Annie looked at Matty. Her son was intent on the conversation, his eyes moving back and forth between Hank and Jake. She often let him listen in, but when things turned to more gruesome matters, she would rather he didn’t hear.

“Matty, will you go to your room for now?” she asked.

Matty frowned. “What did I do, Mom?”

“Nothing. It’s just for a few minutes.” She pointed to the doorway. “Read a book or something for now.”

“Aw, Mom.” Matty slid off the couch and picked up his comic book. He turned to Hank and faked a pout. “Bye, Uncle Hank.”

Hank leaned forward for a fist bump. “See you, Matty.”

The boy frowned at his mother, then turned and sauntered away, slowly thumping up the stairs.

Annie leaned forward and looked at Hank. “When Adam runs out of medication, he might kill again. If he’s already unstable with his medication, how much worse will he be without it?”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” Hank said. “The murder of Nina White was so cold-blooded and brutal, the next one might be as horrendous.” He picked up his briefcase, laid it in his lap, and flipped it open. He pulled out a business card and studied it. “I dropped by to see Adam’s psychiatrist this afternoon. Dr. Zalora. He was shocked when he heard the news, but not surprised. He expressed concern Adam had deteriorated lately and they were running out of medical options to stabilize his behavior.”

“They’ve tried everything?” Annie asked.

“Not everything,” Hank said. “There’re some more aggressive medications, but they’re new and very expensive. It’s a question of money as well. Mrs. Thorburn has limited funds, and there’s no government assistance available for the medication.”

“So either way, his actions are completely out of control,” Jake said.

Hank closed his briefcase, sat it on the floor, and leaned back. “Not completely. Nina White wasn’t a random victim. There was some level of planning on Adam’s part. He knew the victim, and if she was targeted, he had to have known how to find her.”

“Perhaps his gripe was with the school,” Annie said. “Maybe he would’ve killed the first person who came along.”

“That’s a possibility,” Hank said. “But it’s certain he planned to kill someone.” He paused. “The ME found a rose in the victim’s mouth. The same roses that grow on the Thorburn property.”

Annie frowned. “A rose?”

“It sounds like planning to me,” Jake said.

Hank looked at Jake. “But not careful planning. He was careless about leaving evidence behind. He didn’t worry about hiding the car or even covering his face.” Hank shook his head slowly. “It’s as if he didn’t care about getting caught.”

“Which tells me his mind is unstable,” Annie said. “His only desire was to kill and never mind the consequences.”

“Sounds more like a psychopath to me,” Jake said.

“Perhaps,” Hank said. “But according to his doctor, he’s never displayed such extreme violence before. In the past, it was usually abnormal behavior, the occasional tantrum, or irrational anger.”

“But the doctor said his behavior has deteriorated lately,” Annie said.

Hank nodded. “And now he’s completely out of control.”

“What’s the significance of the rose?” Jake asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Hank said. “It obviously has some meaning to him.”

“What color was the rose?” Annie asked.

“Red.”

“Love.”

“That’s what King suggested,” Hank said. “Perhaps Adam was secretly in love with Nina White. She was a school guidance counselor, and a role like that tends to be more personal, almost like a therapist. It’s not unusual for someone to fall in love, and even expect a relationship, with someone in that position.”

“A therapist is focused entirely on you and your needs. What can be more gratifying than that?” Jake added.

“Exactly,” Hank said. “And when a person is weak and unstable to start with, they might interpret it as signs of true caring and affection.”

“But this was all years ago,” Annie said.

“He might’ve buried his feelings all these years and they finally surfaced.”

“Has Adam ever had a girlfriend?” Jake asked.

Hank shook his head. “I don’t believe so. Apparently, he has no friends, was bullied at school, and keeps mostly to himself.”

“Sounds like a recipe for disaster,” Jake said.

“Add schizophrenia to the mix and that’s exactly what you have,” Hank said.

Jake sat back and scratched his head. “So, if Adam had a thing for Nina White, then she wasn’t a random victim.”

Hank nodded. “That’s the presumption we’re going with. The connection between Adam and Nina White is too solid to suggest otherwise.”

“Then we have to hope she’s his only victim,” Annie said. “And he needs to be tracked down before we find out otherwise.”

Chapter 17

Tuesday, 8:44 p.m.

RAYMOND RONSON pulled his 2004 Volkswagen Beetle up to the rear door of Millfield Elementary School and shut down the engine. After almost thirty years at the same job, a job he never tired of, he treated this place as his home away from home.

The kids he ran into during the day were like family. Sure, they came and went as they grew up and graduated to higher education, but there was always a nice assortment of youngsters who took the time to say hi when they saw him in the halls. And they enjoyed the stories he sometimes told. Short stories—enough to make them smile, but not too long to keep them from their studies.

He was here every school day until the kids went home, and the children were what made this job most enjoyable. He and Eunice hadn’t been able to have any family of their own, and he was thankful for the day he’d found this job. It didn’t pay a lot, but he and his wife had simple tastes and got by nicely.

And cleaning up after kids was a joy—part of the job, and he wouldn’t trade what he did for twice the money. Each evening, when he popped back to do a final cleaning after the staff cleared out, he took pride in making the place sparkle, all clean and shiny, ready for the kids on the next school day.

Picking up his cap from the passenger seat, Raymond sat it on his head and worked it into place. He brushed back the hair above his ears, just enough hair that no one would suspect he had an expanding bald spot under the cap. Not that he cared. There was no shame in being bald.

He stepped from the car, each day growing more mindful of the increasing effort it took him to get around. At sixty-eight, he had a lot of good years left, but he felt his age creeping up on him. But never mind—complaining never did any good, and anyway, his job wasn’t all that back-breaking.

Stepping to the rear door, he tugged at the key ring fastened to his belt with a chain, selected a key, and unlocked the door. He heaved on the handle and the door scraped open. The bottom brushed the concrete and held. He would have to get around to fixing that up soon. It was probably the hinges sagging. He could tighten it up with a screwdriver, allowing the door to swing closed properly on its own.

He stepped into the dimly lit hallway and tugged at the door to free it. It almost caught his heels as it scraped behind him and snapped closed. He flicked a light switch on the wall, flooding the hall with cool fluorescent light. One bulb flickered and would soon die. Maybe he would take care of that first. Bulbs didn’t last forever. Except for him, people rarely came into this area of the building, but he needed the bright lighting for his own aging eyes.

Raymond shuffled down the hall, pushed open a metal door, and stepped into the supply room. He lugged an aluminum ladder out, stood it under the dying bulb, and carefully climbed the steps. Reaching up, he slipped the plastic light cover aside and twisted the bulb gently. It had been there awhile. One end was corroded and stubborn, but he tugged, and it finally moved.