“Yeah, well, I got ambushed.”
“No idea where she dug up the St. Louis story?”
Park stiffens. “No. And it’s totally horseshit. I had nothing to do with that girl’s death.”
Osley only says, “Hmm,” which is maddening.
Blustery now, Park spits out the words. “I want to know what your people are going to do about keeping my family safe while you search for Peyton Flynn.”
“Hmm,” Osley says again, but his booted foot is tapping. Nervous energy, a tell. If Park were to sit down across from him at a poker table, he’d only have to listen for the thick tap tap tap of Osley’s cowboy boot to know when the man was bluffing.
The coffeepot is now full of steaming dark brown liquid, and Osley helps himself to a cup, stevia, creamer. Takes a slurp, then raises a brow inquiringly.
“Yes,” Park says, annoyed to no end when Osley makes him a cup light, with two packets of stevia, like he’d seen him do enough times to make an impression.
Osley joins him at the table, pushes the cup across the wood.
“Listen. This is a weird case, no mistake. Personally, I believe ya. You’ve gotten the short end of the stick, and that’s not cool. I don’t know if you should be happy about finding all these kids, but the rest, from what I’ve seen, you’ve just been cursed with some seriously bad luck. It’s all circumstantial coincidences as far as I’m concerned.” Slurp. “It’s Moore who’s got her firebrand lit. That girl is serious about her shit, you know what I mean?”
Park sighs and sips the coffee. It’s good. Damn good. But he’s not going to say that aloud.
Osley keeps on with his soliloquy. Park can’t tell if he’s playing good cop or if he actually thinks Park is getting railroaded.
“So we got a lot of facets, right? Kid you’ve never met is stalking you. He’s been in your house, he’s stolen things from you, he’s left flowers for your wife. He’s been lying to his mother for months, so I’m thinking he’s got a plan. He’s building up to something. He’s already killed one woman that we know of and has taken another. Might be he kills her, might not. I surely pray we get to her before he does. But then what?”
“He comes for Olivia again.”
Osley touches the side of his nose. “Bingo. He comes for Olivia again. But I don’t think he wants to hurt her. He’s had a lot of chances to hurt her. My gut instinct here? He’s a boy in love. Was he in love with Beverly Cooke and she blew him off, so he killed her? I don’t know, but now that we have this information about the security system breach, I can go back to Mr. Cooke and look at things from a different angle. Same with Ms. Kemp. I can talk to Ms. Wilde-Kemp and see what she knows. So while this is a scary, frustrating thing, it’s also a big help to the case.”
“Why them, though? Why Cooke and Kemp?”
“Why does a killer ever choose his prey? Something about them attracts him. Looks, attitude, whatever, they send off some sort of silent bat signal the killer claims to be helpless against. We’re pretty sure he’s been following along his mama’s private Facebook group for women who’ve used sperm donors, so chances are the two said something that triggered his interest, or they have a certain look. You write this stuff. You know how to build a victimology, yeah?”
“Jesus.”
“Don’t think he has much to do with this, son.”
“Did you actually just call me ‘son’？” Park is still slightly tipsy, and this makes him want to giggle. “I must be a decade older than you, at least.”
“Probably not. I take care of myself. Anyway, not the point. I’m trying to separate out the weirdness of you having all these kids from the facts, but I’ve gotta wonder if our friend Peyton is jealous of his siblings, and that’s what’s driving a lot of this. Or if he’s got a mommy complex. That’s for the shrinks to play with, not me. Me, I just want to be sure your wife is safe, and I want to find Ms. Kemp before she turns into fish food.”
Park’s stomach turns. Should he mention Fiona Cross? He hears Olivia’s voice in his head. Now’s the time to come clean. Stop hiding things from us.
He fills Osley in, looking away from the accusatory stare.
“You might have mentioned this before. We’ll need to check her out, too.”
“I seriously doubt she is involved. Seriously, she went away the minute she realized I wasn’t going to pony up. But just in case.”
“Yes. Just in case. God, Bender. You really do know how to step in it, don’t you?”
“A talent I’ve been working on my whole life,” he answers with equal sarcasm. “So, what do you want me to do here?”
“Sit tight. I’ll keep a car on the house. Let the security man load you up.” He drains the cup, grins. “Maybe get yourself a new gun.”
“You think he’s going to come for us.”
Osley’s face goes deadly serious at last, and the cold remoteness in his eyes makes Park’s gnads shrivel. “I do.”
Park watches Osley stride to his vehicle, pleased to see the patrols have moved the reporters away from the house. The neighbors have abandoned their posts as well. The street is quiet, and his shoulders relax for the first time in hours. He has sobered up enough to start feeling fear, deep and corrosive, and knows he needs to get them both away from here. Maybe they should go to Lindsey’s. Then there will be four of them to take on Peyton Flynn if he comes. Maybe he should leave town entirely. If they’re careful, there’s no way Peyton can follow them, right?
His cell phone rings, and he grabs it from his pocket. He doesn’t recognize the number. He puts the phone to his ear. “We have no comment, and if you call here again—”
“Mr. Bender? I’m not a reporter. My name is Darby. I’m Peyton Flynn’s mother. You are my son’s donor.”
39
THE MOTHER
Darby waits, unnerved by the silence. She’s not used to calling people and having them go quiet.
“Hello? Hello, Mr. Bender?”
Scarlett watches her, so hopeful, eyes shining, luminescent, expecting this moment to be something magical, something profound, but Darby still hears nothing on the other end of the phone. The call must have dropped. Or Bender heard the word “son” and panicked. She doesn’t even know if she blames him.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. I think he hung up.”
Scarlett jumps for the phone before Darby can depress the End button.
“Mr. Bender? Are you still there? I’m Scarlett, Peyton’s sister. I’m your daughter.”
“I’m still here.” There are no pauses, no silence this time. “Hello, Scarlett.”
The voice is deep. Soothing. Not the frantic, angry challenge from a moment ago, but the voice of a man who is interested in hearing what she has to say.
“Mr. Bender. Thank you for staying on the line. We…we saw the interview,” Darby says.
A small, humorless laugh. “I’m surprised you’d want to talk to me after that.”
“I admit, I’ve had my doubts. But Scarlett… Anyway, I assume the media will be on my doorstep next. When they figure out I’m Peyton’s mother, they’ll be as relentless with me as they have been with you.”