LITMIR.BIZ

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Berelli?” Auggie mumbled, reached for a napkin to wipe his mouth. “There’s a name you haven’t mentioned.”

      “He’s the firm’s accountant.” She waved an arm. “Oh, yeah. It’s definitely him. He’s probably laundering money and hiding it in the Cayman Islands, or something.”

      He fought a smile and took a couple more bites, making short work of the sandwich half. Then he wiped his fingers and looked squarely into her hazel eyes. There was mistrust there, and a kind of simmering rebellion, as if she felt he were going to school her for her actions.

      “Okay, let’s say it is about you. For argument’s sake,” he added quickly when she looked about to protest his sudden change of tactics. “You think someone’s after you and you ran from Zuma because you think this someone—the shooter—found you and your place of work.”

      “The lawyers found me. They called me on the phone,” she reminded him. “I don’t know how the shooter found me, exactly.”

      “Well, how did the lawyers find you?”

      She spread her palms upward. “Trial and error. They were looking for Olivia Margaux Dugan and they got my home number. It probably wouldn’t be that hard. I mean, I have a phone . . . electricity . . .”

      “Did the package come to your apartment?”

      “No, I asked them to send it to the office. The lawyers messengered it to Zuma.”

      He thought about that a moment. “And you’re pretty convinced the package set off the massacre.”

      “I . . .” She exhaled, thought a moment, then said, “Convinced . . . I don’t know. But it’s the one thing that’s different in my life.”

      “What was in the package that would have threatened the killer?” He could hear how carefully he was choosing his words and hoped she wouldn’t think he was simply humoring her. He wasn’t. Not really. But he also wanted to lead her down a logical path. Maybe there was some truth buried in what she was saying. If so, he wanted to mine it.

      “Nothing, really. There were just some things there that my mom apparently wanted me to have when I turned twenty-five.” She made a sound of impatience. “The more I talk about it, the more I realize how crazy it was to run. I was just—scared.”

      “I know you don’t think so, but the police will get that.”

      “I’m not ready to go yet,” she said firmly.

      He picked up the other half of his sandwich. “Back to the package. Your mother put it together and set it up so that you’d receive it when you turned twenty-five. That’s a lot of foresight . . .”

      “Yeah.” She half-laughed. “What was she trying to tell me? What was happening in her life, that she felt the need to put the package together? I’ve asked myself these questions, believe me.”

      “What was in the package, specifically?”

      “Pictures. A personal note from my mother. My birth certificate with the names of my birth parents.”

      “You were adopted.” She nodded, and he added, “You knew you were adopted. It wasn’t a secret.”

      “It wasn’t a secret,” she agreed.

      “What were the pictures of?”

      “People. My mother. And my father. And some other strangers who looked like maybe they were my parents’ friends? There’s one man who was stalking angrily toward the camera who I think is the doctor my brother was remembering. I showed the photos to Hague, and he said the man in the picture was the zombie.”

      “Zombie?”

      “It’s what he called him when he was two. He talked about the zombie. And then . . . last night, when he saw that picture, he said he was the zombie. Maybe this guy is a doctor, who either treated him, or me. I went to Hathaway House this morning to see if I could talk to my old doctor, Dr. Yancy, but she’s no longer there and Dr. Knudson, the director, won’t be in till Monday.”

      He munched on the second half of the sandwich and asked, “You sure you don’t want one?”

      “No, thanks.”

      “Something to drink?”

      For an answer she got up to pour herself a glass of water. “I can get it. Want a refill?” she asked him, as he’d nearly finished his drink.

      “Sure.” She picked up his glass, filled it from the tap, then set it down in front of him as she retook her seat. Her own glass was full and though she placed it in front of herself, she didn’t immediately take a swallow.

      “Who else saw the pictures?” Auggie asked.

      “My father and his wife, my stepmother, Lorinda. And Della, she lives with Hague.” She paused, thinking a moment. “And my neighbor saw the picture of the stalking man, too.”

      “Your neighbor?” he asked.

      “In the apartment next to me. He stopped by at lunchtime on Thursday and I had the pictures out. He just noticed the guy looked angry and that the pictures were old.” She finally picked up the glass and took a delicate swallow. “Trask,” she said.

      Auggie lifted his brows, and she added, “My neighbor. He lives with his girlfriend, Jo, in 21B. They were there before I ever moved in. They’re not involved with this.”

      Auggie finished his sandwich, then carried the plate to the sink and rinsed it off. Turning around, he leaned against the counter, curling his hands around the edge. “Did the lawyers say when they originally received the package from your mother?”

      “Umm . . . no, I guess not. I just assumed it was right before her death. I don’t know. . . .” She trailed off, her brow furrowing.

      “What?”

      “It was the blouse. She’s wearing the same blouse in one of the pictures that she was wearing when, when she died. I think she got it for her birthday. Or, maybe she was just wearing it on my birthday. . . .” She shook her head, as if trying to clear out the cobwebs. “But it was around the same time, so she must have given the package to the lawyers right before she died.”

      “You’ve never really believed her death was a suicide.”

      “No. At Hathaway House they really tried to get me to believe. I think beneath all the therapy, that was the real goal: Liv Dugan needs to face the awful truth of her mother’s suicide. I finally pretended like I did believe it. It’s what it took to get out of there. But it was a lie.”

      “You think the serial strangler hanged her.”

      She pulled her shoulders in when he put it like that. “There were some things that just didn’t seem to add up. The timing was such, that I’ve thought, off and on, maybe the killer had something to do with my mother’s death. Maybe he strangled her first and then made it look like a hanging. . . .” She shook her head. “But apparently there was no evidence to support that.”

      “Your mother’s death doesn’t follow his m.o., at least not in the strictest sense.”

      “Maybe they never really looked to see,” Liv said. “The police just took her hanging as a suicide. Maybe they never checked for other evidence. I don’t think they wanted to add her to their homicide list. They had their hands full and a lot of public pressure building.”

      “Or, it wasn’t a homicide,” he pointed out.

      “My mother’s death doesn’t fit the pattern,” she agreed. “She was inside the house and so was I, and so was my brother. And she wasn’t killed and left in a field. She was . . . hanged.”

      “After her death, what happened to your family?”

      “We moved to another part of town. Dad met Lorinda and they got married. Nobody talked about

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