“Nothing about that photo is as it seems,” Beth said. “But then again, it made me look like a bitch. It played into the narrative that I was a serial killer. And it sold papers.”
“The gun,” I said, trying to stick to the topic of evidence. “There was the ballistics report that said the same gun killed your father and the two Lady Killer victims. How do you explain that?”
Beth looked at me evenly. “Do you think I killed my father?”
I stared back at her. “The truth?”
“Of course.”
I bit my lip, thinking. “I think it’s unlikely. You were nineteen, and it was a very violent crime. You didn’t need his money—you were already his heiress, and you had all the money you wanted. You told me Julian wasn’t abusive.”
Beth took a sip of her drink, listening. She looked tense, but if I had to guess, I thought part of her was enjoying this.
“The thing is, though, it’s possible,” I went on. “Your childhood wasn’t happy—you admit that. You were left alone a lot. You had no close friends. Most serial killers who have been studied can trace their tendencies back to childhood, and yours was definitely isolated. You’ve never been psychologically examined by court order, so no one knows if you’re a sociopath or not.”
“Gosh, you’re a charming date,” Beth said dryly.
I gave her a shrug that was pure Beth, the one that said, Maybe you have a point, but probably not. “You asked. What I come back to when I think about it is that if it was you, then it was almost the perfect crime. Because who was going to suspect the grieving teenage daughter?”
There was a moment of silence, both of us watching each other in the silent living room.
“The person who committed those murders,” Beth said, her voice low and calm, “was dangerous. Someone with no conscience and no fear. Someone who wanted to see people die. Someone who wouldn’t have stopped.” Her eyes met mine. “You’ve been asking about my parents, my childhood. Why don’t you go upstairs and see my childhood for yourself?”
“Upstairs?”
“Yes. The second door on the left was my childhood room. It’s been left as it was, so you can see what I saw as a little girl. My father’s study is up there—his papers are still there if you want to read them. My parents’ bedroom—now my bedroom—is at the end of the hall. My mother’s clothes are still in the closet. Look at anything you like.”
Sick dread settled in my stomach. “You still have your mother’s clothes?”
“I can never quite seem to get rid of them,” Beth said. “I get so far, and then . . . well. Not all of the answers you want so desperately are going to come from me. Some of them are going to come from this house.”
The air was still, as if the house were listening, waiting. I didn’t want to go upstairs, but I’d made a decision when I came here in the first place. I’d decided that despite whatever I’d seen the last time, despite the voice I’d heard on my phone, I wanted to risk it. I was tired of being so safe all the time. I was tired of being so afraid that I never lived my life.
I wanted to see what was upstairs.
I picked up my phone from the coffee table and turned off the recording. I was going to bring it with me and take pictures. I didn’t ask Beth’s permission.
I stood and walked to the stairs. They were worn hardwood, with a runner placed down the middle that was well cared for but obviously as old as the rest of the house. I put my hand on the hardwood banister and climbed.
The Greer mansion looked large from the outside, but the upstairs was a single hallway with a row of doorways on each side. The air was still, and there was carpet, a thin nap of dusty roses. There was no artwork on the walls, no family photos lining the hall. The boards beneath the flowers creaked softly under my feet.