“Well, I’ll give it to you,” I snapped. “Or just toss me your phone and I’ll send it.”

  He closed his hand over the device, then turned to me, gauging the distance, rearing back his arm to throw, then thought better of it. He stood, walked it over, and passed it to me. Leaning forward, he kissed me on the forehead, then studied my nose. “It looks really good. The swelling is down. Do you need a pack of ice?”

  “No, that was only for the first couple of days.” I carefully touched the area. “You think it looks good?”

  He was already heading back to his seat. “It looks great.”

  I unlocked his phone and scrolled to his contacts, added Paige as “Paige Nanny,” and then composed a text.

  Hey Paige, this is Grant. Perla said you’re going to the store in the morning . . . can you grab some mouthwash while you’re there?

  Oh, also, please pick up a dozen of the mini cupcakes that are in the deli? I like the vanilla ones with little rainbow sprinkles on the top. If they don’t have them at our store, please check one of the others.

  I sent the two texts and then waited. It was almost nine, but Paige would certainly be up.

  Sure, no problem!

  I typed back.

  Great, thanks.

  You’re the best. xoxo

  As it delivered, I wondered how she was feeling about the xoxo. Flustered? Excited? Creeped out?

  Maybe she hadn’t even noticed.

  But then . . . a heart popped up in the upper right-hand corner of “his” text.

  She had “loved” the message.

  Definitely not appropriate behavior, and something that would give the technical forensics team something to stew over during their investigation.

  I smiled and deleted the final text about the cupcakes and the xoxo line so Grant wouldn’t see them, then did my customary checks of his call log, emails, and messages before I pushed myself off the couch and returned his phone.

  “Oh, I could have gotten that.” He peered over his reading glasses at me. “You said your phone isn’t working?”

  “It’s being glitchy. I just did a hard reset to see if that fixes it.” I waved my hand in the air, dismissing it. “I’m going to work out, then get in the sauna.”

  “Okay,” he said, the tapping of keys resuming. This was going to be one of those nights when he worked until three or four in the morning.

  I’d hide the cupcakes once they arrived. One more item from the original murder, checked off the list and ready for the upcoming event.

  CHAPTER 65

  While Grant worked a rare Saturday in the office, I took a photo of my future Wultz Party murder victims.

  Sophie’s two birthday guests posed with her by the soccer goal, their arms around each other, sunny smiles turned to the camera. Mandolin stuck out her tongue for one shot, and the other two giggled, then followed suit. I hid my frown behind the big Nikon camera. Sophie should be the one leading the group. I had never understood why she wasn’t more of a social alpha, but maybe that was the issue with a dominant parent. We stifle the child. I read a book on the topic and was uncomfortable with how many parallels there were between me and the stereotypical “dominant parent.” For a week, I made a sincere attempt to modify my behavior, but was driven absolutely crazy by the stupid decisions Grant and Sophie made when they were unsupervised and undirected.

  I decided that, for the good of the family, some dominant behavior was warranted, and the consequences? Oh well.

  I got at least five good shots of the girls and smiled at the knowledge that one of these photos would be iconic. Taken just a week before the murder and an isolated shot of the three of them, happy and healthy, unaware of what was to come.

  I would also take photos that night. Not of the crime, of course—the police would do that. But of the party. “Before” photos that would show a stark contrast to the horror of the night.

  “That’s enough,” Mandolin called out, turning away from me. That bitch would get the worst of it. I’d do her last and take my time. I savored the idea of her looking in my face and realizing I was the one who would take her life. Me, the one she so flippantly dismissed and ignored.

  “Mrs. Wultz?” Bridget stopped in front of me, her hands clasped at her chest as if she were about to beg for something.

  “Yes?” I asked, flipping through the camera photos to double-check that Sophie was in the middle. She was, and I looked back at Bridget.

  “My mom wanted to know if you can drop me off at my piano lesson the morning after the party. It’s in the neighborhood, on Panlo Street. If not, my nanny can do it.”

