“What did she know?”
“She remembers the sale very well. It was after the holiday. She worked through our January clearance sales? She said a young girl came in, with a nanny, she thought it was a nanny. As the girl wanted to purchase something as a surprise, she asked the nanny to go to another part of the store for a while. And this was a bit of a struggle of willpower as the nanny didn’t want to—”
“Wind this up for me, Billy.”
“Sorry. Well, the clerk promised the nanny she’d keep a close eye on the girl, so the nanny went to another department. The girl wanted the go-cup you asked about, and had it engraved. The clerk remembers the girl because she was so bright and charming, and very polite. Now, the clerk isn’t a hundred percent sure of the name, but she did recall that the girl told her it was a going-away present for her favorite teacher. She paid cash. Since it was after the first of the year, it was easy for me to pull up the store copy of the receipt, for cash. It was a go-cup of the make and model you asked about, in black, with the additional fee for silver engraving in the Roman script font. Does that help at all?”
“It does.” Sometimes, Eve thought, the stars just freaking aligned. “Good job, Billy. I’m going to pass you to my partner. I need you to give her the name and contact info on your clerk. I want her to look at some pictures, see if she can identify the little girl.”
“I’m sure she’d be glad to help. She mentioned the girl was a pretty little blonde, curly hair? With very unique eyes. Nearly purple.”
“And the walls keep tumbling down,” Eve mumbled as Peabody took the data. “Outsmarted herself on this one. Should’ve made it quick, not engaged the clerk. But she’s just got to show off.”
“She’d have disposed of his original cup,” Mira commented.
“Yeah, probably carried it right out of the school, right under our noses. Goddamn it.”
“You’re trained,” Mira said. “So am I. I’m trained in abnormal psychiatry, and I believe she would have carried it out under my nose, too.”
“That ends today.”
Eve found Straffo in his wife’s room, sitting vigil beside her bed. He looked over at Eve with dull, heavy eyes. “If you’ve come to file charges, you can—”
“How is she?” Eve interrupted.
He dragged a hand through his hair, then reached down to take Allika’s again. “She’s still critical. They’re going to run more tests soon.” He stroked his wife’s hand as he spoke. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. But you won’t push those murders on her.”
Eve walked over to stand at the opposite side of the bed. “How much do you love your wife?”
“That’s a stupid question.” Some of the steel came back into his eyes, his voice. “However much I love her, I don’t have to cover for her, or use any legal magic to protect her. She’s incapable of hurting anyone. And I’m damned if she tried to kill herself, especially with Rayleen alone in the house. She’d never put our daughter through this. Never.”
“I agree with you.”
He looked up. “Then what is this?”
“How much did you love your son?”
“How can you come in here, at a time like this, and bring that kind of pain back to me?”
“A great deal, I’m betting. Even though you don’t have pictures of him in your home. Even though your wife keeps them locked away.”
“It hurts beyond the telling. You can’t possibly understand. Do you think I’ve forgotten him? It’s not how much did I love him, but how much I do.” He lurched up, pulled out a small leather folder from his pocket. “Is this one of your essential details to tie up, Lieutenant? Here then. Here. I keep him in here. Look at that face.”
He held out the photo case, with a snapshot of the little boy smiling out of it. “He was the sweetest boy. So happy all the time. You couldn’t be around Trev and not smile. No matter how crappy the day had been, five minutes with him and everything was good again. The day he…the day we lost him was the worst day of my life, up until now. Is that what you need to hear?”
“Yeah, it is. I’ve got something hard for you, Oliver. Something no one should ever have laid on them. I want you to remember how you feel about your wife and your son. I need you to read this.”
“What is it?”
She held out the printout from the last pages of the diary. “I think you’ll recognize the handwriting. I think you’ll know what it is. I’m showing these to you now because of her.” She gestured toward Allika. “And because I saw the pictures of your son. His face is in my head.”
That made Trevor Straffo hers, Eve acknowledged. As much as Craig Foster, even the pathetic Re
ed Williams, was hers.
Straffo took the pages, scanned the first line. “This is Rayleen’s handwriting. From her diary? What possible—”
“The last entry was written before she tossed it, inside its lockbox, in your kitchen recycler. Date’s right there. You’re going to want to read the whole thing.”