“Your mother abused you, Zander?” It was more of a statement than a question from Leone.

“I’m finished telling that story now, Vince,” Zahn said calmly. “It’s not a story I like to tell.”

Then why had he told them at all? Mendez wanted to ask. He wanted to pounce on the opportunity and press for more answers. But Leone was watching him from behind the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses, and Zahn was starting to rock on his chair as memories and old emotions churned inside him. Now was not the time to push.

“I’m sure those memories are upsetting,” Mendez said quietly. Patiently. “I know they are. That had to make it all the more shocking for you to find Marissa the way you did,” he said. “All that blood.”

“Terrible, terrible,” Zahn murmured, rocking, looking off to the side as he rubbed his hands. “So much blood. So much blood.”

Mendez wondered which scene he was replaying in his head: the murder of his mother or of Marissa Fordham. What had been the manner of his mother’s death? Had he used a knife? Could he have had some kind of mental break or flashback and gone after Marissa Fordham, somehow relating her to his mother, or maybe confusing the two women?

“Did you touch Marissa’s body?”

“No, no, no.” Zahn wagged his head. “I couldn’t. I didn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t.”

If that was true, that explained why he hadn’t realized the little girl was still alive. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t tried to find a pulse. He couldn’t bring himself to touch the blood.

Rudy Nasser stirred at last, his brain racing to catch up to the moment and rescue his mentor.

“This is starting to sound a lot like an interrogation,” he said. “Zander, I think you shouldn’t say any more until you talk to an attorney.”

“Why would he need an attorney?” Vince asked. “We don’t consider Zander a suspect.”

Nasser stood up, ready to give them the bum’s rush out the front gate. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Leone didn’t move. He was sitting a little sideways on his green vinyl chair, leaning against one arm on the chair back. He was a big man and took up a big space, and didn’t look like anyone was going to move him until he was good and ready.

“Is that what you want, Zander?” he asked. “Do you want us to leave? Or do you want to help us find who killed Marissa?”

“He doesn’t know who killed the woman,” Nasser said, getting his back up. “Why aren’t you out talking to people who had a reason to kill her? Why aren’t you out talking to her boyfriends?”

“You know who they are?” Mendez asked, poising pen against paper.

Nasser backtracked, looking away. “Well ... I ...”