over and intimidated a patrolman who’s barely out of pubertyinto letting you in here. Congratulations on reaching a whole new level of spinelessness.’
The skin tightened around his eyes.
Dial it down. This isn’t your zip code .
‘I need you to leave,’ Darby said. ‘Now.’
Lancaster made a clicking sound in his throat. ‘You don’t have any authority here.’
‘Neither do you. Time for you to leave, chief.’
Darby saw the beginnings of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, and it reminded her of the neighbour who had lived across the street from the house where she grew up – a widower named Stan Perry who had always watched his property with a vigilante’s energy and enthusiasm. Once a neighbourhood boy who suffered from some form of mental disability had lost control of his dog, a hyperactive black Labrador, which had sprinted across Perry’s lawn and got into his newly planted hydrangeas. The dog was in the process of relieving itself when the boy caught up with it and grabbed its leash.
Perry had darted out of the house, his cheeks and neck the colour of a fire hydrant. But he didn’t scream or yell. Instead, he leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees, and spoke rapidly to the boy. Darby couldn’t hear the exchange – she watched from her living-room window – but the boy left in tears, and what she remembered was the way Perry had smiled at having found an outlet for the cruelty that lived inside his heart.
Lancaster, though, seemed a bit slicker – the kind of man who never spoke in anger and nursed his hatred and cruelty in private, at home or at a bar, sipping a drink whilehe plotted ways to leave his mark on those who got in his way or denied his wishes. He looked at her with a smug complacency.
‘Well,’ he said, a smile playing on his lips, ‘far be it from me to argue with a woman so full of passion .’ He slid the pen back inside his breast pocket. ‘By the way: if you want to address your menopausal anger and mood swings, I’ve got the name of a doctor who will be more than happy to prescribe something.’
It shot up her spine like a flare. Her lips pursed and she felt the muscles in her arms tighten, her right hand forming a fist.
Lancaster walked away.
Let it go .
‘Sheriff?’
Lancaster glanced at her from the doorway.
‘Make sure you sign out before you leave.’
‘Of course. Anything else, doctor?’ His eyes flickered with amusement.
‘Yeah,’ Darby said. ‘Speak to me like that again and you’ll be taking your next meal through a feeding tube.’
14
Sally Kelly lived with six cats. An 8 × 10 photograph of each one was set in an expensive-looking matted frame, all of which were proudly displayed on her mantelpiece. Each photo had been taken on a Christmas-tree skirt, a small gold bell affixed either to a red or a green bow tied around the animal’s neck.
‘Lissie’s no longer with us,’ Kelly said, and pointed to a Maine Coon with a pancake-shaped head and a snaggletooth. ‘I had to put her down right after the holidays. She was hell on wheels that one, and about as friendly as a cactus. But she’ll always have a special place in my heart. Let’s go into the kitchen.’
If it weren’t for the pictures, Darby wouldn’t know that five cats, let alone one, lived here. The woman ran a fastidious household. The pleasantly warm air didn’t contain a single whiff of cat litter or urine, and the living-room carpet and furniture showed no sign of any fur.
The kitchenette was also immaculate. Darby sat at a breakfast nook with a wraparound high-back bench, the table covered with a blue vinyl cloth, while Sally Kelly, a petite woman with hair so shockingly white it seemed to glow, shuffled about the kitchen, making a fuss of making tea, even though Darby had declined the woman’s offer.
Maybe she just needs to keep busy , Darby thought, herballpoint poised over her notebook. David Downes’s 53-year-old secretary was clearly still in
The skin tightened around his eyes.
Dial it down. This isn’t your zip code .
‘I need you to leave,’ Darby said. ‘Now.’
Lancaster made a clicking sound in his throat. ‘You don’t have any authority here.’
‘Neither do you. Time for you to leave, chief.’
Darby saw the beginnings of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, and it reminded her of the neighbour who had lived across the street from the house where she grew up – a widower named Stan Perry who had always watched his property with a vigilante’s energy and enthusiasm. Once a neighbourhood boy who suffered from some form of mental disability had lost control of his dog, a hyperactive black Labrador, which had sprinted across Perry’s lawn and got into his newly planted hydrangeas. The dog was in the process of relieving itself when the boy caught up with it and grabbed its leash.
Perry had darted out of the house, his cheeks and neck the colour of a fire hydrant. But he didn’t scream or yell. Instead, he leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees, and spoke rapidly to the boy. Darby couldn’t hear the exchange – she watched from her living-room window – but the boy left in tears, and what she remembered was the way Perry had smiled at having found an outlet for the cruelty that lived inside his heart.
Lancaster, though, seemed a bit slicker – the kind of man who never spoke in anger and nursed his hatred and cruelty in private, at home or at a bar, sipping a drink whilehe plotted ways to leave his mark on those who got in his way or denied his wishes. He looked at her with a smug complacency.
‘Well,’ he said, a smile playing on his lips, ‘far be it from me to argue with a woman so full of passion .’ He slid the pen back inside his breast pocket. ‘By the way: if you want to address your menopausal anger and mood swings, I’ve got the name of a doctor who will be more than happy to prescribe something.’
It shot up her spine like a flare. Her lips pursed and she felt the muscles in her arms tighten, her right hand forming a fist.
Lancaster walked away.
Let it go .
‘Sheriff?’
Lancaster glanced at her from the doorway.
‘Make sure you sign out before you leave.’
‘Of course. Anything else, doctor?’ His eyes flickered with amusement.
‘Yeah,’ Darby said. ‘Speak to me like that again and you’ll be taking your next meal through a feeding tube.’
14
Sally Kelly lived with six cats. An 8 × 10 photograph of each one was set in an expensive-looking matted frame, all of which were proudly displayed on her mantelpiece. Each photo had been taken on a Christmas-tree skirt, a small gold bell affixed either to a red or a green bow tied around the animal’s neck.
‘Lissie’s no longer with us,’ Kelly said, and pointed to a Maine Coon with a pancake-shaped head and a snaggletooth. ‘I had to put her down right after the holidays. She was hell on wheels that one, and about as friendly as a cactus. But she’ll always have a special place in my heart. Let’s go into the kitchen.’
If it weren’t for the pictures, Darby wouldn’t know that five cats, let alone one, lived here. The woman ran a fastidious household. The pleasantly warm air didn’t contain a single whiff of cat litter or urine, and the living-room carpet and furniture showed no sign of any fur.
The kitchenette was also immaculate. Darby sat at a breakfast nook with a wraparound high-back bench, the table covered with a blue vinyl cloth, while Sally Kelly, a petite woman with hair so shockingly white it seemed to glow, shuffled about the kitchen, making a fuss of making tea, even though Darby had declined the woman’s offer.
Maybe she just needs to keep busy , Darby thought, herballpoint poised over her notebook. David Downes’s 53-year-old secretary was clearly still in
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