“No shit?” Bolton’s expression vacillated between amusement and concern.
“I know,” said Mercy. “We’re not happy about it. She’d agreed to an interview this morning and we trusted she’d show up. Her concern about her daughter made us all believe that she wouldn’t have left Morrigan in such a horrible situation. We were suckered.”
“That means she could have been here today,” Bolton said softly.
His first instinct was to defend Salome, but Truman knew Bolton was right. “Three victims make a serial killer. Is this the third?”
“Actually the FBI recently defined it as two, but we aren’t positive the same person killed Judge Lake and Olivia,” Mercy pointed out. “Murray could be totally unrelated. Let’s not get the media believing we’ve got a serial killer in the area.”
“The first two similar death scenes can’t be ignored,” Truman argued. “I agree the method of murder used on Murray appears a bit different, but that fancy knife sticking out of his neck makes me think it’s at least related to Olivia Sabin’s.”
Mercy watched a uniform going from door to door, asking if residents had heard or seen anything unusual. “You’d think in an apartment building where the walls are this thin, someone would have heard something. I can’t believe Rob Murray died silently. I hear plenty of racket from my neighbors, and my building has pretty thick walls, but there are some things you can’t tune out.”
Like the screams of death?
“Another reason I want to move out of there,” she added.
Truman froze, wondering if she’d bring up her new real estate hunt. Instead she said good-bye to Bolton, and Truman followed her down the stairs. Why hasn’t she talked to me about it?
A heaviness weighed him down, and his steps slowed.
Maybe Mercy didn’t see them living together in the future. Or she could be overprotective of Kaylie, not wanting to set an example by shacking up with her boyfriend. But wouldn’t she have told me?
He shoved the paranoid thoughts out of his head. He liked what he had with Mercy. She made him smile and look forward to getting out of bed each day. He’d been focused on his job to the exclusion of everything else during the six months before she came to town. Now the world looked and felt different to him. He liked it.
She stopped at her vehicle as her phone rang. “It’s my mother.” Her forehead wrinkled. “We had coffee recently, I don’t know why she’d be calling.”
Her relationship with her mother wasn’t as close as she wanted, and Truman knew Mercy kept trying. But she didn’t want to come between her father and mother. Right now her mother’s first loyalty was to her husband, and he didn’t want Mercy in their lives.
“Mom?” she said into the phone. As she listened, her forehead wrinkled even more and her lips parted. “She did what? What did Dad say to her?”
Truman waited.
“Jesus H. Christ. Are you sure I should come?” Mercy met Truman’s gaze and slowly shook her head, rolling her eyes.
Not too serious.
She hung up. “Dad is upsetting Rose. Something to do with the cradle that was delivered. Mom thinks I can calm her down.”
“Rose upset? That doesn’t sound right. She’s the calm one in your family.”
“Exactly. If something set her off, it must be pretty rough. I’m headed over there.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Truman stated.
NINETEEN
Her father opened the door, and Mercy took a step back.
He had never been one to show emotion, but she immediately knew he was frustrated and possibly angry. “Your mother wants to see you,” he stated.
Your mother. Not me.
His gaze shifted to Truman, and he gave the police chief a polite nod as he gestured for them to enter. In the living room Mercy spotted the beautiful cradle from Nick Walker.
“That’s amazing,” said Truman. “Walker made that?”
Mercy had given him a brief account of her visit to the lumberyard. “He did an incredible job.”
Truman ran a hand along the polished wood. “This would cost a fortune in a store.”
Mercy agreed, wondering where her mother and Rose were. A door closed upstairs and she recognized her mother’s footsteps on the hardwood stairs. Deborah Kilpatrick’s eyes were red and her lashes damp. She gave Mercy a brief hug and greeted Truman.
“What happened?” Mercy asked. “Where’s Rose?”
“In her room,” her mother said, with a glance at her husband, who stood stiffly out of the way. “I think we pushed too hard.”
Mercy didn’t buy that, knowing it was her father who had pushed too hard. “Is this about the baby again? You know you can’t force Rose to settle down in a house with a white picket fence with a man she barely knows just because you think the baby needs a father. I thought we’d settled that.”
“Nick Walker has intentions,” her father stated.
What an old-fashioned term.
“We could see it when he dropped off the cradle,” her mother clarified. “It was clear he’s soft on Rose. Of course, she can’t see it, and when we told her—”
“You told Rose that Nick is interested in her? You thought she didn’t know that?”
“He’d make a good husband,” Karl Kilpatrick intoned. “Solid. Stable. A good provider. She can’t do any better.”
Does he think that little of Rose? Mercy fought to find her voice. “Did you tell her she can’t do any better?”
Her parents were silent.
Poor Rose. Do they believe she’s incapable of finding love?
“Did you embarrass her before or after Nick left?” Mercy fumed.
Her mother put a hand on Mercy’s arm. “She didn’t get upset until Nick left,” she clarified. “Karl and I received the exact same impression when he was here, and we believe he’d be a good man for her. The way he looks at Rose can’t be denied . . . and the fact that he made her a cradle shows he’s accepting of her child.”
Do they think her baby is undesirable? “Any decent man will accept Rose’s baby. Don’t tell me you told her that too.”
Her parents exchanged a look.
“Dammit! Could you have torn her down any more? I suppose you suggested a spring wedding?”
“They just need to go before a judge—” her father started.
“Stop talking!” Mercy held up a hand. “Rose decides who’ll she marry and when she’ll get married. If she wants to get married. No one else. Where is she?”
Deborah pointed up the stairs, and Mercy concentrated on not stomping as she went up the steps. She knocked on the door to the bedroom she’d once shared with Rose and Pearl. “It’s Mercy.”
After a few silent seconds the door opened, and Mercy saw her father’s temper in Rose’s expression. Her beautiful sister was livid.
“They’re crazy,” she told Mercy. “When is this going to end? At least Owen doesn’t pester me about finding a father for my child anymore, but Dad hasn’t given up. They think no one could ever want me!”
“What happened?”
Rose moved to sit on the bed and Mercy followed, sitting beside her. The bunk beds from her youth were gone, replaced by one double bed. A desk sat under the window, piled with several Braille books, and more filled a small bookshelf. Mercy knew Rose often listened to audiobooks, but she’d said she preferred to read on her own. The room was a pale, icy green. The walls were empty of paintings or pictures, but several stuffed animals looked at home on the bed.