Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(54)

“Yes, I understand them. I understand I’m entitled to legal counsel. I want to contact my attorney.”

“Fine. Arrange that, Detective. We’re done here.”

“I want to know what you’re doing to find my daughter!”

Eve glanced back, cold as winter. “You don’t answer my questions, I don’t answer yours.”

“She’s only fifteen. Her father—”

“Tell it to your lawyer.”

“I want to be taken back to my husband, my little boy.”

“I don’t care what you want. You’ll sit right here, wait for your lawyer. Your husband and son will, after interview, be taken to a safe location. You’ll stay here.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Why am I doing this? I’ll answer that one.” Eve grabbed the file Peabody had brought it, tossed it open, spread out morgue shots of the seven victims. “They’re why.”

“Oh God. Oh my God.”

“There’s an eighth in the hospital. It’ll be a while before she can walk again. Over fifty more who suffered injuries, including a boy younger than your own, with a broken leg. Peabody, arrange for that lawyer, then report to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can’t believe I had anything to do with this.” Dark eyes shone with tears, with shock. “You can’t believe a child of fifteen could take part in this.”

“Ms. Younger, I’m not here to answer your questions, and as you’ve invoked your right to counsel, we have nothing to say at this time.”

“Forget the damn lawyer then.”

“Are you waiving your right to counsel?”

“Yes, yes. For now, yes.” Younger pressed her fingers to her eyes, eyes the same deep green as her daughter’s. “You have to understand. My daughter has been kidnapped by her father.”

Eve sat, waited a beat while she stared at Younger. Smooth brown skin, deep green eyes, black hair in a mane of mad curls.

And lips that trembled.

“You don’t believe that. You want to believe that, you’re trying to convince yourself of that. But you don’t believe it. Was her father there when she threatened your husband at knifepoint?”

“I— She was acting out.”

“With a deadly weapon. Was her father there when she killed your son’s puppy and threw him out the window?”

Younger’s body jerked. “She didn’t.”

“You know she did. You’ve seen the signs. You’ve lain awake at night afraid of what she might do. Tell me, look at me and tell me when you last left her alone with your son?”

“It’s because she’s irresponsible.”

“She’s hurt him before, hasn’t she? Just little things. He’d tell you he fell or he bumped his arm or make an excuse, but you knew. You couldn’t control her, so you tried to control everything else. You had to deny what she is so you could live with it.”

“I’m her mother. Don’t you tell me what she is.”

“Then I’ll show you.” Out of the file, Eve took copies of the hit lists, the blueprints.

“This one—that’s the one your ex and your daughter put together. But this one? That’s all hers. Look at the names. Your son’s tops the list. You son, your husband, you, then the school psychologist, the principal. Your husband’s sister.”

“Lynda. Lynda? No.”

“And this? Recognize this? It’s her school. Tactical uses plans like this, marked like this. She’s learned very well. How many sons and daughters could she take down, how many teachers, parents, innocents?”

Younger’s fingers shook as she drew them away, as she gripped her hands together. “This—this is Mac’s, not hers. I go through her room, her computer every week. I would have found this.”

“Like you found the secret weapon drawer in her dresser?”

“What? What are you talking about.”

“Where’d she get her bedroom dresser.”

“It—Mac. He—for her thirteenth birthday.”

“It has a secret drawer designed to hold weapons. She had blasters in your home.”

“No, no. I don’t—we don’t allow . . .”

“You went through her room regularly. Because you’re afraid of her, because you know, under the denial, you know what she’s capable of. We didn’t find this list on her computer, in her room. Or in the apartment where Mackie lived and she lived half the time. We found it hidden on your son’s computer, a place you wouldn’t think to look.”

“Zach? On Zach’s computer?”

“Where he did his schoolwork, played his games. She marked him for death. How old is he?”

“He’s seven. He’s seven years old. She hates him.” Younger covered her face with her hands. Tears slid through her fingers. “She hates him. I can see it in her eyes. He’s so sweet, so sweet and funny and easy, but she looks at him with hate behind her eyes.

“She grew inside me.” Lowering her hands, Younger pressed them to her belly as tears ran down her cheeks. “I didn’t have so much as a sip of wine while she did. I ate so healthy, I did everything the doctor said to do. I took such good care, and when she was born, when I held her, I promised I would always take such good care. I loved her, so much. I fed her from my body, I bathed her, and sang to her. Mac, I knew he’d wanted a boy, but he was good with her—really good with her. He loved her, do you understand? He was a good father, and then . . . he wasn’t such a good husband anymore. Closed off, cold, disinterested in anything I was interested in, other than Willow. He said we should have another child, try for a boy, and I wanted another child.”