He said nothing.
“A lot of people are potential serial killers. Not one in a million, like you read about it. I’d say more like one in twenty, maybe one in ten. But if you never do it, if you never kill for the first time, you don’t ever get to experience that addictive high. Many of us could be, say, heroin addicts, but if we never try it, if we never get a taste for it...”
“And that explains Martin Spirow.”
Vicky nodded. “There are so many terrible people, Wilde. Did you see what Martin Spirow put on that poor dead girl’s obituary space? I got a Boomerang list of names from Katherine Frole — a list of people who were so pathetic and appalling that the only way they got through their day was saying cruel and vile and hurtful things anonymously to people they didn’t know. I mean, think about it. Martin Spirow woke up one day and saw a heartbroken family grieving over the death of their young daughter, and what does he do? He writes, ‘It’s sad when hot pussy goes to waste.’ What sort of awful life choices has a person made to end up doing something like that?” She shook her head in disgust. “I did the world a favor.”
“So where is Peter?” Wilde asked.
“I told you the first time we met.” She smiled. “You know, Wilde. You’ve always known. My son, my beautiful son, got his affairs in order. He bought a ticket and flew to that island. He went through passport control and checked into that hotel, and the next morning he checked out. He took a taxi to the path where you hike to the top of the cliff. He left a message for me on one of those apps that automatically deletes itself two minutes after you listen. He told me goodbye. I could hear the surf in the background. And then my son jumped to his death.”
Wilde said nothing.
“You know how he was harassed and bullied, how he was shamed and disgraced, how no one would forgive him for something he didn’t do. You know how he lost his wife, the supposed love of his life, and his career, and, yes, his celebrity. All of that and no one would believe him. Step into his shoes for a moment. The whole world believes you roofied your own sister-in-law and not even your own wife defends you. Everything you had is taken away from you. But don’t stop there, Wilde. Add into that the fact that the person Peter loved the longest, the one who really raised him and took care of him and, as Silas pointed out, favored him above all else, the person he trusted most in the entire world, had lied to him his whole life, that in reality she wasn’t his sister but his mother, that he was the product of a rape. Are you thinking about that, Wilde? Are you teetering yet? Good. Because now, after your call today, I can add one more. Peter was so cryptic toward the end, so suddenly quiet and sad. Now I know why. He’d figured it out. He’d figured it out that Jenn had set this all up. He loved that woman, Wilde. Imagine that pain. That final blow. So you tell me. Who do you blame? Was it Marnie? Was it reality TV? McAndrews? The cruel fans? Was it my fault? You tell me, Wilde. Who killed my boy?”
Wilde had no answer to that, so he opened the car window and nodded to Rola. She nodded back and made the call.
Five minutes later, the police came and took Vicky away.
Chapter Forty-Two
One month later, after Chris had vanished from his life, after Marnie’s body was discovered in that storage facility, Wilde got a call from Deputy US Marshal George Kissell.
“They want to talk to you.”
Wilde’s grip on the phone tightened. “When?”
“Has to be now. Tell anyone about this, and they’re gone. Take more than an hour to get there, and they’re gone. I’m pin-dropping you the location right now.”
Wilde felt his heart pick up apace. He checked his screen. The map showed a location just west of East Shore Road near Greenwood Lake in New York. Wilde could hike it, but it would probably take three or four hours.
Why there?
“You okay?” Laila asked.
They sat in the television room. It was Sunday, and they were watching pro football. Laila was a massive New York Giants fan and never missed a game. He almost said, “I think my father wants to see me,” but a fly-through of good sense stopped him.
“Do you mind if I borrow the car?”
“You know you don’t have to ask.”
Wilde rose. “Thanks.”
Laila studied his face. “You’ll tell me about it later?”
He bent down and kissed her. He gave her the honest answer. “If I can.”
He started up the car and headed west. Weeks ago, after it all ended, Silas had come to see him. “You and I,” he said, “we’re still family. Distantly, I know. But we kinda don’t have anyone else.” They met two weeks later. Silas volunteered to go through the family albums, back several generations, but Wilde didn’t want that right now. Maybe he would again, but for now, he wanted to focus on the future, not the past. He asked Silas to leave it alone, and Silas respected his wishes.
That didn’t mean Wilde had forgotten.
The drive took half an hour. He parked on the corner of East Shore Drive and Bluff Avenue. There were several black cars parked nearby. When Wilde got out of the car, Deputy Marshal George Kissell did likewise.
“You mind if I search you?”
Wilde raised his hands. The pat-down was thorough. Kissell nodded toward a house on the corner. It was a classic New Englandesque two-story saltbox with a center chimney and front door, overly symmetrical windows, flat front. Some of the colonial charm had been stripped away by an aluminum siding “upgrade” of too silvery a gray.
Wilde hesitated. He felt suddenly strange.
“The door is unlocked,” Kissell said. “We have eyes on you. They’ll take you out if you make a move.”
Wilde just looked at him.
“I know, I know, but none of this is protocol. Everyone’s on edge.”
“Thank you,” Wilde said.
He took his time walking up the front path. He didn’t know why. He had waited for this moment his entire life. When he reached the door, Wilde stopped for a moment and considered turning around and just leaving. He didn’t need the answers. Not anymore. He had never felt better about himself and his life. He was building something with Laila. He had stopped a serial killer. Life, he knew, was about balance, and right now he was standing on firm ground.
He turned the knob and entered.
He had expected to see Daniel Carter. Instead, standing in the front hallway next to the stairwell, looking at him with her head held high and her gaze steady, was Sofia Carter, Daniel’s wife.
For a moment they both just stood there. Wilde noticed a quake in her lower lip.
“Is...” Wilde wasn’t sure what to even call him. “Is your husband okay?”
“He’s fine.”
Relief flowed through him. Wilde hadn’t expected that.
“Very little of what my Danny told you was true though,” she said.
Wilde said nothing.
“He is your biological father. That’s the most important thing for you to know. And he’s a good man. The best I’ve ever known. He is kind and strong, a wonderful father and husband, and I hope for your sake that you take after him.”
“Where is he?”