  “Sure.” I nodded. “No problem.”

  “It’s at eleven thirty. Do you think we’ll be done with everything by then?” She glanced worriedly over her shoulder, making sure the team hadn’t reconvened yet. As bossy as Mandolin was, Bridget was anxious. She’d probably stop me midstabbing and ask if the knife had been sterilized.

  “Oh yeah. You won’t miss anything.” I put the camera strap over my shoulder. Today was my first day premiering my new nose for the neighborhood, and I touched it briefly, just to make sure it was intact. No one had noticed it yet, and I didn’t know whether to celebrate that fact or be pissed.

  “And I have to take my medication one hour before bed,” she informed me earnestly. “I’ll have a sheet with directions, but it has to be refrigerated, so I wanted to make sure you have enough room in your fridge for it.”

  “Of course.” I gave her a reassuring smile. “I’ll make sure you get your medicine.” I’d have to check her medication’s compatibility with the Ambien I’d be spiking all their milkshakes with. I didn’t need Bridget frothing at the mouth and ruining the whole aesthetic of the scene.

  I’d already tested the sleeping medication a few times with Sophie. The first time, I’d used a single pill. She’d grown groggy and fallen asleep within fifteen minutes of consuming it, but when I had clapped my hands and said her name loudly, she’d woken up. The second time, I had used two, and she was dead to the world. I’d carried her up the stairs to her room, and she barely responded.

  I needed them to be pliable when I went up there. I would pose them into position, then start with the knife. First Sophie, to get her over with. Then the other two. Bridget quickly, then Mandolin.

  It wouldn’t take long. Ten, fifteen minutes, tops. I had a plastic poncho that I would wear, one with drawstrings that closed it tight around my face, and I had booties that would slip over my shoes. That would keep the blood spray off me. I’d hide the poncho and booties, then crawl back into bed with Grant and go to sleep.

  And then, in the morning, the fun of discovery and deception would begin.

  CHAPTER 66

  LEEWOOD FOLCRUM

  INMATE 82145

  I don’t know what happened in Visitation that day, but both Leewood and his visitor . . . they both came out of those rooms different people than when they walked in.

  —Thomas Redd, Lancaster Prison corrections officer

  I wasn’t expecting another visit from Grant, so when it came, I forced my ass to roll over and get to my feet. Who knew why he was here, but I had something I needed from him, so I didn’t waste time or breath, given that I was short on both.

  “I need you do something for me.” I spit the words out before Redd had exited the room and before Grant had a chance to say anything. “It’s important.”

  “What is it?” He looked wary. He was about to look confused, but I didn’t have time for any questions. Today was a bad day, and I needed to get back to my bed so I could lie down and try not to die.

  “There are certain people I’m not allowed to contact, but I need you to get a message to someone on the outside for me.”

  He hunched forward, his forearms digging into the table, one hand cupped over the other. “Who?”

  “My daughter. She’s changed her name—I don’t know what it is, and there’s a protective order in place, so what I’m asking you for, it’s not technically allowed, but . . .” I lifted my shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t got much time left.”

  He slowly sat back, thinking. “You don’t know her name?”

  “No. She was a minor when her name was changed, so maybe it’s hard to find, or maybe it’s easy. Maybe she wrote a damn book about what happened.” I dragged a hand down the front of my face. “I don’t know. But I’d appreciate it if you tried.”

  “What kind of message do you want me to give her?”

  “You’ll do it?” It was bullshit, the way my voice cracked on the question, but all I had keeping my blood moving in my veins right now was desperation.

  “Depends on the message.”

  “I’d like her to visit me so I can see her one time before I die. I wanna find out if she has any children. If she had a good life. If she’s strung out on drugs or is happy. I want to apologize to her.” I sat up straighter. “I have some letters to give her. I wrote her a letter every year on her birthday, for the last twenty-two years. I’ll give her those.” There was a clog in my throat, and I coughed hard, trying to get it out. “She probably isn’t going to want to come, so it’s important that you at least give her a specific message.” I tapped the glass, looking for his notebook. “It’s complicated; you’re going to want to write it down.”

