The Death Sculptor

Thirty-Eight

Olivia was studying Hunter’s face. She kept her large green eyes locked on his for five long seconds before deciding that he was telling the truth. She reached for her cup but didn’t bring it to her mouth. Just a nervous reaction to keep her hands from shaking. It didn’t work.

‘I haven’t been able to sleep for the past couple of days,’ Olivia said, looking away, finding a neutral spot on the far wall and holding it for a moment. ‘I’d rather stay awake than close my eyes and deal with what my dreams have brought me.’

Hunter said nothing. He doubted it would be any comfort to Olivia if she knew that he’d been living that exact way for most of his life.

‘We knew Dad didn’t have long to live, and as hard as it might’ve been, I thought Allison and I had prepared ourselves for it.’ She shook her head and her bottom lip quivered. ‘It turns out that we weren’t as prepared as we thought. But having to find out details of what really happened this way.’ She pushed the newspaper towards Hunter and said nothing else.

‘Once again, I’m sorry,’ Hunter said, not even glancing at the paper. ‘I had to make a decision. And I made it based on my experience in dealing with grieving families of homicide victims.’

Hunter’s words were delivered in a tender and non-patronizing tone, and Olivia seemed to pick up on it.

‘What happened yesterday . . .’ Her gaze quickly moved to the newspaper on the table, and then back to Hunter. ‘Is there really a connection?’

Olivia’s question simply brought forward something that Hunter had no way of avoiding.

‘From what we’ve been able to gather so far, we believe that both crimes were committed by the same person, yes,’ he replied and quickly followed it up. ‘You obviously read the article.’ He nodded at the paper.

‘Yes.’

‘Does the name Andrew Nashorn ring any bells?’

‘No,’ she replied with a subtle headshake.

‘You don’t recognize him at all from the newspaper photo?’

‘When I read the article this morning, I asked myself that exact same question, Detective.’ Olivia shook her head and looked away again. ‘Neither his name nor his face ring any bells. If my father knew him, I don’t recall him ever mentioning him. And I certainly don’t recall seeing him anywhere.’

Hunter acknowledged it with a slight tilt of his head.

Olivia finished her water and pinned Hunter down with a pleading stare. ‘You don’t have much so far, do you, Detective?’ She paused for a fraction of a second. ‘And please don’t lie to me again.’ Her voice almost croaked.

Hunter waited, debating what to tell her. The anticipation in Olivia’s demeanor was almost electric. ‘At the moment we have bits and pieces that we’re trying to piece together. But we are making progress,’ he assured her. ‘I can’t really reveal much more than that. I’m sorry. I hope you understand.’

Olivia sat in silence for a long, uncomfortable moment. ‘I know that nothing will ever bring my father back, Detective, but the thought that the monster who took him is still out there . . . still killing . . . and he might never be brought to justice, makes me sick. Please don’t let that happen.’