All the Dark Places(68)

“Maybe not,” he agrees.

This isn’t getting us anywhere, so we wrap up with Dr. Westmore and bring in her husband.

Scott Westmore is wearing one of his landscaper shirts, light denim with his company logo stitched in the upper corner. His jeans are worn and dirt-stained. He runs us quickly through the night of the Fourth, nothing new.

“Mr. Westmore,” I say, “we’re looking at everything here.” I flip through my notes. “We didn’t find a whole lot in your background.” He remains our man of mystery. Does a killer lurk beneath that stoic exterior?

He doesn’t respond, a man of few words, annoyance on his weather-worn face.

“I see that you went to MIT for a couple semesters,” I say, perusing my notebook.

“That’s right.” His gaze is steady, and I break away first.

“Why didn’t you finish?”

“It wasn’t for me.”

“What was your major?” I add to my sketch of him, wrinkles fanning out from his eyes.

“Pre-med.”

“Huh. Went from that to landscaping?” Joe meets his gaze.

“Yes. Elise and I met as undergrads. We got married. Then I started my business while she finished school.”

“Okay. You didn’t hear anything the night of the Fourth? That woman was buried not a quarter mile from the house.” Joe stabs the table with his index finger.

“No.” His jaw tightens.

“You know the river pretty well, don’t you?” I ask.

“I told you before that Jay and I fished there.”

“You’re quite an outdoorsman,” I say, and lay my pencil down.

“I like to be outside.” His roughened hands twitch slightly, and I picture them around Annalise’s slim neck.

Joe glances at his notes, pen poised. “What vehicle did you drive up there that week?”

“My truck.”

“You carry any tools for work in your truck?” Joe asks as though he’s ready to make a list.

“Of course.” There’s a slight shrug of his shoulders.

“What kinds of items did you have in the truck the week of the Fourth?”

“I don’t know exactly. A lot of junk.”

“A shovel? ” Joe deadpans.

“I’m a landscaper,” he says by way of explanation, anger in the set of his teeth. “If you think I had anything to do with that woman’s death, you’re sadly mistaken.” He gets to his feet, leans toward us. “I’ve got to get to work, Detectives. If you have any more questions, call my lawyer.” He strides out of the room, leaving the door open.

“Well, that went well,” Joe says under his breath. He gets up and closes the door. “Strange guy.”

I smirk. “There’s something strange about the whole pack of them.” I straighten my notes. “Well, almost done. We’ve got the Branches later.”





CHAPTER 51


Molly


THE LETTER HELPED PUSH ME OVER THE EDGE, INTO ACTION THAT HAD been only a fantasy years in the making. I feel if I don’t do this now, I’ll fall completely, irreparably apart. I have no expectations, only an overwhelming desire to end the power this monster has had over my life. That has supplied the adrenaline that has carried me to Sing Sing Correctional Facility. My childhood was stolen; a sense of peace and security is an unknown thing. Even the husband who lifted me out of the mud is gone. And he wasn’t the man I thought he was. I can fall no lower. I’m prepared to face the beast in the lowest ring of hell, and the spoils go to the victor.

I walk with a strong stride behind the guard, a short man with a thick, blotchy neck. He escorts me through the doors, deeper into the prison. I will meet my attacker face-to-face across a small metal table, no plexiglass, no phones. Metal jangles as the guard opens the final door, and I’m shown into a gray cinder-block room. I stop in my tracks, waver for a moment, fearing I might turn and run, but I don’t. My escort leaves, and I glance at the guard standing in the corner, the man who has charge of Keith Russell. He nods slightly. This guard is a big man, six two or three, I’d guess. Muscled arms and an erect stature. I find reassurance in his gaze and take a seat across from the man who ruined my life.

My heart is pounding, and the pulsing of it is all I hear. Sweat breaks out on my upper lip and under my arms as I sit in a cold metal chair. Then he smiles at me. Keith Russell, or what’s become of him, smiles and says my name.

“Melinda.”

My adrenaline rushes back, flushes my face, and I sit up straight. I know the conversation must be civil. Any shouting or emotional outbursts will bring the visit to an end, so I swallow and take a deep breath.

“Keith,” I say. His eyes are sunken and rheumy. His face as thin and lined as that of a man in his eighties, although he’s only forty-seven. His body a shrunken shell. The Keith Russell who has haunted my dreams for twenty-nine years is young, tall, lanky, and strong, a monster with protruding eyes and sharp teeth. But this man has become something else.

Child killers don’t fare well in prison. As the lowest of the low, they are often attacked by other inmates, sometimes killed. Keith’s mottled, skinny arms are scarred, and near his neck is something that looks like a healed knife wound. He’s been diminished physically over the years, and I stretch myself up taller in my seat as my pulse slowly eases down.