“How far back do you remember?”
The question made Amy pause. The conversation had suddenly changed, taking a new direction that puzzled her. She felt unsettled by Rizzoli’s intent look, as if she was hanging on Amy’s every word. This no longer felt like a casual conversation over tea; it was starting to feel like an interrogation.
“Why are you asking all these questions?”
“Because I’m still trying to understand James Creighton’s motives. Why did he stalk you? What made you so special to him, and when did he first see you?”
“At the cemetery.”
“Or was it earlier? Is it possible, when you were very young, that James Creighton knew your mother?”
“No, she would have told me.” Amy took a sip of tea, but it was already going cold. She noticed that Rizzoli had not touched her tea, but was simply sitting there, watching her.
“Tell me about your father, Amy. Not Dr. Antrim, but your real father.”
“Why?”
“It’s important.”
“I try not to think of him. Ever.”
“But you must remember him. When your mother married Mike Antrim, you were already ten years old. I saw the wedding photo in Dr. Antrim’s study. You were the flower girl.”
Amy nodded. “They got married at Lantern Lake.”
“And your real father?”
“As far as I’m concerned, Mike Antrim is my only father.”
“But there was another man, named Bruce Flagler. A carpenter who worked odd jobs, moving from town to town, repairing decks, renovating kitchens.”
“What does Bruce have to do with this?”
“So you do remember his name.”
“I try not to.” Abruptly Amy rose to her feet and picked up her cell phone from the kitchen counter. “I’m going to text my mom to come home right now. She’s the one who can answer your questions.”
“I need to know what you remember.”
“I don’t want to! He was horrible.”
“Your mother said you were eight years old when she split up with him. That’s old enough for you to remember a lot of details.”
“Yes, I was old enough to remember him hitting her. I remember her pushing me into my bedroom to keep me away from him.”
“What happened to Bruce Flagler?”
“Ask my mother.”
“Don’t you know?”
Amy sat down and looked across the table at Jane. “What I do remember is the day we left him. The day we threw our clothes into a suitcase and jumped into the car. Mom told me everything would be okay, that we were going on a big adventure, just the two of us. Far enough away that he’d never find us, and we’d never be scared again.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t care. Why do you?”
“I need to find him, Amy.”
“Why?”
“Because I believe he killed a woman nineteen years ago. He strangled her in her home and he took her three-year-old daughter. He needs to be in prison.”
Amy’s phone dinged. She looked down to see a text from her mother.
“Did your mother know what Bruce did? Is that why she left him?”
Amy tapped out a reply and put down her phone.
“Did she know the man she was living with was a murderer?” asked Jane.
They both heard the sound of a key in the front door and Amy jumped up. “She’s home. Why don’t you ask her?”
Julianne walked into the kitchen carrying a grocery sack and the scent of fresh basil wafted in with her. Glass bottles clinked as she set the sack down on the countertop and she flashed Jane a smile. “Detective Rizzoli, if I’d known you were coming to visit, I would’ve rushed home earlier.”
“Amy and I were just catching up,” said Rizzoli.
“She took a swab of my mouth, Mom,” said Amy.
“From Amy?” Julianne frowned. “Whatever for? Now that this nightmare’s all over—”
“Is that what you think? That it’s all over?”
Julianne regarded Rizzoli for a moment and Amy did not like the long silence that followed. She didn’t like how her mother’s smile had vanished. Julianne’s face was now unreadable, a blank mask that Amy had seen before, and she knew what it meant.
“I’m going to need a swab of your mouth too, Mrs. Antrim.”
“But you already know my blood’s on that knife. You saw the cut on my hand that night. I got it defending my daughter. Fighting off that man.”