Faye looked even worse than Emily had the morning after Victor’s murder. Dark circles framed her pale blue eyes. Her hair was limp, her skin even paler than usual.
They observed her through one-way glass. Faye was in the hospital’s locked psychiatric ward.
During her medical exam, the doctors discovered that Faye had been cut on her right arm. The wound had been sewed up with regular household thread, and Faye insisted she’d done it herself.
Dillon shook his head and said to Julia, Connor, and Will, “While it’s possible she dressed her own wound-she’s lefthanded-I highly doubt it.”
“She looks like she’s going through withdrawal,” Julia commented.
“Looks like it, but her tox screen came out clean. The reason I don’t think she sewed herself up is that she had Amytal in her system, a prescription barbiturate given to patients when they go in for surgery or to reduce pain and lower blood pressure. How would she know about that? And where would she get it?”
“You mean a doctor prescribed it?”
“It can be found on the streets, but these were within normal limits and she has no signs of long-term drug abuse. We ran through the drugs Bowen prescribed for her-none of which she filled-and it wasn’t on the list. But someone knew what it was for, or someone with access and knowledge gave it to her.”
“Isn’t Garrett Bowen’s son a psychiatrist as well?” Connor asked.
“He’s in med school, third or fourth year. I was thinking about him,” Dillon agreed. “And he had some interesting things to say about his father when he went to view the body at the morgue. He was upset, but something was odd.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Will said. “Connor, want to come along for the ride?”
Connor hesitated, glanced at Julia. She nodded. “Sure,” he said.
“I’m staying to observe,” Dillon said. “I’m still worried about Faye’s mental health.”
“Yeah, the poor darling,” said Connor. He squeezed Julia’s hand. “Be careful.” He left with Will.
Dillon said to Julia, “The only person Faye wants to hurt is herself. You asked about withdrawal? Let me show you something.” He opened the medical chart. Inside were photographs of Faye Kessler’s back, arms, and legs. A multitude of scars crisscrossed.
Julia paled. “Who did that to her?”
“Mostly, she did it to herself. Except on her back. But she won’t talk about that.”
“She cut her own body.”
Dillon nodded. “It’s increasingly common among young people today. Even adults. A way to feel in control, or to feel something when they feel nothing. I think Faye is going through withdrawal because she can’t cut herself. Watch her.” Dillon cautioned Julia. “I’m right out here, and if I think either one of you is in any danger, I’ll be through the door in two seconds.”
Because Faye refused to talk with any doctor, Dillon suggested Julia go in and develop a rapport with the young killer. There were still too many unanswered questions. Julia entered the hospital room.
Faye wasn’t restrained, but the room was bare, nothing accessible that she could use to kill herself.
Julia swallowed a tickle of worry that she was going to do something wrong with Faye. She couldn’t think that way. After all, the girl had killed in cold blood. She’d been messed up long before she came here, so how much damage could Julia do just by talking to her?
It didn’t seem plausible that three teenagers could plan and execute such an elaborate set of murders. Dillon was right: someone had directed Faye and the boys. Maybe it was a brainwashing technique-Faye killed her partners and confessed in order to deflect attention from the person who’d put the whole thing in motion.
“Hi, Faye,” said Julia.
“I know you. Are you prosecuting me?”
“How do you know me?”
“I saw you at the school, picking Emily up sometimes.”
Julia shivered. This killer, who looked so small and frail in her hospital gown, had been watching her. She shouldn’t be surprised. Faye had already told them she’d spoken to Emily at school, and knew what had happened with Victor Montgomery. In her own way, Faye was trying to protect Julia’s niece.
“When we were doing research,” Faye continued, “we learned all about you.”
“Research about what?”
“Killing the judge. We needed to know your schedule, Emily’s schedule, the judge’s schedule.”
“So why did you kill him when Emily was in the house?”
“She wasn’t inside when we killed him. We heard her come in after. I hid under his desk while Skip locked the door. In case Emily came to his office on her own. But she didn’t. When we were sure she was upstairs, we left.”
Faye shrugged. Didn’t take her eyes off Julia.
“Why did you jeopardize Emily? The police thought she was involved.”
“I was sorry about that,” Faye said, sounding contrite. “Emily was always nice to me. I didn’t want her to get in trouble. But she’s in the clear now, right? Is that why you’re here? You want me to say she had nothing to do with it? Okay. Emily had nothing to do with it.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” Julia said. “The police seem to think someone else is involved. Not just you, Skip, and Robbie.”
“They’re wrong,” insisted Faye. “It was only the three of us. Now they’re dead. Maybe I should have killed myself instead of coming here.”
“You don’t want to die,” Julia said. “If you wanted to die, you wouldn’t have sewn up your arm.” She pointed to Faye’s bandaged right arm.
Faye looked at her arm, lost in thought, her blue eyes both blank and searching. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said, incredulous. “Do you believe in love?”
Julia was only momentarily thrown by the odd question. “Yes, I do.”