  He hadn’t moved, seemed to barely be breathing, and I waited, needing him to look at me, needing him to see how important this was. “Are you listening?”

  “I’m listening.” He lifted his gaze to me, but I didn’t like what I saw there. It was like a snake of confidence was winding through his face, from his eyes to his mouth. He didn’t exactly smile, but I knew the look he was wearing. Leverage. This was his leverage, but the truth of that night—it wasn’t something I would barter with.

  I plowed on. “This last part is important. But you gotta write it down, exactly as I say it.”

  “I’ll remember it.” He lifted his chin, telling me to go on.

  Maybe he didn’t have a pen. From this angle, I couldn’t even see if he had his briefcase. Okay, fine. Maybe he’d remember. He had to. “Tell her that if she doesn’t contact me or come here, the bunny will start talking about carrots.”

  The confidence drained from his face. “‘The bunny will start talking about carrots’? That’s what you want me to say to her?”

  I nodded. “Yes. She’ll understand what it means. It’s important. Say it exactly like that.”

  He wiped his hand across his face and over his mouth, looking down at the table and thinking. He was trying to decipher the code, but he would never be able to do that. Not without knowing what it meant.

  He lifted his head, and his gaze connected with mine. “So you’re holding on to a secret of hers? One you’re blackmailing her with?”

  “I didn’t say that.” I frowned, not sure how I’d given that away.

  “We’re talking about Piketo, right? That’s the bunny?”

  My heart stopped for a moment in my chest, then began to beat faster.

  Piketo, right? That’s the bunny?

  I know more about you than anyone. He’d said that to me the first time we’d met. I’d dismissed it, but now I tried to think back at who I had mentioned that story to, what article, what letter, where, where, where it might have been documented.

  “How do you know that story?” I asked, watching as he dropped his head into his hands. There was no more arrogance on his face, no joy at revealing his hand, and that concerned me more than anything because for once in our dynamic, he knew something I didn’t, and fuck that flip in power.

  “I know that story,” he said slowly, “because my wife told it to my daughter when she was six.” He took off his glasses and placed them on the table. “A story that she heard from her father.”

  A story that she heard from her father.

  Piketo was a story I’d made up, the name borrowed from a guy I’d once worked with, the tale created with the purpose of making sure my daughter understood the repercussions that could happen if she ever told people about things that were better kept private.

  Things like the videos I used to film of her friends at her sleepovers.

  Things like the special showers I would give to those friends.

  Things like what those friends would tell her and how she needed to handle that.

  No-fucking-one knew about Piketo but Jenny and me. For him to have heard it from his wife . . . that only meant one thing, and I shook my head, unwilling to accept that possibility. “No.” The word rasped out of me, and I cleared my throat and tried again. “No. Who’s your wife?”

  He looked at me for a long moment. “You either know or you don’t, Lee.”

  “You’re saying that you’re married to Jenny?” A cough was coming, and I huffed out a small breath, trying to keep it at bay.

  “She doesn’t go by that name anymore, but yes. We’ve been together since she was twenty-one.” He didn’t sound happy about it. Wasn’t lording it over me. He sounded defeated, and hell—any man who married Jenny would be. Together fourteen-some years. Jesus Christ.

  “So she sent you here?” I wet my lips. “That’s why you’re here? She’s testing me?”

  His eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “No. She doesn’t know I’m here. This . . .” He gestured between us. “This was about me trying to find answers. Closure. For Lucy and for myself.” He tilted his head. “What would she be testing you on?”

  I didn’t answer that, because there was suddenly a much bigger issue at play. “Wait, you mentioned a daughter. Jenny’s a mother?” It was a thought that might fill some grandparents with glee. I had the exact opposite reaction.

