“It feels like seventy to me. I don’t belong in here, and I have the right to keep my eyes and ears open. We’re not doing anything illegal.”

“Have you contacted her?”

Silence.

If Grady Baldwin had been sitting in front of her, Mercy would be tempted to kick him. “Jesus Christ,” she exclaimed. “Why would you do that? The girl is a victim.”

“She knows something.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because she’s the most likely person.”

“But what if no one knows anything?”

“I haven’t contacted her since she was a girl.”

“What did you do back then?”

“I sent some letters begging her to tell the police what she knew. It was easy enough to get her aunt’s address.”

Mercy wondered if Britta ever saw the letters. If Mercy had been her aunt, she would have taken them to the police and never told the girl.

“Did she reply?”

“No. My lawyer told me to stop.”

“So the letters were reported to the police.”

“Yeah.” Disgust filled his scratchy voice. “They investigate a letter, but they never follow up on any tips that I’ve sent them.”

“What tips are those?”

“Other crimes that are similar to the Verbeeks and Deverells. The cops don’t care because they already put me away for the murders. They don’t want to look like idiots and have to admit they made a mistake by arresting me.”

Mercy fumed. “I’ve never met a detective with that attitude.”

“Well, I’ve met plenty.”

“If they thought your tips held any weight, they would have investigated them. Or maybe they did, and it turned out to be nothing.”

“Nothing? You call murdered families nothing?”

“What families?” Mercy grabbed her pen.

“Phoenix, Arizona. The Smythes. Denver, Colorado. The Ortegas.”

Mercy wrote down the names and cities. “These aren’t close to us at all.”

“No, but they were close to someone else.”

“Who?”

“Britta Verbeek. Like I said, she moves around a lot. Death seems to follow her.”





THIRTEEN

My father was a cruel man.

I didn’t realize this until I was older. I thought it was normal to rule a family with an iron fist.

Mother said it was because of the war. Father had seen horrible things during the war and returned as a different person. She told me his friend had died right beside him, his blood and brains splattered on my father’s gear. My father saw dismembered bodies and people suffering from mortal wounds with no immediate help available. Countless times he had feared for his own life as he served our country. When he was finally home, he heard bombs and guns in his sleep.

When he was able to sleep.

My punishments for bad behavior were swift and memorable. No time allowed for explanation or excuse.

“Discipline should be immediate,” he said. “You put other people at risk if you don’t learn what you did wrong.”

I found this to be unfair, especially when I was punished for the actions of someone else. My father went with his own view of family squabbles. My pleas of innocence didn’t matter.

A broken dish would warrant a spanking.

A bike left in the driveway would result in the bike being given away.

I never understood how these small things could put other people at risk.

One time I dropped a bowl of spaghetti. I had finished my meal and was taking the dirty dish to the dishwasher. It slipped out of my hands. To my relief the dish didn’t break, but the leftover sauce in the bottom of the bowl splashed all over the floor and up the cupboard doors.

A hand was immediately at the back of my neck, pushing me to the floor. “Clean it up!” A dishrag thrown on the floor in front of me.

Of course I would clean it up.

I started to clean, fuming because he hadn’t given me a chance to start on my own. From the corner of my eye, I saw his boots planted in a stiff stance as he watched every move I made. I rinsed the rag frequently, the red sauce difficult to get out of the grooves of the linoleum. I wiped down the cabinets and put the bowl in the dishwasher. To my eye everything looked perfect.

I helped clear the rest of the table and believed the incident was over.

At one in the morning, he hauled me out of bed. Bleary eyed, I stumbled down the stairs not comprehending his furious words. In the kitchen he pushed me to the floor again, and I landed hard on my hands and knees. “You missed spots!”

I frantically looked and saw nothing. “Where?”

He slapped the back of my head and I flinched. “Open your eyes!”

I looked closer, running my hands across the floor, not seeing what he saw. “Where is it? I don’t see anything.” Terror shook in my bones. I knew his tone. It meant he needed to administer pain.