“Have you ever loved anyone? Not like your family, who you’re supposed to love even when you hate them. But someone you met because of fate, who you let inside your body and your mind and you told him everything and he still loved you?”
“Have you?” Julia asked without answering Faye’s question.
“Are you a shrink, too?” Faye’s face reddened. “Shrinks always answer questions with questions. Trying to be smarter.”
“I’m not a shrink. I’m an attorney. And Emily’s aunt. I care about Emily. I care about you, too, Faye.”
Faye laughed a low, sick cackle that twisted Julia’s stomach into knots. “You care about me? Do you know what I did to Victor Montgomery? I took pruning shears and while Robbie and Skip held him to his chair, I cut off his dick.” She moved her hands as if they were holding shears and made a chopping motion. “Sliced it right off. They were new and sharp and they did the job. I slammed it down hard, but you know the penis is really just muscle and flesh and blood. Kind of rubbery. He was hard. Still, I just sliced right through it.”
Julia swallowed her revulsion. “Are you saying Judge Montgomery’s penis was erect?”
Faye laughed. “Exactly.”
“Did you have sex with Judge Montgomery?”
“No. I sucked him. Got him to the edge, then I sliced it off. Stuffed it down his throat, just like Emily wanted to do.
“Whatever. What’s done is done. You can leave now,” Faye said.
“Faye, we know someone helped you plan these murders. Tell me who and I can protect you.”
“Protect me from what? No one’s going to let me out of here. I’m okay with that. Really.”
“Faye, you need to be completely honest with the police. Tell them who asked you to kill Victor Montgomery and Garrett Bowen and Paul Judson.”
“A little bird told me,” Faye said, and started laughing.
After leaving Faye, Julia asked Dillon, “Do you think it’s all an act?”
“Faye’s protecting someone, no doubt about it,” he said. “A man. Someone she’s having sex with.”
“She’s only seventeen.”
Dillon raised an eyebrow. “Not that I condone underage sex, but it’s not uncommon.”
“You know what I mean. It’s not just her having sex, but killing without any remorse. Even killing her friends.”
“Like I said last night, she has no empathy for her victims. But there is one very unusual thing.”
“What’s that?”
“She’s protecting someone, which means she is capable of emotion. You have to care about someone to go to prison for them. I certainly don’t think Faye cares enough about herself or even whether she lives or dies.”
Dressed as a nurse, and sporting a stolen security pass, Cami found it surprisingly easy to walk onto the secured floor of the hospital. She’d learned a long time ago that when you acted like you belonged somewhere, people accepted that you belonged. A form of psychology.
She ducked into a room when she saw Julia Chandler walk from Faye’s wing with a tall, handsome man. Cami recognized him. He’d been at Dr. Bowen’s fund-raiser.
Who had spilled her identity? It had to have been Jason’s parents. They were the only ones who knew who she really was, but it hadn’t occurred to Cami that anyone would have a reason to talk to them.
Again, the two-timing asshole was wrong. He said they’d never make the connection with Jason Ridge. Well, hotshot, they had. And now they knew Michelle O’Dell also went by the name of Cami.
Cami watched them walk past. As soon as they were out of sight, she strode down the hall. A doctor gave her a double look, but she just nodded curtly and kept right on going, chart in hand. Cami had a purpose. Don’t hesitate, always look like you know what you’re doing, no one will get in your way.
A guard stood at Faye’s door. He checked her ID, but fortunately didn’t look too carefully. It looked enough like her on the surface, though the woman in the photo was much older. Cami had stolen it from the nurses’ locker room.
After signing in with the guard, Cami entered the room. Faye was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
“Hello, Faye.”
Faye turned her head, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“He wanted me to thank you for sacrificing yourself. It was such a noble thing to do, Faye.”
“I don’t want him to go to prison.”
That confirmed it. Faye had been fucking him, and was in love with him, and had never once said one word to Cami. Never even hinted.
He’d never made love to Cami. Sure, they’d done things, but he was always in control. He never gave it up. But the photographs Robbie had taken proved he and Faye were more than intimate. And the knife…
Walking over to the bed, Cami pretended to check Faye’s vitals, held her wrist as if taking her pulse. She then slipped a small, sharp knife between the sheets.
“You know what to do.”
The pain and uncertainty on Faye’s face rivaled her need to cut herself.
Cami tried to smile. “Here, I took over for the nurse on duty. You’re supposed to get these meds. Make it look good for the cop.”
Faye nodded, took the pills, and swallowed.
They were anticoagulants. Cami knew Faye well: she’d cut herself.
The pills assured that Faye wouldn’t survive.
Connor stared at the “apartment” where Garrett Bowen’s son lived near the UCSD campus.
“Apartment” didn’t do Eric Bowen’s three-story town house justice. Connor could fit two of his houses inside with room to spare, and the rear doors opened to a golf course, making the entire living area look even bigger.
“What can I do for you?” Eric Bowen asked. He looked like a younger version of Garrett Bowen.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” Will said as they walked in. Connor noted a huge painting taking up most of the largest wall of the living room. It was unrecognizable for the most part, black and white with some odd splashes of color. He’d seen a similar painting in Garrett Bowen’s house.
