She thought about that. When Paramedic Annie came back over with the juice, she smiled and thanked her.
“Mrs. Winslow?”
Again calling her by the old name.
“I may have. I probably did. But it all happened so fast. He ran to my window and threw it open.”
“Right to the window,” Max said. “Without a word.”
“Yes.”
“And the window,” Max said. “It was in your bedroom, right?”
“Right.”
“The windows in your main room, the living room, are closer to the door, right?”
“I don’t know. I never measured the distance. I guess they are.”
“But they don’t lead to fire escapes, do they?”
“That’s right.”
“Only the one in your bedroom does,” Max said. He tilted his head to the right. “How do you think Burroughs knew that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t tell him?” Max asked.
“Of course not. Maybe he got the lay of the building beforehand.”
“Are you aware that David Burroughs escaped from custody just this morning?”
“One of the nice police officers told me that.”
“You didn’t know before?”
“No, of course not. How would I?”
“I called your phone thirty minutes ago and left a voice message.”
“Oh, really? I never answer my phone. It’s always some con man trying to scam an old lady. I let it go to voicemail, and truth be told? I don’t even know how voicemail works.”
Max stared at her. He was buying none of this.
“Why do you think Burroughs came directly to you?”
“Pardon?”
“First thing. He gets out. He drives to New York City. He comes to see you. Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know…” Suddenly her eyes open wide. “Oh my God.”
“Mrs. Winslow?”
“Do you think…do you think he came here to hurt me?” Her hand fluttered to her mouth. “Is that what you think?”
“No,” Max said.
“But you just said—”
“If he wanted to hurt you, I think he would have pushed you when he came in, don’t you? Or hit you? Or something like that?” Then Max noticed something. “Is that a mark on your cheek?”
“It’s nothing,” she said too quickly.
“David Burroughs also has a gun. Did you see it?”
“A gun? Heavens no.”
“Think about it a second. You’re David Burroughs. You spend five years in prison. You finally escape. You head straight to see a witness you claim lied about you—”
“Special Agent Bernstein?”
“Yes.”
“It’s been quite an ordeal,” she said sweetly. “I’ve told you all I know.”
“I’d like to just ask you a few questions about your testimony.”
“No,” she said.
“No?”
“I’m not dredging this all up again, and…” She turned. “Annie?”
“Yes, Mrs. Winchester.”
“I’m not feeling so great.”
“I told you, Harriet. You need to rest.”
Max was about to protest when he heard Sarah’s voice call out, “Max?”
He turned. She was standing in the side opening of the FBI van waving him over urgently. He skipped the goodbye and hurried toward her. Sarah saw his face as he approached.
“What?” Sarah said.
“She’s lying.”
“About?”
“Everything.” He hoisted up his pants. “Okay, what’s so important?”
“I got the CCTV on Rachel’s prison visit to Burroughs. You’re going to want to see this.”
*
Cheryl just stared at the photo.
“It was taken at an amusement park,” Rachel said.
“I can see that,” her sister snapped. “So?”
Rachel didn’t bother explaining about Irene and all that. She’d zoomed in to the little boy in the background—not too much because then his face became too blurry. She’d handed her phone to her sister. Cheryl continued to stare.
“Cheryl?”
With her eyes still on the photo, Cheryl whispered, “What are you trying to do to me?”
Rachel did not reply.
Tears started to come now. “You showed this to David.”
Rachel wasn’t sure if it was a question or not. “Yes.”
“That’s why you went to Briggs.”
“Yes.”
Cheryl kept staring at the image and shaking her head. “Where did you get this?”
Rachel gently took the phone back and unzoomed the photograph back to the original. “This is a friend of mine. She went to Six Flags with her family. Her husband took the picture. She was showing it to me and…”
“And what?” Cheryl’s voice was pure ice. “You saw a boy who somewhat resembles my dead son and figured you’d blow up everyone’s life?”
Not your life, she thought, but Rachel figured that it was best not to voice that.
“Rachel?”
“I didn’t know what to do.”
“So you showed it to David?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Rachel didn’t want to get into how she wanted to protect Cheryl, so she said nothing.
Cheryl pressed on. “What did he say?”
“He was shocked.”
“What did he say, Rachel?”
“He thinks it’s Matthew.”
Cheryl’s face turned red. “Of course he does. If you throw a drowning man an anvil, he’ll mistake it for a life preserver.”
“If David killed Matthew,” Rachel said, “you’d think he’d know it was an anvil, right?”
Cheryl just shook her head.
“It never made sense, Cheryl. David killing Matthew. Come on. You know that. Even in a fugue state or whatever. And the whole ‘buried weapon’ thing. Why would David have done that? He’d know better. And that witness. Hilde Winslow. She changed her name and moved away. Why would she do that?”
“My God.” Cheryl stared at her sister. “You believe this nonsense?”
“I don’t know. That’s all I’m saying.”
“How can you not know? Or maybe you’re desperate too, Rachel.”
“What?”
“For a story.”
“Are you serious?”
“For redemption. For another chance. I mean, if my son is alive, this would be huge, right? Networks, front pages—”
“You can’t—”
“And if it’s not Matthew, if it’s just a kid who has a passing resemblance to him, all of this—David’s escaping, David finally talking to someone after all this time—well, it’s still a big story.”
“Cheryl.”
“My murdered son could be your ticket back.”
Rachel reeled back as though she’d been slapped.
“I didn’t mean that,” Cheryl said quickly, her voice softer now.
Rachel didn’t reply.
“Listen to me,” Cheryl continued. “Matthew is dead. And so is Catherine Tullo.”