“I remember her. Crazy as a loon. Easy to see where her son gets it from.”
Darcy coaxes Jennifer to eat while forcing herself to nibble on her own sandwich. They finish as Appleton glides down the hallway. Darcy rises.
“Their case is paper-thin,” Appleton says, donning his jacket. “They’ll drop the charges, they have no choice unless further evidence arises. The DA is strong-arming the police to make an arrest, and Ames knows he doesn’t have enough for a conviction.”
“Will they let him go tonight?”
“Technically, they can hold someone overnight without charging him. Right now Ames is being stubborn, but I think he sees this is a dead end.” Appleton tugs his shirtsleeve up and reads his watch. “I need to meet with a client in Smith Town. I should be back in a couple hours.”
Midnight comes and goes. Darcy’s back throbs, impossible for her to get comfortable on the bench. Bronson took Jennifer home at eleven, and Darcy feels like she is behind enemy lines, the department dead set on concocting proof that Hunter is a copycat murderer.
Ames, pale and barely able to keep his eyes open, springs Hunter at two in the morning. He warns Hunter not to leave the village.
“Are you dropping the charges?” Darcy asks, shrugging on her jacket.
“For now.”
“Why are you so determined to prove Hunter did this? You’re banging a square peg into a round hole.”
“Good night, Ms. Gellar.”
Genoa Cove is an empty shell, no sign of another vehicle as Darcy navigates through the village. The night sky consumes light and leaves a wasteland of infinite darkness. Hunter won’t talk. He taps his phone on his knee, exhausted yet wide-awake. Hunter won’t sleep tonight, and neither will Darcy.
At the house, Bronson snorts and sits up when the door opens. Rubbing his eyes, Bronson watches Hunter slog to his room as Darcy slides beside him on the couch.
“How did it go?”
“Well, they let him out. Ames dropped the charges, but I’m sure he’s angling toward another arrest. He’s like a bulldog who won’t let go of a steak. Appleton thinks the DA is pulling Ames’ strings.”
“District Attorney Hebert is up for reelection next year. If the police don’t apprehend the killer, the public will blame him.”
“That doesn’t justify what they did to Hunter.” Darcy yawns and leans her head on a pillow. “Lord, the things Ames said. He thinks Hunter snapped or something because he found the crime scene photos from the Rivers case in my closet.”
“You still have them?”
“The FBI frowns on that sort of thing.”
Bronson rubs her shoulder.
“Mums the word. Is that what happens with people who become serial killers? They snap because of a traumatic event?”
“Every case is different. Rivers came from a normal suburban family in Virginia. Two parents, a cat and a dog, no alcoholism or abuse. He started early. The neighbor caught him outside with a magnifying glass.”
“Ants?”
Darcy’s mouth twists as though she bit into a lemon.
“Spiders. Rivers looked for the biggest spiders he could find. He liked it when their abdomens caught fire and exploded.”
“Disgusting.”
“The family cat disappeared when Rivers was twelve. His mother was on to him by then and suspected he killed the cat. She gave the dog up for adoption before he could hurt it. There was a rape accusation in high school, then a second in college. Neither charge stuck. The kid was sick but smart. Maybe some people are evil.”
Bronson is sound asleep and snoring on the couch when Darcy hobbles into the living room at the break of dawn. She hasn’t slept. Every bone in her body aches as she squints at the light streaming through the windows. On her way to the kitchen, she senses something is wrong. And a memory surfaces. A noise she heard in the dead of night when she was half-asleep. Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, she cracks open the door.
The car drips with red paint. Someone scrawled MURDERER across the driver side, the tires punctured and flat. Paint covers the windshield where some genius wrote DIE ASSHOLE.
She curses, stepping onto the lawn.
The vandals are long gone, not that she expected them to hang around after the sun rose. The front door squeaks, and she spins around to find Bronson watching her from the entryway.
“I guess I should have expected this,” Darcy says, picking up a stone and hurling it into the trees with a frustrated grunt. “But hey, it’s a gorgeous morning, and they spared your truck.”
“Easy now. The damage is superficial.”
“Apparently the assholes didn’t realize they’re on Candid Camera. Of course, the cameras probably failed as soon as the shit-show started.”
But they hadn’t. Darcy scans the predawn footage and stops when a car pulls to the curb. The time stamp reads 4:06 AM when four large boys wearing sweatshirts with the hoods drawn over their faces converge on the car. But the camera catches a face. Aaron Torres, Bethany’s brother. This is the same crew who drove past the house.
“Not very intelligent, are they?” Bronson says, sipping on a cup of coffee. Almost appearing amused, he points at the largest boy. “That’s Sam Tatum.”
Darcy winces when Tatum, a lineman judging by his imposing frame, raises a boot and kicks out the taillight. That was the noise she heard. What would have happened had she responded? Would the boys have fled to their car and raced out of the neighborhood, or might something horrible have occurred? Some boys cross lines and turn violent when alcohol is involved, and their erratic stumbles tells Darcy these boys were very drunk.
“Those little pricks,” Jennifer says, nudging between Darcy and Bronson. “What are we going to do for a car now?”
“Grant’s Body Shop down on Schuyler will take care of the damage,” Bronson says. “In the meantime, we’ve got my truck.”
An hour passes before the police arrive, and Darcy looks ready for a war when the cruiser pulls beside the vandalized Prius. Arms folded, jaw working from side to side, Darcy watches as Julian clambers out of the vehicle. He’s the last cop she wants to see.
“You called about damage to your vehicle?” Julian asks as though he doesn’t notice the crushed taillight, dented body, and spray paint. “This the car?”
“Great observation. Can’t put anything past the Genoa Cove PD.”
“It’s a simple question, Ms. Gellar. No need to get surly.”
“Yeah, this is the car. It’s the only vehicle in the driveway with MURDERER painted across the side.”
Julian mumbles something and rounds the Prius, recording his observations as he goes.
“About what time did the vandalism occur?”
“4:06 AM. It’s all on video.”
“Your security cameras caught the person who did this?”
“Persons. Four boys, to be exact. Would you like the see the video, Officer Haines?”
“Hey,” Bronson says, pulling Darcy aside. “Don’t bring the police into this. Turn it over to your lawyer and force the parents to pay for the damage.”
Darcy ignores the advice and pushes past Bronson.
Clenching his jaw, Julian follows Darcy into the kitchen while Jennifer shoots him a death stare from the couch.
“That’s Aaron Torres,” Darcy says, gesturing at the boy when his face turns toward the camera.
“It might be,” Julian says, squinting his eyes. “The picture is awfully dark.”
“You can’t be serious. Well, okay. Look at his vehicle. You can read the license plate.”
“Can you? Go back a few frames.” Julian jots three letters on his notepad. “Do you have a better shot than that? I’m not seeing the entire plate.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. I’ll read them to you.” Darcy recites the license plate number.