The town house looked lived in, though it was clean and tidy. Eric was comfortably dressed in slacks and a polo shirt. He escorted them to the dining room in the rear of the main floor, off the kitchen. “Coffee? Water? Soda?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” Will sat down.
“You said this was about my father’s death. I heard on the news that a young woman confessed to killing him and making it look like suicide. Is that true?”
“We’re inclined to believe the witness,” Will said. “But there are some inconsistencies in her statement that we were hoping you could help with. The person who confessed was a patient of your father’s. We believe she was part of the Wishlist group that you indicated had been originally set up for people who self-mutilated.”
“That was ages ago. It evolved into something different.”
“What do you know about the group?”
“My dad had a couple of patients who wouldn’t open up. He wanted to give them a safe and open forum to discuss their situation.”
“And you thought it was a good idea?” Connor asked, thinking about Dillon’s derisive comments about the group.
“At first. But then he broadened it and included practically everyone. I couldn’t imagine it succeeding. I asked him about it a couple times, but he told me to stay out of it. My father loved attention. He loved when people came and told him their deep, dark secrets. He loved to play God, cure all the ills in the world. Maybe his goals were noble at the beginning, but he lost it somewhere down the line.”
“You two didn’t get along, I take it.”
Eric stared out the window, his mouth a tight line. “I used to be close to my dad. But after Mom died he worked nonstop. I didn’t see much of him. Aunt Monica moved in, but she was sick, too. And then two years later, she died.”
Will flipped through his notes. “Monica was your father’s sister, correct?”
“Right. She’d gone through a divorce or something-I never really knew what happened-but shortly after my mom died she needed a place to live with Tristan.”
“Tristan?”
“My cousin.” Eric swept his hand around the room. “He painted most of these.” A cloud crossed his face.
“Where is Tristan?”
“He travels a lot, but he’s been in town the last month or so because of Saturday’s fund-raiser. The studio which has been exhibiting his work benefited from the event.”
“Do you know where we can find him?” asked Will.
Eric got up, sorted through a Rolodex, then copied an address and phone numbers onto a Post-it note. Will took it with a “Thanks.”
“Do you know who’s in Wishlist?” Will asked.
“No. I helped him construct the messaging system, but that’s all. My dad didn’t have the technical skill to put it together, but, like I said, that was it.”
Will changed the subject. “My understanding is that you just inherited a few million dollars.”
Eric sighed. “I guess all cops have to think that way. I don’t care about the money. My mother was independently wealthy and I received most of her estate. That was worth three times what my dad was worth. The only thing he got from her estate was the house.”
“What about anyone who threatened your dad? Was he scared? Angry about something?”
“Dad never got angry, even when mom died. He was unique.”
“What happened to your cousin Tristan after his mother died? Did he continue to live with you?”
“Let’s see, he was eighteen at the time. He moved out almost immediately. Tristan and Dad didn’t see eye-to-eye about a lot of things, and-”
He stopped.
“What?” Will prompted.
Eric frowned. “Tristan is the reason Wishlist was created in the first place. After Aunt Monica died, Tristan started cutting himself. He refused to talk to Dad about it, but agreed to the anonymous counseling. It seemed to work wonders. Tristan stopped self-mutilating, focused on his art, and now, seven years later, he’s a rising star in the art world. I got to hand it to him, he’s done well.”
Connor stared at Tristan’s painting across the room. At first he only saw swirls of pink and red, jagged lines fading toward the edges. Other, darker colors seemed randomly thrown onto the canvas. But from this distance, Connor made out the hint of a female shape. And the jagged lines were shadows. The fading out was drip marks.
The skin crawled on the back of Connor’s hand. Tristan’s paintings were creepy.
Faye kept the knife under the blanket. She rolled it between her fingers. Back and forth, back and forth. It nicked her once and she jumped in pleasurable surprise. She liked being surprised. It was why she liked being cut on her back. She could anticipate it, but not know the moment when it would come. Then the sting was far more exquisite.
She was going to miss her angel. For a moment, she wondered if she’d done the right thing. Maybe somehow they could have run away together.
But she had to take the blame. After all, she had killed.
Faye didn’t want to go to prison. And she damn well didn’t want to talk to any more shrinks. Playing with your mind while pretending to be your friend. They didn’t know shit, only wanted to live vicariously through you because they had no lives of their own.
She remembered one session with Dr. Bowen. He wanted to know all about her sex life. He was probably getting off on her description, so she made it as lewd and lurid as possible. She described how her lover had cut her breast, then he sucked her blood. She then did the same to him. They came together as the pain and the feelings peaked.
She smiled. Bowen never even guessed Faye was talking about his own flesh and blood.
Taking the knife in hand, she cut deeply from the inside of her right elbow to her palm. The instant, burning pain almost stopped her. She almost called for a nurse.
Instead, she bit her tongue and watched the blood spread, seeping through the sheet, through the cotton blanket, spreading…