“What about the temperature in the room?” The male detective crossed in front of the glass. “Was it hot?”
“Sometimes.”
“Was the space air-conditioned? Did you hear the air-conditioning coming on and off?”
“I don’t know.”
Nita could sense their frustration, could hear it in the way their questions were beginning to clip at the ends. Maybe they’d stop. Throw up their hands and let Scott leave.
“Okay, so no sound. What about smell?” Detective Petts leaned back in her chair. “Maybe must or mildew?”
Scott inhaled, like he was smelling it all over again. “Maybe a little like mothballs.”
“So, you picked the lock open on your handcuffs, is that right?”
The abrupt shift in questioning caught her son off guard. His gaze darted to their attorney, then he nodded. “Yeah.”
“Not an easy thing to do with a fork.” Detective Petts looked at Harvey, who nodded in agreement. Nita straightened, her hackles rising at the woman’s tone.
“Well, I didn’t really pick it,” Scott hedged. “It wasn’t locked in place right. Normally it was tight, but this time it wasn’t, so I could pull my hand out.”
This was new. Nita frowned, her gaze catching with her husband’s. They’d both heard the story a dozen times. Scott loved to talk about how he had popped open the cuffs.
“Ah, now, see—that makes more sense. Because we were beginning to wonder,” Harvey said.
There was that tone again. Like they were playing with him.
“You said you were blindfolded in the room, and you don’t know how you got in the room, right?”
“Yeah.” Scott looked miserable, and she needed to get him out of here.
“So, how do you know it was Mr. Thompson? If you couldn’t see, it could have been anyone.”
“I saw him when I was taken. He was next to my truck. He was the one who stabbed me with something.”
A sedative of some sort. That’s what they’d said. The police had long suspected the BH Killer had drugged the boys with something, but Scott had given them the confirmation—it had been a shot, not anything put in his food or drink.
“And you recognized his voice? In the room? Because he might have taken you but then passed you off to someone else.”
Scott wavered. “No,” he said finally. “It was him. He would talk to me.” He nodded, his gaze glued to the table. “Yeah. Him. He was a pervert. He told me about things he’d done. Girl students he raped.”
There was a moment of silence as the room absorbed the new information. George put his arm around Nita and squeezed her to his side.
“Any girls you know? Names you could give us?”
He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, and she knew a stubborn streak when it was coming. He was about to clam up. To get defiant.
“Did he tell you why he was doing this?”
Scott didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge the question. Hot under George’s arm, Nita pushed free and mentally begged her son to respond.
“He just said he needed to put me in my place.” He tucked his chin against his chest, and the next words were soft, almost so soft that she couldn’t hear it.
“What was that, Scott?”
“He said it was fun. That he liked to hurt me. And he liked to watch.”
“Watch what?”
She held her breath, almost afraid to hear the answer.
Her son shrugged. “All of it.” He ran a hand through his shaggy blond hair, pulling it forward over his face, and stood. “I need a break.” He looked at his attorney. “Can I take a break?”
“Sure,” Detective Harvey said. “Take your time.”
Nita thought he’d come to her, but he didn’t. He walked out of the police station and to their SUV, where he sat for almost twenty minutes, just staring out the windshield. Motionless. Still. The boy who couldn’t go a few minutes without looking at his phone sat there, like a zombie, before finally opening the vehicle door and stepping out, his gait slow and laborious as he walked back to her and George and Juan.
When he sat back down with the detectives, it was a different version of her son. One with a straighter back and a slower, more confident voice. And this time, he told a new story.
CHAPTER 29
I couldn’t get the dead boys out of my mind. Pushing the grocery cart, I moved past a display of strawberries and tried not to compare the bright-red hue of the fruit with the crime scene photos of the bloodied flesh.
I had seen plenty of evil in my life, had studied countless individuals who killed without reason or intent, but these deaths were sticking to me with a clawlike intensity. These deaths weren’t random. The careful and consistent structure of kills . . . the ramp-up. Even Scott Harden’s escape . . . it all meant something.
I paused at the meat counter and picked up a package of chicken thighs and a rack of lamb. Pushing forward, I almost bumped my cart into the woman in front of me. She turned, and I gave an apologetic smile, then started in recognition.
“Lela! Hello.”
Her eyes lit up. “Dr. Moore,” she purred. “How are you?”
“I’m good.” I pushed my cart out of the main aisle. “I’m sorry about rescheduling our appointment next week. I’ve got a court case I have to prep for.”
She waved off the apology. “Does it have anything to do with the BH Killer? I saw that handsome attorney at your office last week. The one on the news, whose son died.”
“No, it’s about something unrelated.” Just what I needed—Lela Grant blabbing all over town about Robert.
“You know, my daughter is at Beverly High. She knows Scott Harden, almost went on a date with him once!” She beamed, like it would be wonderful if her daughter could have been connected with a boy who was kidnapped, tortured, and almost died.
I picked up a glass bottle of almonds that I didn’t need and looked for a way to exit the conversation. “How are things at home?”
“Oh, they’re okay.” A younger version of her came around the corner and tossed a family-size box of marshmallow cereal in the end of her cart. “Maggie, can you say hi to Dr. Moore?”
The teenager examined my red ballet slippers with a sneer. “Can I say hi? Of course I can.”
I ignored her entirely.
“Maggie,” Lela pleaded, and I wondered if her inability to control her child was one of the reasons she manifested violent fantasies about her sister-in-law, a woman who seemed to have flawless control over her life.
The teenager pushed her hair out of her eyes, and I saw the scars on the insides of her arms. Old and new. Crisscrosses of pain and depression. My eyes met Lela’s.
“Maggie, will you grab us some ice cream?” she suggested brightly. “Whatever flavor you want.”
The girl turned without responding and slunk down the aisle.
I waited until she was out of sight, then spoke. “How long has she been cutting herself?”
She sighed. “About two months. I try and keep up with Neosporin, but as soon as the wounds heal, she opens them up again.”
Something about the statement snagged in my brain. What was it? I nodded politely as I tried to chase it down. “Have you taken her to see anyone?”