Theresa stood and headed for the house.
Okay, we're bugging a little now.
She looked behind her, back at the gap through the bushes at the far end of their property. No car. Nothing.
And turning back to the house, Theresa stopped fast.
The man had scaled the tall fence twenty feet away, between her and the house. He looked up, breathing hard from the effort, from where he landed on his knees beside two thick azaleas. His hand was bleeding, cut on the jagged top of the six-foot chain link.
It was him. It was Daniel Pell!
She gasped.
He had come here. He was going to finish the murders of the Croyton family.
A smile on his face, he rose stiffly and began to walk toward her.
Theresa Croyton began to cry.
*
"No, it's all right," the man said in a whisper, as he approached, smiling. "I'm not going to hurt you. Shhhh."
Theresa tensed. She told herself to run. Now, do it!
But her legs wouldn't move; fear paralyzed her. Besides, there was nowhere to go. He was between her and the house and she knew she couldn't vault the six-foot chain-link fence. She thought of running away from the house, into the backyard, but then he could tackle her and pull her into the bushes, where he'd . . .
No, that was too horrible.
Gasping, actually tasting the fear, Theresa shook her head slowly. Felt her strength ebbing. She looked for a weapon. Nothing: only an edging brick, a bird feeder, The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson.
She looked back at Pell.
"You killed my parents. You . . . Don't hurt me!"
A frown. "No, my God," the man said, eyes wide. "Oh, no, I just want to talk to you. I'm not Daniel Pell. I swear. Look."
He tossed something in her direction, ten feet away. "Look at it. The back. Turn it over."
Theresa glanced at the house. The one time she needed her aunt, the woman was nowhere in sight.
"There," the man said.
The girl stepped forward--and he continued to retreat, giving her plenty of room.
She walked closer and glanced down. It was a book. A Stranger in the Night, by Morton Nagle.
"That's me."
Theresa wouldn't pick it up. With her foot, she eased it over. On the back cover was a picture of a younger version of the man in front of her.
Was it true?
Theresa suddenly realized that she'd seen only a few pictures of Daniel Pell, taken eight years ago. She'd had to sneak a look at a few articles online--her aunt told her it would set her back years psychologically if she read anything about the murders. But looking at the younger author photo, it was clear that this wasn't the gaunt, scary man she remembered.
Theresa wiped her face. Anger exploded inside her, a popped balloon. "What're you doing here? You fucking scared me!"
The man pulled his sagging pants up as if planning to walk closer. But evidently he decided not to. "There was no other way to talk to you. I saw your aunt yesterday when she was shopping. I wanted her to ask you something."