“I have no idea. Why?”

“His wife said he’s writing a book. You know anything about that?”

“Jay has talked to me about it.”

“About what?”

“Abnormal psychology and the criminal mind, as a matter of fact.”

“Interesting. Any reason why?”

She draws a deep breath, clutches her arms across her chest, and walks to the window, her back to me. “Jay was a complicated man.”

“He have any dealings with people for his book who might have violent tendencies?”

“None that he mentioned.”

“What piqued his interest in that subject, do you think?”

She turns toward me. “Classwork, I guess. We learned about some very unusual aspects of the human psyche. He was fascinated with antisocial behavior.”

“Why not go into that branch of work then? Lots of opportunities in the prison system for a psychologist.”

“It fascinated him and scared him at the same time, I think. And he liked family therapy.”

I keep my gaze on her, waiting.

“Detective, I told you Jay had a lonely childhood. It was just his father and grandfather. Both men were absorbed in their careers. Jay was kind of an afterthought. He’d listen to them talking in the kitchen late at night. He told me they spent a lot of time smoking, drinking, discussing their work.”

“What type of work did they do?”

She smiles grimly. “They were detectives with the Boston Police Department.”

“Huh.” I’m immediately searching my memory for any cops named Bradley, but I draw a blank. Bob might know. “So, as a kid, he probably overheard some cop stories?”

“Yes. And his grandfather had some pretty gruesome tales to tell.”

“How’s that?”

“He worked on the Boston Strangler case.”

CHAPTER 11

Molly

KIM AND JOSH LIVE IN A NEW SUBDIVISION ABOUT TEN MINUTES FROM me and Jay. Kim works at Graybridge Elementary School, teaching fourth grade. Lucky for me, she’s still on winter break. I park Corrine’s BMW in the driveway and make my way to the front door.

Kim wraps me in her arms. “Come on in,” she whispers against my shoulder.

The house, while fairly new and smelling faintly of paint, always looks lived in. Evidence of Willow is everywhere. Tiny ice skates sit dangerously at the bottom of the stairs. Toys and picture books are piled on the foyer table. We walk down the hall to the kitchen, where dishes are stacked in the sink and art supplies lie scattered on the counter. But it’s a comfortable place, welcoming. We sit with mugs of tea and an open box of ginger snaps between us.

“It’s so quiet,” I say.

“Josh took Willow to the mall,” Kim says, her dark eyes glancing out the French doors that open onto the deck. “She knows something’s wrong, but we don’t know quite how to explain to her what happened.”

“I can imagine.” If Jay and I actually had children, how could I help them through something like this? I shiver and change the subject. “Josh didn’t go to work?”