  “Yes.” His mouth clenched. “And no, you can never meet her. We’ve always told her that her grandparents are dead. There will never be—”

  “I don’t care about that,” I snapped. I didn’t want to meet my granddaughter. That was the last thing I needed to have introduced to my system at this stage, with death so close. “How is Jenny with her?”

  He snorted. “That’s your question? You want to know your daughter’s parenting style? She’s not chopping Piketo in bits and leaving him on our daughter’s doorstep, if that’s your concern.”

  Nausea boiled at the thought of the bunny’s light-brown carcass, one I’d had to dispose of. “She told you about that?” So maybe he knew the woman he had married after all. “Did she say why she did it?”

  “Did what?”

  “Killed the rabbit.”

  A moment of uncertainty flitted across his face. “She didn’t kill the rabbit. You did.”

  I snorted. “The fuck I did. Who the hell would gut a pet rabbit? I’d trained that thing to come when I called. Jenny killed it. Left it by my work boots like a dog bringing home a prize.”

  He digested the information, and the fact that he was accepting it was proof that my daughter hadn’t been 100 percent successful in hiding her true colors. Finally, he spoke, his words halting, and I wasn’t the only one in the room on an emotional roller coaster ride. “Why would she do that?”

  “I asked her that, and she smiled. A creepy fucking smile. She said the only way that Piketo was guaranteed not to talk was to kill him.” I let out a hard string of coughs. “She was seven when she said that. Seven.”

  Horror rolled over his face, and I understood it but also my part in it. I was probably what made Jenny the way she was. If not my parenting, then my genes. Something somewhere had broken in the chain to cause an innocent little baby to become whatever Jenny Folcrum grew into.

  “Is that the secret you’re protecting for her?”

  I shook my head. “I asked about my granddaughter—” My chest seized at the word. Granddaughter. That was something I’d never expected, certainly never expected to discover now, right before I died.

  I inhaled deeply, then continued. “—because you have to be careful with Jenny. Very, very careful. She doesn’t do well with female competition.” I shook my head at the thought. A seven-year-old Jenny had been disturbing. A nine-year-old, scary. A twelve-year-old, deadly.

  I had no idea what an adult Jenny would be like. What she was capable of.

  “She’s our daughter,” Grant said tartly. “Not ‘competition.’”

  “I didn’t view her mother as competition,” I said carefully. “Then again, I had a unique relationship with Jenny. An inappropriate one, maybe.”

  He pinched his eyes shut in frustration, then held up his hands. “What are you saying, Leewood? Stop dancing in circles and just tell me. You’re saying that she saw her mother—your wife—as competition? She was, what? Nine?”

  I had kept my daughter’s secrets for over twenty years, and I couldn’t spill them now. Not to him. He’d spent the last two months lying to me. Maybe he wasn’t her husband. Maybe he was a guy in a bar whom she’d told a story to once. Maybe I was sitting here, vomiting out information to a con man.

  “You’re telling me that you’re Jenny’s husband?” I asked, just to make damn sure.

  He flinched, then looked at me as if I were crazy. “Yes,” he spat out. “We went through this. Remember?”

  “Prove it,” I said, my chest aching from just the act of breathing.

  “What?”

  “You’ve lied to me for what, two months? Why should I believe you now? Are you even a doctoral student?”

  I could see the truth on his face. When had I become stupid enough to fall for shit like that?

  “My name is Dr. Timothy Valden. I have a card, if you’d like to see it.” He half rose, reaching back to his pants pocket. I waved him off, then let my cuffed wrists rest on the table.

  I should have taken his card, if he’d even had one. Researched him. Vetted him. Instead, I’d been more concerned with getting a fucking roast-beef sandwich.

  “No, I’m not a doctoral student. I’m a scientist.”

  “And Jenny’s husband?” I asked.

  “Yes.” He smoothed down the front of his shirt. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Prove it,” I repeated.

  He sighed. “How do you expect me to do that?”

  “You’re the smart one here. Think of something.”