Chapters (68)
- Dedication
- Title Page
- Contents
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Copyright
“This is . . . no, this is ridiculous. And what does that have to do with this Dolly girlfriend of his? She never did anything wrong like that.”
“Certainly not that I know of,” Duckworth said. “But that’s why it would be helpful to speak with your son.”
“Let me try him again.” Alastair snatched up the receiver and pressed that one button again. “It’s still going to message.”
“Maybe he’s expecting you to call,” Duckworth said. “And he knows it’s not going to be good news.”
Alastair cradled the receiver. “Jesus Christ,” he said. He ran his hand over his mouth nervously. “None of this makes any sense. I know what happened to that man you referenced. Craig Pierce. He was attacked by a dog. He was disfigured.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t think Cory had anything to do with that?”
“Mr Calder, I’d like to have a look at Cory’s room. I can do it now, with your permission. Or I could see about getting a warrant.”
Alastair Calder sat, Buddha-like, for several seconds, not blinking, not moving. Finally he said, “You’re not going to find anything.”
“Maybe not,” Duckworth conceded. “But I’m guessing that right now, you’re as anxious as I am to find out whether I will.”
Thirty-Nine
THIRTY-NINE
ALBERT Gaffney did not giggle for long.
After a very brief, giddy celebration of Ron Frommer’s demise, he began to appreciate what he had actually done.
“Oh God,” he said aloud. “Oh God oh God oh God.”
He dropped the bloodied crowbar he’d used to crack Ron Frommer’s skull. Blood continued to leak from Ron’s temple as he lay there on the ground by the back of his pickup truck.
Albert looked around, on the off chance that someone might have seen what he’d done. But the house Frommer had been working on, in his role as a renovator, was tucked into the woods off the main road. So long as squirrels could not be called to testify, Albert was probably going to be okay.
But no, he thought. I have to call the police. I have to tell them what I did.
That would be the moral thing to do, right? He’d tell the police what he’d done. Okay, he might shade things slightly. Tell them that Ron Frommer was threatening him when he grabbed the crowbar. It was self-defense.
And even if Frommer hadn’t actually been threatening him at the moment Albert struck him, he was probably going to. The man had attacked his son. He had a history.
“Yes,” Albert said under his breath. “I had to do this. I had no choice. He was attacking me. He’d attacked my son, and now he was attacking me.”
The good thing was, Ron was not going to be able to contradict his story.