Park blows out a breath. “You mean the one I use if the alarm goes off and you call to see if it’s a false alarm or if I’m in danger?”
“Yes. Um… I’m going to get my supervisor now. Can you stay on the line?” At his affirmative response, Muzak floats through the speaker. He knows the song, a Nirvana hit from the ’90s. Rendered in symphonic piano, it feels almost upbeat, happy.
Clever bastard. What is his son planning?
The door chimes. Something so ubiquitous, so ingrained, that he hadn’t noticed they weren’t working. He opens the door to the garage just to be sure and no, nothing. Damn.
He looks at the security company pamphlet, anger blooming. Olivia’s hyper-organization suddenly seems foolhardy. She’s left the details of their security system available for anyone to find. Thank God he thought to call. He is saving them from sure disaster.
“Mr. Bender?” A brisk, deep voice come on the line. “Fred Westgate. I own the company. Emily tells me we have a problem. You understand that I can’t take any chances here, so I’ve dispatched the police to your address. In case they call this a false alarm, I’ll make sure you aren’t fined by Metro.”
Just what Park needs with the media camped outside, more cops rolling up. But he is solicitous because he needs Fred Westgate’s help. “That’s fine. I was going to call them myself.”
“Good. This is an unprecedented breach, sir. I assure you this isn’t the kind of thing that happens with my firm.” The thin wail of a siren bleeds into the kitchen.
“I believe the police are nearly here. Would you mind holding a moment? I need to make another call.”
“Sir!” But Park sets down the phone, ignoring the sputters from Westgate for a moment while he digs Osley’s card from his wallet. He dials on his cell, and Osley answers right away.
“Mr. Bender?”
“You put my number in your cell phone, Osley?”
“I thought you might reach out. Never know. What’s wrong?”
“The police are on their way here, because it seems Peyton Flynn has hijacked my security system and has been breaking into my house.”
Osley curses. Park hears mumbling, then, “I’m on my way.”
Park ends the call and picks up the house phone. “Sorry, needed to call the guy I’ve been working with at Metro, get him out here, too. How much security footage do you have from my home?”
Westgate sounds incredibly relieved that Park is back on the line with him. “Enough. I’ve been accessing it, but you’re going to have to confirm your identity with Metro before I go further.”
“Fair enough.” The sirens are louder now. Park goes to the front door, looks out the left sidelight. Once this is resolved, he’s going to rouse Olivia and get a damn police escort out of his house. Get her someplace safe. She might hate him, but he still loves her, still wants to care for her. They have been compromised here. Park knows enough about these things to recognize danger when he sees it.
It hits him then. This whole scenario feels…familiar. Something… Has he read this setup before? Worse, written it? It’s a ridiculous phenomenon that he doesn’t remember everything he’s ever cooked up, but he’s written ten books for Barty （that nasty drunk, God, Olivia）， and drafted three more. He racks his brain—is this something he’s done? Has he read it in another story? It makes a perverse kind of sense; how could a kid come up with this by himself? How could he be so devious? Where had he come by this sort of brain?
You gave it to him. You’re the devious one. You’ve been living this dual life for years, one part of you present and accounted for, another fantasizing ways to kill and maim for the entertainment of others. It doesn’t matter if it was written before or not. You gave him this identity in his very genes.
Knocks sound on the door, and he opens the heavy wood to see two patrol officers, blandly interchangeable with crew cuts and overdeveloped biceps. Among the crowd, phones are held in the air, frantically documenting this new development.
“Mr. Bender?” one says.
“Yes. Please come in. Detective Osley is on his way as well.”
The cops step inside and Park leads them to the kitchen, handing the landline to one of them while he digs his license from his wallet, only partly listening to the Q and A between Westgate and the cop.
Bona fides established, the cop hands over the phone. Westgate, now utterly solicitous, says, “I’m sending my best tech over to redo your entire system, Mr. Bender. It will be a couple of hours. I’ll upgrade everything for you free of charge as well. I assure you this isn’t how we do business. I apologize.”
What he’s really saying is please, please don’t sue me, but Park has bigger problems at the moment than going down that path.
“Thank you. We’ll talk again.” He clicks off the phone and puts it on the counter.
“Thanks for coming,” he says to the cops. “I need to check on my wife now.” He points them toward the door, but they stubbornly hold their ground.
“Detective Osley told us to stick around, sir. Seems like you’ve got a few issues today.”
“Fine,” Park says, starting for the stairs. “Help yourself to some water. I’ll be back in a moment.”
When he hits the stairs, though, he sees Osley striding up the walk wearing his boots and hat and gold glam sunglasses. His style screams country music superstar, not homicide detective. Park opens the door and intercepts him.
“This is completely out of hand,” he says, waving toward the crowd outside. “You have to get these people under control. They’re a danger to my family, to the neighborhood, and—”
Osley slides past him into the foyer. “Good to see you too, man.” Osley flashes him a smile. He follows Park to the kitchen—their de facto war room. He greets the patrols and dismisses them. “Go get the media out of here, would you? They’re becoming a nuisance.”
Happy for something tangible to do, the two men depart with alacrity.
Osley stows the sunnies in his pocket, one temple in, the frames dangling across the man’s muscled chest like a sunburst. “Wanna tell me what’s happening?”
Park does, quickly.
Osley whistles, long and low. “This kid’s been sneaking around you for quite a while, hasn’t he? How do you think he found you?”
“Has to be Winterborn. Or maybe that Discord group my daughter set up?”
“More likely he matched to you on the DNA site and decided to look up dear old dad for shits and giggles. Developed a fixation. Which would answer why we’ve found a fresh match—we’ve got his DNA in the system, and the ancestry database lawyers agreed to share what they have. We catch Peyton Flynn, we do a DNA test, and he matches, we got him dead to rights for Beverly Cooke’s murder. Got any coffee hot?”
“No. I don’t.”
“You should make some. You tied one on?”
Park shrugs. “Shit morning.”
“Yeah. I saw the presser.” Osley moves unerringly toward the cabinet with the coffee, expertly pulling together the pot and setting it to brew. Park assumes he must have seen Olivia do the same. It’s a violation, the cop’s familiarity with his home, his life, his thoughts. He wants to rush the man, throw him to the ground, stamp on his head a few times, but stays put. He needs a drink. Badly. But coffee will help, too.