I see a muscle tense in her jaw, but she nods. “Sorry,” she says. I’m not sure she’s sorry enough, but there’s nothing I can do to make her understand how much of a risk both of them took.
Lanny, after a beat, says, “Was I right? Was it from him?” She knows I’ve gotten other letters. I’ve tried to be open about it, to the extent I thought was wise.
“It’s the last one,” I say. And that’s not a lie. I’m going to make damn sure it is.
“Can I read it?”
“No, honey.” I hear my voice soften, because I understand this impulse. All too well. My feelings about Melvin Royal are both clear and complicated; my kids are struggling with reconciling a dad they still feel they should love and a monster who doesn’t deserve it. Reading his letters is like touching a hot stove for them. Sometimes they feel they have to hurt themselves to prove they can take it. “I shredded it. It was meant for me. It wasn’t about you or Connor.”
“You shredded it?” She seems surprised. I guess she ought to be. “I thought you . . . kept them.”
“Not anymore,” I tell her, and put my arm around her. “I don’t need them. And neither do you.”
Connor, I realize, is in the kitchen pouring himself a glass of water. When I look over at him, he just nods. “I’m okay with that,” he says. “I said goodbye to Dad already. I try not to think about him at all.”
That hurts and soothes at the same time. We sit quietly for a few seconds, and I hear the purr of the truck’s engine as it comes closer. Garage door opening. The second Sam’s inside, I reset the alarm, and I’m in his arms two moments later. He holds me tight.
“I was so worried about you,” I whisper right in his ear, so close my lips brush skin.
He hugs me tight and doesn’t say anything. I don’t need him to. He moves on to embrace the kids. “Did the alarm scare you?” he asks them.
Lanny snorts. “I’m Supergirl. I don’t get scared.”
“More like Squirrel Girl,” Connor says.
“Who’s even more awesome, so thanks.” She shoots that back without hesitation, and that’s when I know they’re okay. Finally. Sam lets them go and turns to Vee, who’s on her feet, hands on her hips.
“What?” she demands. Cocky as ever.
Sam shakes his head. “You’re staying, I assume? You know where everything is. Don’t throw wet towels on the floor this time. And no hair dye in the shower.”
She gives him a mock salute and goes right to the hall closet, where she takes out a pillow and blanket that she throws in the general direction of the couch.
Everything seems normal, but I can see from the look Sam gives me that it’s anything but. We head back to the office, and he closes the door.
“I need to tell you about a guy named Dr. Dave, and a guy named Tyler,” he says. “And you’re not going to like any of it.”
He’s absolutely right. I hate it. I hate that he knows someone as slimy as Dr. David Merit, Dentist Troll. I really hate that he met him alone, in such a terribly vulnerable place, and narrowly avoided worse things happening.
And having to talk a young man down from suicide . . . that is a hell of a night. I can tell that Sam feels an affinity for the kid, a bond that I can’t really understand. And though he doesn’t say it, I can tell he’s uneasy about that too. Anything that touches on that pain, that loss . . . it’s deeply uncomfortable for him.
But Sam’s okay, and at least the evil dentist has given us something to work with. Sam tells me his theories about MalusNavis, and they make a dreadful kind of sense. Even to the avenging-angel part . . . especially alarming if this person now has his sights fixed on me. On us.
Why does he have a credit card that sounds like it probably belongs to Sheryl Lansdowne / Penny Carlson / Tammy Maguire? Is she with him? Does he have her prisoner? What the hell is happening here?
It’s too late—or, by this time, far too early—to solve any of those questions. I carry them with me to bed, into an exhausted sleep that seems to drag me down like a weighted net.
I wake up later than I intended—almost seven, sunlight streaming in through the blinds. Wednesday morning, and I try to think through the day for a second. Nothing urgent comes to mind. That leaves me a window to do something about Melvin’s letter.
Sam’s side of the bed is empty; I usually wake when he moves, but not today. I put my hand in the hollow of his pillow. Cool. He’s been up for a while.
I find there’s a pot of coffee already made, so I pour and head for the office, still in my sleep-time T-shirt and flannel pants. Vee’s sound asleep on the couch, curled like a fall leaf under a snowy white blanket. She looks relaxed and very young, and I’m careful not to wake her.
Sam’s in the office. Fully dressed. I shut the door behind me as I enter. “Well, I feel like a slacker.”
“The kids sent you an email,” he says. “Copied to me. Isn’t Douglas Adam Prinker the guy in Valerie?”
“It’s for Kez’s case.”
“Are you still sure that’s . . .” He searches for the right words for a second. “Good for them?”
There’s no good way to answer it except to say, “They can handle a little more responsibility. Besides, you saw what happened when I didn’t give permission. All of a sudden Lanny’s asking Vee to go look up records from a place where she’s already well known. Vee cannot keep a low profile. And it’s about Melvin. I need to keep them out of that. Completely.”
“I’m thinking it’s not separate, though. Aren’t you?”
I hate that I am, actually. Kez’s case started early Monday morning. I was at the pond before dawn. And just a few hours later, I have Melvin’s letter served on me like a subpoena. That doesn’t feel random. And now Vee’s provided a link—at least a strange and tenuous one—with a credit card that looks like something Sheryl Lansdowne might have had as a new identity. How would MalusNavis—if it’s him—get his hands on Melvin’s letter? From what Sam’s uncovered, he’s hardly likely to be someone Melvin would have attracted as a fan.
Between that, the word from the loathsome Dr. Dave that Monday was when MalusNavis asked for the template, the fake obituary, the letter Vee received on her door, and the posting of flyers at the gun range . . . it all looks very, very bad. Like I’m now in the crosshairs of someone who’s very serious.
But it also looks like a patchwork of coincidence that could fall apart like mist under the spotlight of a real investigation. So I can’t tell. I have a confirmation bias, a thumb on the scale.
We need some real proof, like getting a picture of the person who sent that package. If it’s Sheryl Lansdowne, then there’s something real to chase. If it’s someone else, there’s still a lead to follow, a face, something. But as I well know, Knoxville PD is not going to be helpful. They tolerate me just fine, but they’re certainly not bending any rules on my behalf. Posting Melvin’s letters isn’t a crime. And if the credit card is valid, using it might not have been a crime either. And they’ll just shake their heads at the Lansdowne connection until I have real proof.