Delusion in Death (In Death #35)(37)

“I thought about it, after you said something. I didn’t realize I was doing it. But I think … What he did to me, what he did to a child—his own child? I think he was an evil man. I don’t like using that word because it’s sort of clichéd, but he was. But …”

Because her throat was dry, Eve gave in, picked up the tea, and drank.

“I was hungry a lot, but I never starved. I was cold a lot, but I always had clothes. I learned to walk, to talk—I don’t remember, but he must’ve done that. It wasn’t because he cared. I don’t think he was capable of genuine feelings. But he didn’t hate me. I was a commodity to him, a tool he could use and abuse, one he hoped to train to bring in money. I was with him until I killed him. He raped me and fed me, he beat me and he put clothes on my back. He terrorized me and put a roof, of some sort, over my head. He wasn’t my father the way Leonardo is to Belle, or Mr. Mira is to your children, or Feeney or any normal man is. But he was my father, and I accept that.”

“You’ve come to terms with it.”

“I guess. She left me with him, without a thought. And my memories of her are less detailed, less clear. But the ones I have are of her hurting me, in small, sneaky ways. Ugly ways. Slaps and pinches, shoving me into a closet in the dark, not feeding me and saying she had. And her looking at me with naked hate. She was capable of feelings. They might have been selfish and twisted, but she had feelings, emotions. And for me, there was hate.

“If he’d been the one to leave, she’d have killed me. Smothered me or locked me up to starve. She was capable of that, because she had feelings. She was my mother, that’s a fact. But I won’t call her that. Maybe it’s some small way, some little step toward trying to end her.”

“Good,” Mira assured her. “That’s good.”

“I’ve been thinking about them, both of them, a lot the last few days. I should’ve known something was building up. I just wanted to work it out on my own some more first, but I should’ve come to you before.”

“You came when you were ready.”

“Roarke was ready,” Eve replied, and made Mira laugh.

“You might have come for him, but you wouldn’t have talked to me the way you did if you weren’t ready, too.”

“It’s annoying that I feel better. Because he boxed me into this,” she explained. “That makes him right. I have to report to Whitney.”

“You’ve a little time left.”

“I think time’s going to be a problem. I don’t think this maniac’s going to wait until my psyche’s all nice and cozy again.”

“Cozy your psyche’s never been. Whoever’s responsible for all those deaths will find your psyche very formidable. You know you can contact me here or at home, any time, when you need to talk again. You won’t resolve all this in an hour, or a day. But I promise you, you will resolve it.”

“And you’re a professional, so I can trust you.”

“Exactly.”

“Thanks,” Eve said as she got to her feet again.

“I have one suggestion. A kind of experiment.”

“It doesn’t involve pressure syringes or ‘you’re getting sleepy’?”

“No. You have a strong mind, a flexible subconscious. I wonder if the next time you dream of Stella, you’ll think of me.”

“Why?”

“As I said, an experiment.” Mira lifted a hand, briefly brushed Eve’s cheek. “I’d be interested in the results.”

“Okay, I can try. But I’m hoping I vented her out some. I’ve got a mass murderer to catch.”

“I’ll send you my thoughts once I’ve reviewed everything.”

“I appreciate it.” Eve paused at the door, glanced back. “I really do.”

She went to her office first. No point touching base with Morris, she decided after checking her incomings. He’d sent her another batch of reports, and after a quick read she found nothing new, not from him or the reports from the lab.

She did deeper runs to familiarize herself with the Lester brothers before the interviews, then headed up to Whitney’s office.

She hated the media circus, so was relieved, even a little pleased to find Kyung with Whitney. The media liaison, and Chief of Police Tibble’s top spinner, wasn’t—as she’d told him after their first meeting—an ass**le.

He wore a dove gray suit with a deeper gray shirt and a flash of red in the tie. Perfectly tailored, she noted, to his tall, fit body. His smile added charm to his smoothly handsome face.

“Lieutenant, a pleasure to see you again. It seems we have another difficult situation.”

“Yeah, upwards of eighty people dead is a situation.”

“One that must be carefully handled with the media. There’s already been speculation regarding a terrorist attack. That we want to deflect and defuse.”

“It might have been one.”

“Might isn’t a word we like to use in conjunction with terrorist and attack.”

“No. Agreed.”

“Commander Whitney will read a statement, and he’ll take questions for a brief period. Chief Tibble has opted not to attend, as by so choosing he was able to convince the mayor to leave this to the NYPSD—for the moment.”