At seven-thirty the next morning, Avery sat in her car a half block down from the home of Constance and Donald Prince.
They lived in Somerville, just northeast of Cambridge, in a small yellow house with white trim on a quiet suburban street. A white picket fence surrounded the property. There were two porches: one on the first floor up, and another on the second level, where chairs and a table had been set for sunlit morning breakfasts.
The scene appeared to be the perfect setting: trees lined the sidewalks, the sun was coming up, and birds chirped in the sky.
Screams were all Avery could remember, the endless screams from the one and only time she had visited the Princes, and tears and plates being thrown against the wall as both of them had desperately tried to drive her away.
Constance and Donald Prince were the parents of Jenna Prince, the last Harvard student killed by Professor Howard Randall, nearly four years ago. The murder had come only weeks after superstar defense attorney Avery Black had done the impossible and gotten Professor Randall off for the murder of two other Harvard students, despite the overwhelming circumstantial evidence stacked against him.
Those brief few days between Avery's jury win and the killing of Jenna Prince resounded in Avery's mind. At the jury verdict, the celebration had begun. Nights were spent downing expensive bottles of wine and sharing her bed with numerous, nameless faces. One night in particular, she'd even called her ex to ask if he wanted to get back together again. She never even waited for a response. Avery had just laughed after her question and swore she'd never be with a loser like him again. The shame she felt over that moment continued to burn on her cheeks even now, years later.
Her victory had been short-lived.
She learned the truth from the papers a few days later: "Freed Harvard Killer Strikes Again." Like his previous victims, the many body parts of Jenna Prince had been carefully reconfigured near Harvard landmarks. But unlike the other murders, this time, Howard Randall had immediately stepped forward. He appeared in Harvard Yard almost as soon as the body was discovered, hands up in surrender and covered in blood. "This is for you, Avery Black," he had told reporters. "This is for your freedom."
And her belief that she was a decent, honorable person? That she'd finally done good and freed an innocent man?
Gone.
Everything she believed in was destroyed. Her husband had always known the truth about her faulty overconfidence and ego, but her daughter? It was a shocking revelation. "Was it all about the money?" Rose had wondered. "You set a serial killer free. How many other murderers have you let off so you could wear those shoes?"
Avery glanced at the tan interior of her BMW.
The leather was faded and old. The black dashboard had been removed and updated with her transreceiver, police scanner, and a computer for when she was on stakeouts. The car, bought at the height of her arrogance and fame, now served as a memory of her indulgent past, and a testament to her future.
"You won't die in vain," she swore to the memory of Jenna Prince. "I promise."
The walk to the house felt like forever. The sound of her shoes on the cement, birds, distant cars, and noises all made her more aware of herself, and what she intended to do. "I hate you," Constance had spit all those years ago. "You're the devil. You're worse than the devil." "Get out of our house!" Donald had cried. "You already killed our daughter. What more do you want? Forgiveness? Who can ever forgive someone as sick and depraved as you?"
Avery walked up the steps.
A phone call would have been inappropriate, even more so than an impromptu visit. They needed to see her face, her desperation. And she needed them.
She rang the doorbell.
A middle-aged female voice cried out: "Who is it?"
Footsteps moved closer.
The door opened.
Constance Prince was white, with an unnatural tan and cropped, bleached-blond hair. Although she rarely left the house except for chores or Mahjong with friends, she had on a mask of heavy make-up: blush, eyeliner, and red lipstick. Wrinkles lined her mouth and eyes. She wore a light sweater and red slacks. Golden bracelets clinked on her wrists. Jewels hung from golden threads on both ears.
A few blinks and she seemed to focus in on Avery. The welcoming air of her posture and appearance quickly faded. A breath was sucked in and she stepped back as if in shock.
Another voice called out.
"Who is it, honey?"
Without a word, Constance tried to shut the door.
"Please," Avery said. "I just need to ask a favor. I'll be gone before you know it."
A sliver of Constance's face could be seen between the door and frame. Head low, she stood unmoving for a moment.
"Please," Avery begged. "I need something, but I can't do it without your approval."
"What do you want?" Constance whispered.
Avery searched the porch and street before she turned back to the door.
"Have you read the papers?"
"Yes."
"There's another killer on the loose. He's a lot like, the last one," Avery said without mentioning Howard Randall, "smart and hard to track. Another body was found, today. That makes two so far, but he might work in threes, which means another body isn't far off. I'm a cop now," she added. "That life, who I was back then, that's not who I am now. I'm trying to make amends. I'm trying to be different."
The door opened.
Donald Prince had replaced his wife. Older, extremely large and out of shape, he had short gray hair, reddish skin, and a look that spoke to his shock and fury. He wore a dirty T-shirt, shorts, and green clogs. A dirt-covered glove was over one of his hands.
"What the hell do you want?" he said. "Why are you here?" He looked down the street. "You're not welcome in this house. Haven't you done enough to our family?"
"I came to get your permission," she said.
"Permission?" he spit and almost laughed. "You don't need our permission for anything. We want you out of our lives! You killed our daughter. Don't you understand that?"
"I never killed your daughter."
His eyes widened.
"You think that excuses what you did?"
"What I did was wrong," she said, "and I have to live with that-every day. I'm different now. I'm a cop. I try to right these wrongs, not allow them to go free."
"Well, good for you." He aggressively nodded. "Too little, too late for us, though. Isn't it?"
He tried to close the door.
"Wait," Avery said.
She held a palm on the painted wood.
"There's a new killer. Just like Howard Randall. Right in our backyard. He'll kill again. I'm sure of it. And soon. My leads are cold. I need a fresh perspective. I need to go visit Howard, see if he can help. I want your permission."
A laugh came from inside.
The door opened.
Donald leaned back, impervious.
"You want my permission?" he said. "To talk to the killer of my daughter, so you can stop another killer?"
"That's right."
"Sure," he said with a fake smile. "Good luck."
Any familiarity left his face, and a dark, murderous glare penetrated Avery.
"I don't care who you are now. You hear me? You come to my house again? You talk to my wife?" Violence burned in his eyes. His voice turned into a whisper. "I'll kill you," he swore. "And that will be justice. True justice."
