She did the same slow perusal of him he had done to her, finally returning to hold eye contact.
Rowan said nothing.
She had two goals for this visit. The first was to sit in his presence without fear, facing the demon from her dreams, the twisted man who’d tortured her and killed her brother. She focused on her breathing as she stared at him, feeling her lungs expand and contract, counting to three with each inhalation and exhalation.
She searched for her fear; it wasn’t present. She was calm and centered.
First goal scratched from her list.
Her second goal was to find out where he’d buried Malcolm. She ignored her impulse to immediately ask. The visit was an hour long. There was plenty of time to draw it out of him.
So she continued to steadily breathe and study him.
“Do you no longer speak, girl?”
“My name is Rowan.”
His lips twitched. “I knew that.”
“You never used my name.” She continued to hold his gaze.
He shrugged.
“You broke my leg.”
He briefly broke eye contact. “And? Looks like you get around just fine.”
She needed to be less confrontational. If she pushed too much, he could end the visit before she asked about Malcolm. Jerry had been known to get up and leave when questioned by reporters, and he’d done it to her parents when they’d come to plead with him to share where he’d buried Malcolm.
But Rowan suspected he was curious about her and would try to emotionally manipulate her again.
He thrived on control and power.
It’d been the need behind every sick game he’d made her and Malcolm play.
No doubt most of his control had been stripped from his life when he went to prison. If she gave him a tiny taste, he might stick around long enough and say something to help her reach her second goal.
She licked her lips and looked down at her lap, letting him think she was affected.
“Why are you here, girl? Did you miss me?”
She tasted vomit in the back of her mouth and swallowed hard. Keeping her eyes averted, she decided to take a risk. “I’m looking for Malcolm.”
Silence.
Rowan looked up, keeping her gaze meek.
“This again?” he asked. “I’m old. I don’t remember where he’s buried.”
“Then tell me why you wouldn’t tell anyone back then, when you could remember.”
Jerry shifted in his seat, glancing to his right and then his left. “Don’t need to tell you nothing.”
“True.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why all the concern for your brother? As I remember, you hated him. Told me that yourself. You hit him and threw things at him.”
Now.
Rowan rose to her feet and made the angriest face she could. “You asshole! You know exactly how I truly felt about my brother. I loved him! Your wife is dead, and I hope it hurt that you were locked up in here when she died, her brain scrambled and confused with dementia, wondering why her husband had abandoned her. You’re going to die alone, your legacy one of cruelty and murder!” She leaned toward the plexiglass, her hands balanced on the table, her legs shaking the tiniest bit.
That should feed his need for control.
Jerry stared at her for a long second, a new alertness in his gaze. “The girl has grown claws. I saw hints of them back then. But they were tiny newborn kitten claws. Soft and flexible.” He smiled, a fake wide smile. “I won’t die alone. I get visitors. I had two dozen kids, you know. And they all still love me.”
Now he’s talking.
That they all still loved him was a stretch of the truth. Rowan knew a few had purposefully distanced themselves, confused by the fact that the man who’d been so kind to them had turned out to be a murderer. Rowan slowly lowered herself back into her chair.
“Do your foster children know how you treated us?” she asked in a strained voice, shooting him a defiant but pained glance. She wanted him to feel he could still cause her pain.
“You mean did they hear the crazy stories from the mouth of a five-year-old who’d been lost in the woods? No one believed you.” His chest seemed to puff out.
“They know you killed my brother. You said you did. That’s impossible to forgive.”
“An accident. I admitted he died in an accident and then I buried him because I didn’t know what else to do.”
“And conveniently forgot where that was.”
“Yes.” He gave another fake smile. “But he’s in a lovely place. Lots of tall trees and fresh, clean air.” A sly look entered his eyes. “But I guess the air isn’t relevant to a dead person, is it?”