what she saw as an extraordinary talent. Did he hear the music in his head before he wrote it down, she always wondered. Or did it form itself when he was sitting at the piano? She tried to imagine doing it herself, willing the sound of music to stir inside her head, but there was nothing, only the rustle of the breeze in the trees outside.
Just then her cell rang. She jumped with a start. She reached inside the pocket of her jeans. It was Josh.
‘ Hi, Josh,’ she said.
‘ Where are you? Are you okay?’ He sounded worried, anxious.
‘ Sure, I’m fine. I’m still at my mom’s place. What’s wrong?’
‘ It’s Cassie Veringer. You remember that -’
‘ Yes, of course,’ she said, images of the past beginning to flash through her mind. ‘Is she okay?’
‘ She’s fine. But we’ve just had news that she’s been sent something.’
‘ And?’
‘ Kate – it was a package containing three human fingertips. We don’t yet know where they are from – who they are from – but as you imagine we’re treating it very seriously.’
‘ What do you mean?’ she said, already knowing what Josh was going to say.
‘ Gleason, yes,’ he said.
‘ But he’s dead.’
He hadn’t worked on the Gleason investigation – it was before his time – but Kate had been troubled by nightmares for years afterwards. Since then he had made it his business to look into the case.
‘ Josh – he’s dead. Right?’
‘ Sorry, that was just Peterson saying something. Yeah, for sure he’s dead.’
‘ So it’s just another fruitcake. A coincidence. That’s all it is. Motivated by that recent Times piece.’ Kate was desperate to try and convince herself.
‘ Could be, yes.’
Kate stood up and walked over to the French windows. Everything seemed normal. Her mother was outside, talking to one of the gardeners, the elderly, rotund Puerto Rican with the lovely kind smile. The water glistened in the pool. The gates to the drive were locked, secure. So why did she feel so afraid, as if she were being hunted, terrorised? She looked around the room, half expecting to see an intruder standing behind her, watching her, but of course there was no-one there.
‘ Kate – you’re not keeping anything from me? Anything I need to know.’
‘ No, nothing,’ she said. ‘Why would I do that?’
She could hear someone say something in the background.
‘ Okay, Peterson,’ said Josh. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go. Call me later, okay?’
‘ Okay,’ she said. ‘Bye.’
It had to be a fluke, right? The idea that there was some connection between her discovery of that baby girl in the ocean and the package that had been sent to Cassie Veringer was just too awful to contemplate. And it was impossible. Ridiculous. Bobby Gleason had committed suicide seven years ago while on death row in San Quentin State Prison.
Gleason. The name was enough to turn her stomach. She felt the bitter taste of bile in her mouth. She needed a glass of water.
An image of him standing in the court, just after receiving his sentence, flashed into her head. She remembered him turning towards her and smiling, a look that promised unfinished business. She recalled the dreams she had had, the nightmares that haunted her months after he had been imprisoned. The thought that one day he would do to her what he had done to those six women, that he would kidnap her, take her out in that van - which the state prosecutor, Jordan Weislander, had likened to a travelling circus of torture - rape, brutalise and mutilate her until finally she pleaded to be killed. She pictured herself on her knees, naked and degraded, before him, begging him to slit her throat.
Most likely Gleason would have carried on killing had it not been for Cassie Veringer. The court heard how he had assaulted her late one night in a downtown parking lot. He had hit her over the head with
Just then her cell rang. She jumped with a start. She reached inside the pocket of her jeans. It was Josh.
‘ Hi, Josh,’ she said.
‘ Where are you? Are you okay?’ He sounded worried, anxious.
‘ Sure, I’m fine. I’m still at my mom’s place. What’s wrong?’
‘ It’s Cassie Veringer. You remember that -’
‘ Yes, of course,’ she said, images of the past beginning to flash through her mind. ‘Is she okay?’
‘ She’s fine. But we’ve just had news that she’s been sent something.’
‘ And?’
‘ Kate – it was a package containing three human fingertips. We don’t yet know where they are from – who they are from – but as you imagine we’re treating it very seriously.’
‘ What do you mean?’ she said, already knowing what Josh was going to say.
‘ Gleason, yes,’ he said.
‘ But he’s dead.’
He hadn’t worked on the Gleason investigation – it was before his time – but Kate had been troubled by nightmares for years afterwards. Since then he had made it his business to look into the case.
‘ Josh – he’s dead. Right?’
‘ Sorry, that was just Peterson saying something. Yeah, for sure he’s dead.’
‘ So it’s just another fruitcake. A coincidence. That’s all it is. Motivated by that recent Times piece.’ Kate was desperate to try and convince herself.
‘ Could be, yes.’
Kate stood up and walked over to the French windows. Everything seemed normal. Her mother was outside, talking to one of the gardeners, the elderly, rotund Puerto Rican with the lovely kind smile. The water glistened in the pool. The gates to the drive were locked, secure. So why did she feel so afraid, as if she were being hunted, terrorised? She looked around the room, half expecting to see an intruder standing behind her, watching her, but of course there was no-one there.
‘ Kate – you’re not keeping anything from me? Anything I need to know.’
‘ No, nothing,’ she said. ‘Why would I do that?’
She could hear someone say something in the background.
‘ Okay, Peterson,’ said Josh. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go. Call me later, okay?’
‘ Okay,’ she said. ‘Bye.’
It had to be a fluke, right? The idea that there was some connection between her discovery of that baby girl in the ocean and the package that had been sent to Cassie Veringer was just too awful to contemplate. And it was impossible. Ridiculous. Bobby Gleason had committed suicide seven years ago while on death row in San Quentin State Prison.
Gleason. The name was enough to turn her stomach. She felt the bitter taste of bile in her mouth. She needed a glass of water.
An image of him standing in the court, just after receiving his sentence, flashed into her head. She remembered him turning towards her and smiling, a look that promised unfinished business. She recalled the dreams she had had, the nightmares that haunted her months after he had been imprisoned. The thought that one day he would do to her what he had done to those six women, that he would kidnap her, take her out in that van - which the state prosecutor, Jordan Weislander, had likened to a travelling circus of torture - rape, brutalise and mutilate her until finally she pleaded to be killed. She pictured herself on her knees, naked and degraded, before him, begging him to slit her throat.
Most likely Gleason would have carried on killing had it not been for Cassie Veringer. The court heard how he had assaulted her late one night in a downtown parking lot. He had hit her over the head with
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