“No.” He reached for it, and she stepped back, her expression stern and brokering no room for arguments. “You don’t know what he—”
“Tell me about it on the car ride home, and then we’ll find a solution—together. But going into a man’s home with a knife is only going to end badly, and I am NOT LOSING YOU AGAIN.” Her soft voice shook with emotion, and he couldn’t do this, couldn’t handle the tears that were welling in her eyes.
Tinny laughter came faintly through the windows, and he glanced back inside, where Randall continued to eat, oblivious of the conversation happening on his porch.
“Come on,” she ordered, gripping his forearm and pulling it with the strength of a woman twice her size. “Let’s get in the car and you can tell me all about it.”
He didn’t want to tell her all about it. He wanted Brooke, and he wanted the life they had planned, and he couldn’t take another minute of the horrible things his mom was constantly saying about her. She hated Brooke, and she didn’t even know her. Didn’t understand that Brooke had been protecting him, caring for him. That Brooke loved him.
Whenever he tried to explain it, his mom just looked at him as if he were crazy.
She pulled on his arm and he resisted, glancing back at the window, where Randall Thompson was twisting the cap off a fresh beer. For one final moment, he considered ripping away and kicking down the door. Wrapping his hands around that thick old neck. Squeezing until his face turned purple and spit bubbled between his lips.
He considered it, savored it, then he followed his mother toward their vehicles.
CHAPTER 43
TWO MONTHS LATER
A text message alert pinged in the middle of Lela Grant’s long and uninteresting recap of last night’s Netflix session. I glanced at my cell, didn’t recognize the number on the display, and returned my attention to her.
“So, the kicker is, the guy is actually her stepfather, but you don’t realize that until the very last scene, when he pulls out his gun and shoots her in the face!” Her eyes widened enough for me to see her shimmery purple eyeliner.
“Interesting,” I mused. “So, you’d recommend the movie?” I drew a decorative border around the film’s title on my notepad.
“Well, no. Now that you know everything that happens.” She looked crestfallen, then perked back up. “I saw that the LAPD is finally investigating Randall Thompson for molesting his students.”
“Yes, I heard that.”
“I think it’s pretty cool, how all the moms of the Bloody Heart victims got together and created a victims’ advocacy foundation. And they’re, like, investigating old crimes?” She fixed her eyes on me.
Unsure of the correct answer, I nodded. “Yes. It’s very nice.”
And it was. I had watched the press coverage closely and could see the powerful and positive impact the nonprofit group was already having—not just with victims, but among themselves. They had felt helpless during their sons’ abductions, then grieving and alone after their children’s bodies had been found. But now they were united in a common goal—helping those without a voice find justice. They were formidable, well funded, and had embraced the ignored accusers of Randall Thompson as their first pro bono clients.
“You know, Sarah went to Beverly High.”
Ah yes, Sarah. The horrible sister-in-law, worthy of killing.
“We’ve been watching the updates of the case together on social media.”
I waited for a comment about Lela torturing Sarah for information, or plotting to wrap a laptop’s extension cord around her neck, but she stayed silent.
“That’s nice,” I managed. “Together? Or—”
“Oh no.” She shook her head. “I mean, she lives way out in Pasadena. But we’ve been texting about it. She wants to come to the first hearing with me. She didn’t have him for a teacher, but she was a student there and saw him in the halls, like, every day. Plus, she knew Jamie Horace—who was one of his victims—like, personally. They were cheerleaders together, practically best friends.” She beamed. “I requested to be Jamie’s friend on Facebook, and because I was a mutual friend with Sarah, and not some random stalker, she accepted me.” She twisted a lock of her hair with one finger. “So it’s cool, because she has that connection, and I have my whole connection with you . . . so we’re both, like, really invested in the case.”
I digested that sugarcoated pile of garbage and managed not to react. “So, you’re getting along with Sarah?”
“Yeah. I think I’m over the ‘killing her’ thing.” She frowned. “I mean, not that I want to stop sessions or anything. I have other problems if that’s—”
I held up my hand. “I’m happy to be here for you, without the need for violence. We can talk about anything you want to talk about in your sessions.”
“Oh, good.” She bounced a little in her seat, and I fought the urge to smile. She was, however ridiculous, a pleasant burst of innocence in days now full of darkness. My professional reputation, which I had considered doomed, had actually grown in the months following the Bloody Heart unveiling. I had appeared on a dozen interview spots, turned down two book deals, and had a waiting list of clients, all anxious to speak about their inner aggressions. It was refreshing to sit here with Lela and talk about movies and celebrity gossip and her daughter’s improvements. Maggie was now in regular sessions with a therapist and progressing nicely.
A few minutes later, I walked Lela to the door and waved goodbye, passing her off to Jacob, who deserved a gold medal in ass-kissing. Returning to my desk, I picked up my phone and checked my messages. The text from the unknown number was short.
It’s been a while. Hope you’re well. —Robert
I stared at the message, unsure how to respond. After he’d left my house that fateful afternoon, he’d disappeared. No texts, no phone calls, and—when I checked the internet—his profile was off the firm’s site. When my curiosity got the best of me, I drove over to his office in Beverly Hills and rode the elevator up to his floor. Stepping off, I was surprised to see that his name had been removed from the sleek glass doors, a woman now visible through the open door to his old office.
I hadn’t driven by his house. I had gone too far already by snooping around his office. I had accepted that if Robert Kavin wanted to talk to me, he could call me. And now he had. Sort of.
I placed my cell on the desk and nudged it away from me. I didn’t know how to respond to the text, and the swarm of butterflies stealing through my chest was definitely not a good thing. The man had come to my house to kill me. Granted, he hadn’t—but what if I hadn’t convinced him of my innocence?
Sane individuals didn’t turn to murder. Then again, the death of a child could cause anyone to lose their mind. I didn’t blame him for killing John Abbott, and I didn’t blame him for turning his anger and hatred on me when he thought I had willingly let his son die.
In the last three months, an investigation had thoroughly dissected every moment in John and Brooke’s gruesome history. I’d turned over my files, as useless as I believed them to be, and sat through hours of questioning. Thankfully, the state believed my story and didn’t pursue any charges for obstruction of justice, their focus quickly shifting back to the growing horrors of John and Brooke Abbott.