“Here.” Michael tossed his keys to Dean. Dean caught them. “You drive,” Michael said, sauntering over to the passenger side of the car. “You look like
you could use it.”
Dean’s grip tightened on the keys, and I wondered what game Michael was playing. He never let anyone else drive his car—and Dean was the last person he’d make an exception for. Dean was probably thinking the same thing, but he accepted the offer with a nod.
Michael climbed into the backseat with me. “So,” he said as Dean pulled away from the house, “Christopher Simms: understandably upset that his mom has a thing for serial killers, or budding psycho himself?”
“He grabbed Cassie.” Dean let that statement hang in the air for a moment. “He could have gone for me. He could have gone for you. But he went for Cassie.”
“And when you threatened him,” I added, “he left.”
You shouldn’t have come here. I went back over Christopher’s words.
This is sick. You’re all sick.
“What’s the holdup?” Michael asked. For a second, I thought he was talking to me, but then I realized the comment was aimed at Dean. The car wasn’t moving. We were sitting at a stop sign.
“Nothing,” Dean replied, but his eyes were locked on the road, and suddenly, I realized Michael hadn’t just let Dean drive on a whim. This was
the town Dean had grown up in. This was his past, a place he never would have chosen to go if it weren’t for this case.
“What’s down that road?” I asked Dean.
Michael caught my eye and shook his head slightly. Then he leaned back in his seat. “So, Dean, are we headed back to the house, or are we taking a detour?”
After a long moment, Dean turned down the road. I could see his knuckles tightening over the steering wheel. I glanced at Michael. He shrugged, as if he hadn’t planned this. As if he hadn’t seen something on Dean’s face on the way into town that had made him want to let Dean drive on the way out.
We ended up parked on the pavement next to a dirt road that snaked back into the woods. Dean turned the car off and got out. My gaze caught on a mailbox. Somewhere, buried in those woods, at the end of that road, there was a house.
Dean’s old house.
“You wanted him to come here,” I whispered furiously to Michael, watching Dean from inside the car. “You gave him the keys—”
“I gave him a choice,” Michael corrected. “I’ve seen Dean angry. I’ve seen him disgusted and drowning in guilt, scared of himself and what he’s capable of, scared of you.” Michael let that sink in for a moment. “But until today, I’ve never once seen him raw.” Michael paused. “It’s not the bad memories that tear a person apart like that, Cassie. It’s the good ones.”
We fell into a momentary silence. Outside, Dean started walking down the dirt road. I watched him go, then I turned back to Michael. “Did you give him the keys because he needed to come here, or because once upon a time, he threw your past in your face?”
Coming here might help Dean—but it would, without question, hurt, too. “You’re the profiler,” Michael replied. “You tell me.”
“Both,” I said. Pseudo-rivals. Pseudo-siblings. Pseudo-something else.
Michael and Dean had a complicated relationship, one that had nothing to do with me. Michael had arranged this to help Dean and to hurt him.
“Do you want to go after him?” Michael’s question took me by surprise. “You’re the emotion reader,” I retorted. “You tell me.”
“That’s the problem, Colorado,” Michael replied, leaning toward me. “You want me to tell you what you feel. I want you to know.”
Slowly, my hand crept toward the door handle. Michael leaned across the seat toward me. “You were always going to go after him,” he told me, his lips so close to mine that I thought at any minute he might close the gap. “The thing you need to figure out is why.”
I could still feel Michael’s breath on my face when he leaned across me and pushed open the car door.
“Go on,” he said. “I’ll be waiting.”
But this time, I heard an underlying edge in his voice—something that told me Michael wouldn’t be waiting for long.
I caught up to Dean outside a picket fence. It might have been white once, but now it was dirt-stained and weatherworn. The siding on the house behind it was the same color. A bright yellow tricycle lay on its side in the yard, a stark contrast to everything around it. I followed Dean’s gaze to a patch of bare grass just outside the fence.
“They tore down the toolshed,” Dean commented, like he was talking about the weather and not the building where his father had tortured and murdered all those women.
I stared at the tricycle on the lawn, wondering about the people who had bought this place. They had to know its history. They had to know what had once been buried in this yard.
Dean started walking again, halfway around the side of the house. He knelt next to the fence, his fingers searching for something.
“There,” he said. I knelt beside him. I moved his hand so I could see.
Initials. His and someone else’s.
MR.
“Marie,” Dean said. “My mother’s name was Marie.”
The front door to the house opened. A toddler came barreling toward the tricycle. The little boy’s mother stayed on the front porch, but when she saw us, her eyes narrowed to slits.
Teenagers. Strangers. On her property.
“We should go,” Dean said quietly.
We were halfway back down the dirt road before he spoke again. “We used to play Go Fish.” He stared straight ahead as he spoke,
walking at the same steady pace. “Old Maid, Uno, War—anything with cards.”
We. As in Dean and his mother.
“What happened to her?” That was a question I’d never asked. Daniel Redding had told Briggs that his wife had left—but I hadn’t processed the fact that she hadn’t just left Daniel Redding. She’d left Dean, too.
“She got bored.” Dean walked like a soldier, eyes straight ahead, pace never faltering. “Bored with him. Bored with me. He’d brought her back to this small town, cut off all contact with her family.” He swallowed once. “One day I came home and she was gone.”
“Did you ever think—”
“That he killed her?” Dean stopped and turned to face me. “I used to.
When the FBI dug up the bodies, I kept waiting for them to tell me that she hadn’t just left. That she was still there, in the ground.” He started walking again, slower this time, like his body was weighed down with cement. “And then my social worker found her. Alive.”
“But…” That one word escaped my mouth before I managed to clamp down on the question on the tip of my tongue. I refused to say what I was thinking—that if Dean’s mother was alive and they knew where she was, how had Dean ended up in foster care? Why was it that the director claimed that if it weren’t for this program, he wouldn’t have anywhere else to go?
“She was dating someone.” Dean scuffed a foot into the dirt. “I was Daniel Redding’s son.”
He stopped there—nine words to explain something I couldn’t even fathom.
You were her son, too, I thought. How could a person look at their own child and just say “No, thanks”? Go Fish and Old Maid and carving their initials into the fence. I knew then that Marie Redding was the reason Dean had come back here.
It’s not the bad memories that tear a person apart. It’s the good ones.
“What was she like?” The question felt like sandpaper in my mouth, but if this was what he’d come here for, I could listen. I would make myself listen.
Dean didn’t answer my question until we’d made our way back to the car. Michael was sitting in the driver’s seat. Dean walked around to the passenger side. He put his hand on the door, then looked up at me.
“What was she like?” he repeated softly. He shook his head. “Nothing like Trina Simms.”
