All the Dark Places(30)

“Uh huh. What else did Dr. Bradley ask you about?”

“Let me think a minute.” He closes his eyes, and a slow smile spreads across his face. His good eye pops open and pins me in my seat. “He wanted to know when the switch flipped.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I went from being a regular guy to a killer. What changed?” He looks off at the wall, his eyes fixed and unblinking. “Like I knew. I didn’t change. I’ve always been the same person. I didn’t know what he was getting at, if you want to know the truth. Then he asked me if I fantasized about killing my mother before I did it.”

“Did you?”

He shrugs one thin shoulder. “I don’t want to talk about that. I told him that was private. A person’s fantasies should be private, don’t you think? What goes on in your head is nobody’s business.”

I don’t know that this is getting us anywhere. “Did he say that he’d interviewed other people for his book?”

Tyler’s thin lips turn up in a smile. “He said I was the first. He picked me first.”

I lean back in my chair, glance at the clock. “Did you know that someone killed Dr. Bradley last Saturday night?”

“You’re shitting me.” He grins, practically bounces in his chair, and his body odor wafts over me. “They know who did it?”

“No. You have any idea? He mention anything to you about someone he was afraid of maybe?” This is a long shot, but who knows?

Tyler leans back and folds his hands, cuffs jangling. He nods his head as though he’s thinking. “Nope. He didn’t say nothing like that.” Suddenly, he’s animated again, like his medicine just wore off. “That’s a trip, huh? He’s researching murderers, and he ends up getting murdered. That’s fucking crazy. So he’s dead? Well, shit.”

“Yes. Ironic. What else did you two talk about?”

Tyler takes a deep breath and drums his fingers on the table, tapping a metallic melody. He’s getting bored. “So I’m not going to be in his book then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe his colleague will finish it,” I say, hoping to regain his interest.

He nods, turns to the guard.

“Tyler?” He looks back at me. “Did he ask you about the two girls they found in the woods behind your house?”

His brow furls. “I don’t want to talk about them. I had nothing to do with that.”

“Okay. Anything else you can remember from your conversation with Dr. Bradley?”

He shrugs again, both shoulders this time. “It’s nearly dinnertime,” he says. “Pizza night.”

“We’re almost done. Anything at all you remember Dr. Bradley saying about other people?”

Tyler gets to his feet, and the guard walks quickly to his side. “I’m ready to go back.”

“Wait, Tyler. Anything else you remember from the interview?”

He shakes his head and turns to the guard. “Chocolate pudding tonight, Tom. With sprinkles.” And they’re gone.





CHAPTER 19


Molly


I STAYED UP HALF THE NIGHT WATCHING THE CAMERA FEEDS. I DIDN’T see anything interesting, but I couldn’t seem to look away. The man didn’t come back, from what I saw, so that was a relief. Hopefully, whatever he was looking for, he found or realized it wasn’t there.

I pull up in front of the animal shelter on the outskirts of Graybridge. When Jay and I met, he had a chocolate lab named Winston. After we’d been dating for six months, I went with Jay to have Winston put down. He was thirteen, suffering from cancer. We cried like babies all the way home. Jay and I had been making a regular monthly donation to the shelter and talking about getting another dog, something else we’ll never do together.

I never had a dog of my own. When I was growing up, my mother said we couldn’t have one because she was allergic, but I eventually figured out that wasn’t true. She just didn’t want the trouble of caring for an animal. Everything was well ordered in our house. Everything in its place. You couldn’t have a puppy running amok.

That’s one reason I liked Sundays so much when I was little. We always went out to visit my Grandpa Wright. He was a widower who lived on a little farm in the middle of nowhere. He had two fat beagles named Sparky and Thumper, and I loved those dogs. My parents never wanted to stay long, and my mother always put me straight in the bathtub when we got home.

I take a deep breath and head inside the shelter. The woman at the desk is middle-aged, wears faded jeans and a sweatshirt decorated with black pawprints. Her hair is pulled back in a graying ponytail, and she wears no makeup on her moon-like face.

“I’d like to adopt a dog,” I say.

“Okay.” She points to a clipboard full of papers. “Fill out the forms, please.” She hands me a pen with a big plastic flower taped to it. “What type of dog are you interested in?”

“Not a puppy.” I’m too worn out to train one at this point. “One that’s a couple years old maybe. Already housebroken.”

“Okay.” She stands and puts her hand on her ample hip.

“A bigger dog too. One that has an intimidating bark would be great.”

“We don’t adopt out guard dogs,” she says, narrowing her eyes.