“Can anyone confirm that’s what you did?” Foster asked.
“It’s just me here, as you can see.”
“What about Tuesday or yesterday? Still home alone?” Li asked.
He’d been out walking both nights, and then he’d gone to a bar. Also, not their business. His hands gripped the back of his couch, his eyes on the cops. He was mindful of the time he’d given them. “Yes. That’s not a crime. Why are you here?”
“We found two reports filed accusing you of stalking,” Li said. “Women.”
His entire body burned. “They misunderstood. I was walking. I got turned around.” He looked from one to the other.
“Reese Tynan found you in her yard,” Li said, “peeking through her windows.”
Bodie gripped the couch tighter, his throat as dry as a Saharan sirocco. “It was a mistake, and I paid for it. You know one of yours tried to beat the crap out of me? I should have pressed charges.”
Li angled her head. “Why didn’t you?”
“I know how the city works,” Bodie snarled. “And your time’s almost up. You asked; I answered. I have a lawyer, so don’t think you can intimidate me.”
“Did you know Peggy Birch?” Foster asked. “Mallory Rea or Evelyn Wicks? Meet them somewhere?”
The names from the paper. The women. “No.”
“You’re sure?” Li asked.
“Who sent you here? Someone had to. Why are you harassing me like this?”
“Do you have family nearby, Mr. Morgan?” Foster asked. “Friends? A place of employment?”
“None of your business,” he said. “Your five minutes are up. I want you to leave.” He let go of the couch and walked them to the door. When they eased back into the hall, he stood in the doorway again to claim his space. “Who told you to come here?”
Foster buttoned her jacket but didn’t answer. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Morgan. We’ll be in touch.”
Li slipped on her sunglasses and smiled. “Have a nice day.”
Bodie shut the door, locked it, and took a moment to breathe. He darted over to the phone and dialed Amelia’s number. Waiting, his body shaking, for her to pick up. “Answer, damn it.” He paced his living room, running his free hand through his hair.
Amelia picked up on the fourth ring. “Hey, Bod. What’s up.”
“The police were just here. At my place. They think I killed those women.” He turned around to survey his apartment, feeling violated. “They saw all my stuff. I know they don’t believe me. They’ll be back. They always come back.”
He left no space for Am to respond, he knew, but he was rattled, afraid. He couldn’t take another locked room. It took a while for him to calm down and realize that Amelia hadn’t tried to break in or ask a question or anything, that he’d only gotten silence from the other end all this time.
“Are you there?” he asked.
“Aren’t I always?”
“You heard what I said?”
“Every word. It’s ridiculous. You couldn’t kill anyone.”
She was calm. He hated that Amelia never rattled and he always did. He hated being the weak one, again. And he hated that he read a subtle condemnation in her words, which he knew she’d intended to be reassuring. Why couldn’t he kill anyone?
He pounded his fist on the wall, furious at her, at himself. “Damn it, Am.”
“What? I just said—”
“Skip it. The point is they don’t believe me. They know about my case. They know what happened, and they don’t believe me.”
“What I’d like to know is what brought them to your door,” Amelia said. “You were charged with trespassing, given probation. There was no violence. Out of all the people in the city, out of all the trespassers, why’d they come to you?”
Bodie had no answer. His head was a muddle, too many thoughts, all at once, all different directions.
“Think,” Amelia said. “Someone led them to your door.”
“Someone? Someone like who? I don’t know anyone who would—” Bodie froze, and then a rage he could barely contain began to scorch him from the inside. “Dr. Silva. It was her. She was here, wheedling, trying to get me back in sessions.”
“Why does she want you?”
Again, Bodie could swear he heard subtle derision in Am’s voice. Why wouldn’t Silva want him? Why wouldn’t anyone? His brain raced a mile a minute. Police meant trouble. Police meant a locked cell. “It was her. That evil . . .”
“Bod? You’re fine. Everything’s going to be fine.”
As she spoke, he could feel himself calming down. Amelia always helped with that. “You’re right. Everything’s fine. I’m okay. I didn’t tell her anything but lies, so she has nothing. I’m good. I see that now.”
After a moment of silence between them, Amelia said, “Bod? Maybe no walking tonight?”
He nodded in agreement, though Am couldn’t see it. “You’re right. Not tonight.”
“Good. Now, tell me again about Dr. Silva?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
CHAPTER 46
Amelia slid her phone into her pocket and went back to her canvas with Bodie on her mind. He was in trouble again, which meant she had trouble to resolve. She could have used a cuddle from Winston, but Joie wasn’t in, her work in progress, her work space, deserted this morning. Amelia raised a brush and stood there evaluating, deciding where to start. The first stroke was always the most important for her, setting the tone for the entire session. She twirled the brush in her hand, a fresh dab of crimson paint on the tip, waiting for her muse to tell her where to apply it; then she stepped up to the canvas, said hello, and painted a dot. Her first strike.
“Bodie . . . a killer.” She laughed, then stopped. She stepped back from her work and thought about what Bodie had told her about his persistent psychiatrist. Why was she so invested in her brother? What had she seen in him? What had he said?
The basement flashed in her mind with its stench of death. She remembered how otherworldly the silence had been. After their gruesome discovery, she never saw her father go down to the basement again, but she knew he did. She could feel it, sense it, though not a single sound had ever breached the padlocked door.
She would lie in bed at night and imagine what might be happening floors below her and who might be on the table. The abnormal had a way of becoming normal. All it took was the will to let it. Amelia knew at twelve that it was her father this way or no way, and so she adapted, accepted, and ignored. She’d made a choice that Bodie hadn’t been equipped to make. No, Bodie had no stomach for killing. He had no stomach for life either. Bodie was a broken train, a damaged birdhouse, a casualty of blackhearted blood. Now Amelia needed a plan.
She let out a long exhale, then picked up another brush, a smaller one, and dipped it in white, then approached the canvas again. Art. Her art. Art from her mind, her soul, her essence. Her life. Her blood and sweat, her gift. Smiling, contented, she expertly painted a tiny rose. She thought of secrets and how they took on a life of their own after a time. Everyone had secrets.