their Sunday best, left Wanda’s Diner. Behind the theater a small, gray-haired man heaved trash into a huge Dumpster.
It wasn’t noon, and she was already exhausted. She was drained from her battle with Greg and another sleepless night avoiding visions of Albert Stucky. Then, this morning, the turbulent flight had jerked and jolted her thousands of feet above control. She hated flying, and it never got any easier.
It was the control, her mother reminded her whenever possible.
“You need to let it go, Mag-pie. You can’t expect to be in control twenty-four hours a day.”
This from a woman who, after twenty years of therapy, still struggled with the meaning of self-control. A woman who buried her grief for her dead husband by drinking herself into a stupor every Friday night and bringing home whatever stranger had supplied her with the drinks. It wasn’t until one of her men friends suggested a threesome—daughter, mother and himself—that she stopped bringing the men home and insisted on motel rooms. Her mother hadn’t seemed disgusted by the idea of sharing her twelve-year-old daughter, as much as intimidated by it.
Maggie rubbed the back of her neck, the muscles tight with tension—tension easily brought on by thoughts of her mother. She wished she had checked into a hotel first and eaten some lunch instead of coming directly here. But she was ready to dig in, having spent the hours in the air preoccupying herself with details of Ronald Jeffreys. The recent murder resembled Jeffreys’ style, right down to the jagged X carved into the boy’s chest. Copycats were often meticulous, duplicating every last detail to amplify the thrill. Sometimes that made them even more dangerous than the original killer. It removed the passion and thus the tendency to make mistakes.
“Can I help you?”
The voice startled Maggie, and she spun around. The young woman who appeared out of nowhere was far from what Maggie had expected of someone working in a sheriff’s office. Her long hair was too tall and stiff, her knit skirt too short and tight. She looked more like a teenager ready for a date.
“I’m here to see Sheriff Nicholas Morrelli.”
The woman eyed Maggie suspiciously, keeping her post in the doorway as though guarding the back offices. Maggie knew her navy blazer and trousers made her look official, hiding the slender figure that sometimes betrayed her authority. Early in her career she had developed an abrupt and sometimes abrasive manner that demanded attention and compensated for her slight stature. At five foot five and a hundred and fifteen pounds, she had barely met the physical requirements of the agency.
“Nick’s not here right now,” the woman said in a voice that told Maggie she wasn’t about to reveal any additional information. “Was he expecting you?” The woman crossed her arms and stood up straight in an attempt to emphasize her authority.
Maggie looked around the office again, ignoring the question and showing the woman she wasn’t impressed. “Can he be reached?” She pretended to be interested in the bulletin board that contained a wanted poster from the early eighties, a flyer announcing a Halloween dance and a notice advertising a 1990 Ford pickup for sale.
“Look, lady. I don’t mean to be rude,” the young woman said, suddenly a bit unsure of herself. “What exactly is it that you need to talk to Nick…to Sheriff Morrelli about?”
Maggie glanced back at the woman, who looked older now, the lines evident around her mouth and eyes. She teetered on the two-inch spiked heels and was biting her lower lip.
Maggie reached into her jacket pocket, ready to flip out her badge when two men came noisily in the front door. The older man wore a brown deputy’s uniform, the pants impeccably pressed, the tie cinched tight at his neck. His black hair was slicked back, tucked behind his ears and curled over his collar, not a strand out of place. In contrast, the younger man was wearing
It wasn’t noon, and she was already exhausted. She was drained from her battle with Greg and another sleepless night avoiding visions of Albert Stucky. Then, this morning, the turbulent flight had jerked and jolted her thousands of feet above control. She hated flying, and it never got any easier.
It was the control, her mother reminded her whenever possible.
“You need to let it go, Mag-pie. You can’t expect to be in control twenty-four hours a day.”
This from a woman who, after twenty years of therapy, still struggled with the meaning of self-control. A woman who buried her grief for her dead husband by drinking herself into a stupor every Friday night and bringing home whatever stranger had supplied her with the drinks. It wasn’t until one of her men friends suggested a threesome—daughter, mother and himself—that she stopped bringing the men home and insisted on motel rooms. Her mother hadn’t seemed disgusted by the idea of sharing her twelve-year-old daughter, as much as intimidated by it.
Maggie rubbed the back of her neck, the muscles tight with tension—tension easily brought on by thoughts of her mother. She wished she had checked into a hotel first and eaten some lunch instead of coming directly here. But she was ready to dig in, having spent the hours in the air preoccupying herself with details of Ronald Jeffreys. The recent murder resembled Jeffreys’ style, right down to the jagged X carved into the boy’s chest. Copycats were often meticulous, duplicating every last detail to amplify the thrill. Sometimes that made them even more dangerous than the original killer. It removed the passion and thus the tendency to make mistakes.
“Can I help you?”
The voice startled Maggie, and she spun around. The young woman who appeared out of nowhere was far from what Maggie had expected of someone working in a sheriff’s office. Her long hair was too tall and stiff, her knit skirt too short and tight. She looked more like a teenager ready for a date.
“I’m here to see Sheriff Nicholas Morrelli.”
The woman eyed Maggie suspiciously, keeping her post in the doorway as though guarding the back offices. Maggie knew her navy blazer and trousers made her look official, hiding the slender figure that sometimes betrayed her authority. Early in her career she had developed an abrupt and sometimes abrasive manner that demanded attention and compensated for her slight stature. At five foot five and a hundred and fifteen pounds, she had barely met the physical requirements of the agency.
“Nick’s not here right now,” the woman said in a voice that told Maggie she wasn’t about to reveal any additional information. “Was he expecting you?” The woman crossed her arms and stood up straight in an attempt to emphasize her authority.
Maggie looked around the office again, ignoring the question and showing the woman she wasn’t impressed. “Can he be reached?” She pretended to be interested in the bulletin board that contained a wanted poster from the early eighties, a flyer announcing a Halloween dance and a notice advertising a 1990 Ford pickup for sale.
“Look, lady. I don’t mean to be rude,” the young woman said, suddenly a bit unsure of herself. “What exactly is it that you need to talk to Nick…to Sheriff Morrelli about?”
Maggie glanced back at the woman, who looked older now, the lines evident around her mouth and eyes. She teetered on the two-inch spiked heels and was biting her lower lip.
Maggie reached into her jacket pocket, ready to flip out her badge when two men came noisily in the front door. The older man wore a brown deputy’s uniform, the pants impeccably pressed, the tie cinched tight at his neck. His black hair was slicked back, tucked behind his ears and curled over his collar, not a strand out of place. In contrast, the younger man was wearing
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