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how hard he tried to avoid it. The only things that were any use in stopping the runaway train of his internal commentary were video games. He played until his thumbs felt tender and raw.
    That discomfort was bearable but the more his thumbs hurt, the worse his performance. The resulting frustration destroyed his ability to concentrate and, thus, block out unwanted thoughts.
    He tried to read but the words swam before his eyes and he couldn’t grasp their meaning or sequence. His brain teaser book eluded him, too. Numbers and patterns shifted before he could focus in on them and draw conclusions. Then, he remembered that his mom always said, “When something’s bothering you, Freddy, it helps to talk to somebody about it.”
    That memory nearly made him cry out in pain. Instead, he swallowed hard, took his mother’s advice and sought out his grandmother. She was all smiles and tried to make him laugh. When he pressed for serious conversation, she said, “Grief is a personal matter, Frederick . We do not inflict it upon others. It is not seemly. We grieve in private.”
    She inhaled sharply then got all jokey again, making Freddy feel as if she didn’t care that his mother was dead. He knew that wasn’t true, though. He’d heard the stifled sobs and sniffles coming from the other side of her closed bedroom door.
    He didn’t know how he could contain the pain of losing his mother. He wanted to run into the street and scream his anguish to the world – to beat on neighbors’ doors and drag them outside to weep and wail at his side. Instead he stuffed it down, causing his stomach to ache and making his chest tighten until he felt it would explode.
    Maybe if he was haunted by bereavement alone, it would be easier to bear but beneath his sorrow ran a riptide of fear. Back at his house, he wanted to tell the officers to get the talismans from under his pillow. He needed them for protection against his father and the evil forces at his beck and call. He’d been too ashamed of his fear to ask. He had nothing but his mind and his hands to stave off whatever darkness lumbered his way.
    At times of total clarity, his terror lifted and logic took charge. Skepticism rose to the surface bringing with it doubt of the protective powers of garlic, a silver cross and a voodoo doll. Still, he clung to them in the maelstrom of emotions that pulled him away and pushed him toward his father.
    What if my grandmother is wrong? he wondered. He’d seen Jason’s genealogy charts. He’d followed all of his research. He knew all the tales of death and disappearance stretching back hundreds of years. But what if it is all built on a faulty premise? What if that lieutenant is right? What if my dad is dead, too?
    He couldn’t accept it. It was just too much. He’d felt estranged from his father since Grandmother told him about his history but no matter how hard he shoved his father away, Dad kept trying to get close to him again. One evening, after he’d been particularly cold and distant to his father, he’d overheard his mother say, “Parker, just give it some time. Freddy’s going through a stage, that’s all.”
    Although Freddy tried to deny it, throughout this turmoil, he still loved his dad and it pained him not to collapse in the strength and warmth of his arms. His heart wanted to believe his father was a good man – he really wanted that to be true. But if he was, that meant his dad must be dead.
    Freddy believed he was failing the first real intellectual test of his life but was incapable of turning it around. His reason told him one thing, his grandmother another. He had to believe her. He had to believe his father was evil – that was all that kept his dad alive.

Thirteen
     
    Lucinda was descending the stairs in the foyer when the doorbell rang. She hadn’t removed the crime scene tape when she arrived at the house – she just ducked under it. Now, someone else had done the same.
    She approached the entryway and looked