Navarro took a moment to think it over, and Grace liked that he was listening to her, really listening. She also liked the relaxed manner in which he seemed to process his options.
“Okay, okay,” he said eventually, letting his broad shoulders relax. “Let’s bring Penny to you. You talk to her. See her. Give her a change of clothes. I’m assuming they’ve got the DNA they need. But no talking about the case, about what happened. Promise me that, Grace. You can’t go there with her.”
“I promise,” Grace said.
“I’ll do my interview in private, then come get you when it’s over. If she gives me permission, I’ll tell you what was discussed. Sound good?”
“Nothing about any of this sounds good to me,” Grace answered bitterly. “Greg … there’s something else you should know, something about Penny. When you see her, you may have to address her as Eve.”
“Eve … is that a nickname?”
“Not exactly,” said Grace, feeling an anxious flutter in her chest. She wasn’t sure how this news would be received.
“My daughter has a disorder called DID, dissociative identity disorder.”
Nothing registered in Navarro’s eyes.
“You probably know it as multiple personality disorder,” Grace clarified.
“Oh,” he said, and those arched eyebrows of his raised a notch higher.
“She’s one person, and different people. I’m sure it was Eve, one of my daughter’s personalities, who wrote those terrible things with Maria. And if she’s somehow involved in the murder of Rachel Boyd, if she did it, I’ll bet anything it was Eve, not my Penny, who committed the crime.”
“I understand.”
Grace gave a sad little laugh. “Then you may be the only one. Now, please … tell the police to go get my daughter.”
CHAPTER 3
WHY DID YOU KILL?
That’s the question I keep asking myself. That’s what I have to figure out. It’s the only thing that matters to me.
I’m working on a film about you. What I’m writing here are my memories, my musings—call it a diary of sorts—on the subject of you. According to Warren Brown, my film teacher at Emerson, these recollections and thoughts will help me separate feelings from facts, and allow me to put the events into some sort of logical sequence. Professor Brown says until I finish the exercise I won’t know for sure how to structure my movie. He also said it’s for my eyes only, he won’t read a page of it, so I can be completely honest here.
I can tell my secrets, too.
Professor Brown thinks the film will get picked up for some big festivals, but I’m not making it to see my name, Jack Francone, on the big screen. I’m doing it because a jury isn’t going to tell me what I need to know.
Are you ill … or are you evil?
I have no doubt in my mind that you are a murderer. The evidence against you is irrefutable.
You were alone in the house with the victim when the police arrived. They found you with blood all over your body, sticking in your hair, caked on your hands, on your clothes, holding the murder weapon—a massive, bloodstained kitchen knife. That knife was used to stab Rachel twenty-five times. Twenty-five! It cut her throat so deeply, she’d almost been decapitated.
I’ve read all the reports, Penny. Mom got them from the lawyer and gave them to me to study when I told her about this project. I’ve also listened to the 911 call from Rachel’s apartment so many times, I’ve got the transcript memorized.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
On the recording the dispatcher’s voice sounded calm and professional. She had no idea this was the call that was going to dominate headlines in Boston and around the nation for months to come. Sensational. Unprecedented. It was a newspaper’s dream come true—and our family’s worst nightmare.
“Nine-one-one … what’s your emergency, please?”
All anyone could hear on the other end of the call was heavy breathing. It was a sound to make your skin crawl—in and out, slow and tortured, like each breath was going to be the last. The sound of death.
The dispatcher did her job admirably, tried to get the pertinent details, but to no avail.
“Can you talk? Can you tell me your name or location?” she asked. “What’s the nature of your emergency?”
Now we know it was Rachel breathing heavily on the phone, but she couldn’t answer, not with blood pouring through the opening you cut into her windpipe.