Avery sat hunched over the wheel of her car, still in the prison parking lot, destroyed, a mess, a husk, tears streaming down her face. Horrible sobs broke free from her throat. At one point, she jerked up and screamed and slammed the wheel.
Words.
Every time she heard one of his words, she cried harder.
Molester. Alcoholic. Murderer.
"No, no, no."
She banged her head to get the images out: her father in the woods, gun in hand. The body behind him. Varicose veins. Gray hair. That green dress.
"Get out, get, out, get out," Avery begged.
She'd almost forgotten until then. So many years had been spent trying to forget the past, to get out of Ohio and wipe away her terrible history. In only a few words, Howard Randall had brought it all back.
You're just like them, she cried in misery.
Murderer.
Alcoholic.
Just like them…just like them.
No! She mentally rallied. You're nothing like them! You're no murderer or drug addict. You're not sick in the head. You do your best every day. Mistakes? Sure, but you try your hardest, all the time.
Get him out of my head.
Get him out of my head.
Fists rubbed away her tears.
Sobs were stifled.
Pull yourself together, she commanded.
Tears came again, only this time, they were softer, gentler-not about her old, painful past, but her new life, her lonely, tormented existence.
She hit the wheel.
"Pull it together!"
A detailed clarity came to her in that moment. Everything felt sharp and focused: the border of the windshield, her arm, the cars parked around her, the sky. Not exactly herself but fully in control, Avery picked up her phone to call Finley.
"Yo, yo," he answered.
"Finley," she said, "where are you?"
"I'm in the office working my ass off. Where the hell are you? I should get a raise for this, you know? Aren't I supposed to get the day off for finding a psycho? I just had one of the greatest chases of my life and now I'm stuck in an office. I should be out there having a beer."
His entire monologue had come out like a single word.
Avery rubbed her eyes.
"Finley, slow down. What have you found so far?"
"Why are people always telling me to slow down?" he complained as if he were truly upset. "I talk just fine. Everyone in my crew understands me perfectly. Maybe other people are the problem, ever think about that? My mother used to say."
"Finley! The update."
"The body is with the coroner," he said, calmer and slower. "Crime scene wrapped up. They found some fibers but it looks like they're the same ones from Jenkins: cat hair, a few dabs of plant extract on her clothes. Last few hours I've been looking for connections, like you asked. Different majors: economics and accounting. One a junior, one a senior. Different sororities, no family connections at all. Blah, blah, blah. Talked to Ramirez. He said Cindy's parents mentioned an art class she took in Cambridge last semester. Place called Art for Life. Located on Cambridge Street and Seventh. Called Tabitha's friends for a connection. Waiting to hear back."
Artist, Avery thought. He said our killer is an artist.
"Who teaches there?" she asked. "Who owns the studio?"
"How the fuck should I know?" Do I have a thousand hands, now?" he barked. "You gave me like, a hundred jobs. I have no idea who teaches that fuckin' class. I told you, I'm waiting to hear back."
She closed her eyes.
"OK," she said. "Thanks."
"You coming back to help me out or what?" Finley complained.
"I need to tie up some loose ends," she said. "You have Cindy's address? And Tabitha's? I want to swing by their dorms and see what I can find."
"I was already at Tabitha's dorm. Just some chick room. Fancy clothing and stupid posters. Nothing there."
"Let me be the judge of that."
* * *
Cindy had lived in a house not far from the Kappa Kappa Gamma suite, or from her boyfriend. The two-story white Tudor with blue trim housed two people. Cindy rented out the first floor; the second floor was inhabited by another Harvard senior.
Avery called ahead to ensure Harvard officials would let her inside.
A spare set of keys was under a rock by the front porch.
Cindy's apartment smelled like stale air. There were four main rooms: living room, bedroom, a spare room she'd converted into an office, and the kitchen. A few pieces of modern art adorned the walls.
The office was filled with a slew of library-issued texts, along with a number of paperback romances. Papers were stacked on the desk.
Avery checked through the files. Medical bills, class folders, job interview letters, resumes. Everything was neat and orderly. Avery took notes on her phone: Cindy's medical provider, every teacher she'd had, the places she'd interviewed, and her current employer: Devante Accounting Firm. The letter of her acceptance as a junior accountant in their firm was proudly displayed on the desk.
No mention of the art class could be found, but there was a framed, hand-painted picture on the wall that had Cindy's signature at the bottom. The image was a bowl of fruit. Avery turned the picture over. On the back was a stamp: Art for Life, their address, and the logo of a hand depicted as a paint palette. Avery put everything back the way she found it, headed outside, and hopped in her car.
MIT was called ahead to ensure they would allow her into Tabitha's room. The dean's assistant said he would take care of everything.
As soon as she hung up, Avery's phone rang.
"It's Jones," came a Jamaican voice.
"Tell me something," Avery said.
"Nothing out here, man. The cabin is empty."
"What the hell have you been doing all day?"
"Research, man," Jones complained, "investigating. Took a while to get up here. Had to get the keys, right? Then Thompson wanted to drive and he has absolutely no sense of direction. GPS got us all screwy. But," he admitted with another swig of his beer, "we got here and turned the place over. Nothing. You sure the kid stayed here?"
"You wasted a whole day," Avery said.
"You're not listening, Black! We been working hard."
"Two girls are dead," Avery said. "Or maybe you forgot that? We've got a serial killer on the loose and you're jerking around in a lakeside cabin. Get back on Cambridge surveillance. And this time," she snapped, "I want a detailed report on my desk by tomorrow afternoon. I want to know exactly how you spent every hour. You hear me?"
"Aw, come on! Black. I'm begging you," Jones cried. "That job is crazy. Ain't no way to track a car for miles and miles like that. It's impossible. I need like, ten other people."
"Take Thompson."
"Thompson?" Jones laughed. "He's worse than Finley."
"Remember," Avery emphasized. "A detailed report on my desk tomorrow afternoon. Make sure Thompson understands. Screw this up and I call Connelly."
She hung up.
How am I supposed to do anything in Homicide if half my team won't even respect my authority? she fumed.
By the time she reached her next destination, the sky was dark.
Tabitha had lived in the heart of the MIT, just off Vassar Street. Her roommate answered the door; she was a small, mousy girl with long black hair, glasses, and a face covered in pimples. The room was large: a main living area, open kitchen, and two bedrooms.
"Hi," the girl said, "you must be Avery."
"Yeah, thanks for letting me in."
"That's her room, there," she pointed.
The girl appeared dour and miserable.
"Were you two friends?" Avery wondered.
"Not really," she said and walked away. "Tabitha was popular."
Tabitha's room was extremely cluttered.
The filing cabinet was more of a place to cram loose papers. A quick search uncovered everything from receipts to a resume and a smelly sandwich wrapper. The most revealing item was the number of pictures that lined the walls, all seemingly done by Tabitha herself: farm scenes, the MIT skyline, a bowl of fruit.
Avery looked at the back of one of the framed paintings.
A stamp read: Art for Life.
