“Patrick—” his lawyer said.

“I’m fine,” Patrick snapped at him.

“The first time you did it, did you know that cutting the house would kill everyone inside? Or did you think they might survive?”

“You don’t have to answer that.”

“I know,” Patrick said. He looked at the lawyer’s knee again. “Stop talking.”

“That would mean the second time was more real, right? That time you knew what the consequences of your actions would be.”

Patrick didn’t say anything.

“That would be this family, the Berensons.” Izabel pointed at a picture. “You didn’t have time to stick around and see them like this, dead in their house. You probably didn’t see them at all, until it was on the news. And then they used pictures of the family alive. You probably haven’t seen them dead in their pajamas like this.”

He looked at the pictures.

“I’m sure you’d imagined what they’d look like when they were dead. Did you get it right? Did you imagine the layer of pollen that would be on them by the time the police took pictures? That’s the strange thing about these pictures really. All these different families, but the photos are hard to tell apart with the pollen. Their bodies and the floors, their beds. Some of the children never left their beds, like this one.” She pointed to a different photo.

He still didn’t say anything.

“It’s an efficient and smart way to kill, in terms of how hard it made it for them to catch you. But it’s not what I’d expect from a killer.”

“How were you there the other night?” he said.

“You came to my house,” she said.

“Not that night. And not the first time. The other night.”

“When?”

“Don’t play dumb,” he said.

“Just luck,” she said. “Like the first time.”

“No,” he said. “Your feet were bare. You chased the girl. But how did she know?”

“Why does it matter?”

He could sense that he was gaining control again, going after information she didn’t want to share. “Because it didn’t make sense.”

“Not everything makes sense.”

“I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t shown up that night.”

“You might have been, and you’d have another dead family in front of you.”

“I want to know.”

“You don’t get to know,” Izabel said.

“Then I’m done talking.”

“You already admitted to killing them, what else is left?”

“Something, or you wouldn’t still be in here.”

“I’m just here to see what else you’ll let slip.”

“Screw you,” he said.

Paz said, “I don’t think you can get him back to the details of the murders. Get out of there.”

But Izabel didn’t want to leave anymore. “Where’s your father?” Izabel said. “He’s dead, but where?”