She frowned deeply at this final thought, and through pressed teeth said, “You truly hated them, didn’t you? The first-class passengers? Was it their wealth? Their looks?”
“Looks?” he snorted. “You seen half of those ogres? No.”
“So what then?”
“I told you, I’m not talking. Leave me alone.”
“I’d like to. I lost my mother, you know…” Adele felt stunned by her own words. She had never voluntarily shared that with a killer before. She rarely shared it with friends. And yet the words tumbled from her lips, dragged—it seemed—again by instinct. She followed up with, “Was it your mother? Or your father?”
He turned to her again now, a haunted look in his gaze. “What?”
“That hatred,” she said. “I recognized it because I’ve seen it before. Usually reflected in a mirror. I know the loss. I don’t know why you blamed the passengers. But I know the feeling.”
The killer reclined his head against the rest and shook his head firmly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re lying.”
“I’m not. My mother. Ten years ago. Butchered.”
For a moment, she thought he might say something disparaging or dismissive. She wasn’t sure she wouldn’t slap him if he did. Sometimes John Renee’s approach seemed the only path.
But instead, the valet just looked at her, his young features softening, if only a fraction. “That’s awful,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Adele went quiet, considering these words from a man who’d just killed three people. He seemed so… sincere. And yet the gulf between them—their choices—was nearly insurmountable. She refrained from speaking her thoughts, though, and dipped her head once to accept the conciliation. She waited, listening to the quiet breathing in the back of the police car. Listening to the thrum of muttered voices just outside the glass. Sometimes, listening was key.
After another passing minute, the young man glanced at her and muttered, “My father.”
“Sorry,” Adele replied on reflex.
The man shrugged, his cuffs shifting as he did in his lap, his forearms resting against his knees. “Never knew my mother. But my father and I were close, you know…”
“I know… How did it happen?”
The young man sighed. “Not like you won’t be able to find out anyway.”
“I told you, I’m not here to make a case. Not even recording. You have my word.”
“Your word? I’m going to prison, aren’t I?”
“Probably for a very long time. I can’t do anything about that. You killed three people.”
“People?” he snorted again, his voice hardening. “Cockroaches,” he said. “Parasites. All of them. They did it, you know,” he continued, some of the previous fury flashing in his eyes. He began to build up a head of steam as he spoke, the words starting to come faster. “They killed him. All of them. The way they treated him—like dirt. He was a conductor, you know. He ran the same line…”
“The switches,” Adele said. “Where you killed. That was your father’s route?”
“Dunno,” he said, with a sniff. But his eyes told the story.
“It was, wasn’t it? Your father was a conductor, then. What happened?”
“Fired him—the company did. Some rich bastards complained. Said the ride was too bumpy or some shit. It’s a goddamn train; of course it’s bloody bumpy.”
“That’s why he got fired?”
“Well… maybe some other things. Made up things. A couple of the women said he made them uncomfortable—a damned lie, though! And another man said my father showed up drunk to the job. But that was only once! I swear it. Only once and they went and fired him. Stripped away the only thing that mattered to him. Left him broke, helpless, trying to raise me with nothing. All of the whiners, the complainers—all of them were rich assholes.”
“They cost your father his job?”
He rounded fully on her now, his eyes blazing once more with hatred. “Cost him more than that!” he spat. “He got mad—got dangerous. Never was like that before. Not usually. Drank a ton. Gave me more than one scar.”
“He beat you?”
The valet snorted again.
“Then what happened?”
He got in his truck,” said the valet, murmuring now, his eyes staring off as if watching something a million miles away. “Drove to the tracks, parked in the middle. Late at night, raining. No chance for the conductor to see a thing.”
“He killed himself?”
At this, the young man laughed. “Actually, no.” There was no humor to the cackling sound. Just an abandoned, empty husk of a noise. An echo of joy more than the thing itself. “He died of a heart attack. That’s what the coroner said. Got right up and terrified as the train came down. Heart attack took him right out before the train could. Car was crushed too. But the heart attack did him in.”
Adele nodded slowly. “So that’s why you killed them the way you did?”
“I never said that.”
“No, I guess you didn’t… Well, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry enough to get me out of jail?”
“I’m not the one putting you there. You might not believe me, but I don’t like to see people in your position… not unless they’ve made their own choices. And you did—three times. Almost a fourth.”
The valet glanced toward her neck and winced. He seemed almost sheepish for a moment and shrugged his bony shoulders. “Sorry about that.”
Adele paused for a moment, studying him. “That anger… it doesn’t go away, you know…”
“That’s not true,” he returned.
Adele blinked.
“You never did get the bastard who did your mother, did you?”
Adele went still, motionless, just watching.
“Nah, you didn’t. Otherwise you’d know. It feels like bliss. When you see the cause of everything breathing and gasping on the ground. And then breathing no more. Dead the way they did your dad—or I guess, your mother. It does make you feel better. Anyone who says otherwise is a damn liar.”
“It does?” Adele said, hoarsely, swallowing back the dryness in her throat.
“One hundred percent…” His eyes gleamed wickedly for a moment, his lips curved into a small smile. But then he leaned back and shrugged. “Just… well… it doesn’t last as long as you’d like. You just kinda… have to keep going, you know?”
“I was worried you’d say that.”
“The one who killed your mother. You know who did it? Is he behind bars?”
“Not yet,” Adele said, still quiet. “Maybe never.”
“Never?” the valet asked, watching her curiously. “Never because you can’t find him? Or never because when you do, he won’t make it to lock-up?”
Adele sat there, allowing the question to linger in the still space of the cramped car for a moment. Then she reached out, patted the valet on the leg. “I’m sorry for your loss.” And before he could say anything, she pushed open the door, slipped out into the parking lot, and slammed it shut behind her.