violence. “The monster was dead?”
“He foolishly thought life would be better.” He reached the edge of the pool of light and smoothly turned to retrace his steps. “And it was. For a couple years.”
Lynne scooted another inch. Didn’t dare look over her shoulder, but she could feel a breeze on her nape. There had to be an opening somewhere back there. “Then what happened?”
“A new monster appeared. Along with the screams.” Parker’s expression remained coolly composed, but his hands clenched into tight fists. “Those endless screams. That’s when Carl realized the truth.”
“What truth?”
“There was only way to get rid of the monsters.”
“How?”
He sent her a startled glance, as if he couldn’t believe she was so stupid. “Stop the screams, obviously.”
“Carl’s mother?” Lynne croaked.
“Exactly.” He drew his thumb across the front of his throat. “A quick slice across the carotid arteries and there was nothing but blissful silence.”
Lynne’s blood ran cold. Merrill Frey hadn’t been murdered by her new husband, but by her own son. The betrayal must have been staggering for the poor woman.
“You . . .” Lynne forced back the words at the dangerous glimmer in the gray eyes. “I mean, Carl murdered his mother?”
“No, he put her out of her misery.” He pointed a finger at her. “Like you do when you have a sick dog. It’s called mercy.”
Lynne winced. It was the toughest part of her job, and a decision she never made without regret. To be compared to a ruthless killer was enough to make her stomach twist in horror.
“Carl’s mother was a victim,” she insisted.
“By choice,” Parker spat out. “It could have been her and her son. Together. No pain. No fear. No screams.” He made a sound of disgust. “But she was too stupid. She had to be silenced.”
Lynne’s mouth was dry, her mind stuck on the image of Merrill Frey lying in the snow with her throat slit open. No one deserved such a fate. No one.
She resisted the urge to ask what happened to Ernie Rucker. Right now Parker was enjoying the limelight. If he thought she was distracted by other actors in his melodrama, he might decide to end the performance. “Where did Carl go?”
“To his aunt in Madison,” Parker answered.
“Was he happy?”
He mulled over the question, as if he’d never considered whether he’d been happy. “She was a decent woman who tried to help,” he at last conceded. “But Carl was damaged. Like Humpty-Dumpty who couldn’t be put back together again.” He came to a sudden halt, studying her with a curious gaze. “Have you been to therapy?”
Lynne paused. Was this a trick question? “No.”
“Carl went to a place for troubled teens,” he told her, his gaze lifting to study the light overhead. “It’s odd. Kids who’ve been brutalized can be sorted into three categories.”
“Categories?” Lynne said, using his distraction to scoot farther away.
“Yes. There were the angry kids. The ones who used their pain as an excuse to spew hate and violence toward everyone around them. They thought they were so tough, but actually they were just boring. Like an endless cliché.” He curled his lips in disgust before continuing. “The second category were the suck-ups. The ones who thought that if they were good enough, they would eventually be loved. They were even more boring.” He made smooching noises. “Always looking for an ass to kiss.”
“And Carl?”
“He was the third category.” He smoothed a hand down his expensive coat, an odd, wistful expression softening his features. “On the outside he seemed fine. He was no longer the timid mouse. Now he was charming, good-looking, even popular. Other kids wanted to be like him. But inside. . .”
“He was broken,” she finished for him.
“Yes.”
She licked her dry lips. “It wasn’t his fault.”
The hardness returned to his face. “You’re damned right it wasn’t his fault. Which was why those responsible had to be punished.”
* * *
Kir shivered as he stood in his father’s favorite fishing spot next to the lake. He didn’t know why he was there. He’d driven the route that Rudolf always took to the farm, hoping to see something that would spark his imagination. So far he’d accomplished nothing more than wasting his time. If his father had seen something that had given him a clue to the killer, or had made him fear for his life, Kir wasn’t seeing it.
Just the same stretch of empty highway followed by remote roads and snowy fields he’d seen hundreds of times before.
“Talk to me, Dad,” he muttered in a