The Good Lie by A.R. Torre

CHAPTER 29

I couldn’t get the dead boys out of my mind. Pushing the grocery cart, I moved past a display of strawberries and tried not to compare the bright-red hue of the fruit with the crime scene photos of the bloodied flesh.

I had seen plenty of evil in my life, had studied countless individuals who killed without reason or intent, but these deaths were sticking to me with a clawlike intensity. These deaths weren’t random. The careful and consistent structure of kills . . . the ramp-up. Even Scott Harden’s escape . . . it all meant something.

I paused at the meat counter and picked up a package of chicken thighs and a rack of lamb. Pushing forward, I almost bumped my cart into the woman in front of me. She turned, and I gave an apologetic smile, then started in recognition.

“Lela! Hello.”

Her eyes lit up. “Dr. Moore,” she purred. “How are you?”

“I’m good.” I pushed my cart out of the main aisle. “I’m sorry about rescheduling our appointment next week. I’ve got a court case I have to prep for.”

She waved off the apology. “Does it have anything to do with the BH Killer? I saw that handsome attorney at your office last week. The one on the news, whose son died.”

“No, it’s about something unrelated.” Just what I needed—Lela Grant blabbing all over town about Robert.

“You know, my daughter is at Beverly High. She knows Scott Harden, almost went on a date with him once!” She beamed, like it would be wonderful if her daughter could have been connected with a boy who was kidnapped, tortured, and almost died.

I picked up a glass bottle of almonds that I didn’t need and looked for a way to exit the conversation. “How are things at home?”

“Oh, they’re okay.” A younger version of her came around the corner and tossed a family-size box of marshmallow cereal in the end of her cart. “Maggie, can you say hi to Dr. Moore?”

The teenager examined my red ballet slippers with a sneer. “Can I say hi? Of course I can.”

I ignored her entirely.

“Maggie,” Lela pleaded, and I wondered if her inability to control her child was one of the reasons she manifested violent fantasies about her sister-in-law, a woman who seemed to have flawless control over her life.

The teenager pushed her hair out of her eyes, and I saw the scars on the insides of her arms. Old and new. Crisscrosses of pain and depression. My eyes met Lela’s.

“Maggie, will you grab us some ice cream?” she suggested brightly. “Whatever flavor you want.”

The girl turned without responding and slunk down the aisle.

I waited until she was out of sight, then spoke. “How long has she been cutting herself?”

She sighed. “About two months. I try and keep up with Neosporin, but as soon as the wounds heal, she opens them up again.”

Something about the statement snagged in my brain. What was it? I nodded politely as I tried to chase it down. “Have you taken her to see anyone?”

“It’s just teenage heartbreak. You know, boys.” She dismissed the cuttings with a shrug. “But, yeah—we’re taking her to Dr. Febber at the Banyon Clinic. They specialize in teenagers. In fact, you’ll never guess who we once saw there.” She leaned in closer, and her wheels squeaked.

“Please don’t tell me.” I forced a polite smile. “Patient confidentiality is one of our pet peeves as doctors. Especially in mental health areas.”

Her face fell in disappointment. “Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

“Anyway, I’ll see you week after next? Back on our normal schedule?”

“Uh-huh,” she said listlessly. “Sure.”

Lela turned her cart around and lifted her hand in parting. I echoed the action. Poor Maggie. I’d had six sessions with Lela, and she’d never mentioned her daughter’s struggles.

I turned down the dairy aisle and picked up a gallon of milk, then a box of salted butter. What was it about our conversation that had jabbed at me? I moved back through it in my head.

Her daughter . . . Beverly High . . . Scott . . .

I stopped at the chilled wines and picked up a bottle of sauvignon blanc. I wedged it into an open space beside the milk and pushed the cart forward. Ahead of me, the line at the pharmacy thinned, and I quickened my pace, hoping to get in while there wasn’t a wait. I was coming down with something and needed to get a nasal spray before it got too bad.

I parked my cart, grabbed my purse, and stood in line. Maybe I shouldn’t have rushed the conversation with Lela, especially since I wasn’t meeting with her this week. The line inched up, and I made a mental note to continue our conversation about her daughter in future sessions.

Bored, I studied an end display of bandages, antibiotic creams, and other first-aid supplies.

I try and keep up with Neosporin, but as soon as the wounds heal, she opens them up again.

Was that what had stuck in my mind? If so, why? I closed my eyes, focusing on the image of Lela putting Neosporin on Maggie’s cuts. While it was an interesting visual, my mind stubbornly refused to cooperate. Behind me, someone cleared their throat. I opened my eyes and stepped forward.

Neosporin . . . Neosporin . . . Wounds heal.

The images from the BH files snapped into view. Close-ups of wounds. Cigarette burns. Cuts. Some healed, others fresh. I undid the top clasp of my purse and pulled out my phone. Checking the time on it, I called the office and hoped Jacob was still there.

His calm greeting brought a smile to my face.

“Jacob, it’s Gwen. Can you go in my office? I need you to take a picture of something.”

I waited as he found his keys and unlocked my office. Giving him directions, I led him to the area of the wall where I had pinned photos of all the wounds.

He made a noise of discomfort.

“I know, they’re gory. Can you take pictures of the entire section? Close enough so I can zoom in on the photos, please.”

“All of them?”

“Yes, you can get three or four in each photo.”

“Okay. I’ll text them to you.”

“Thank you. Please be sure to lock the door when you’re done.”

I ended the call and moved up, now only second in line. I was swiping my credit card and accepting the nasal spray when my phone began to buzz with incoming texts. Returning to my cart, I opened the group of images and began to scroll through them.

It was a good thing I hadn’t eaten. The photos were a horror show of pain, the worst being the penectomy close-ups. I swiped quickly through those and zoomed in when I found the image that had jogged my memory.

It was a neat line of cigarette burns down the center of a back. Unremarkable, except for the sheen that covered them. Almost like a snail had traveled across the wounds. It was ointment or aloe vera, and applied on an area that the victim could never have reached himself.

The BH Killer was doctoring them. Hurting them, then patching them back up. Why? Remorse? Guilt? Or was it something else, something deeper?

I looked up from my phone and thought through the implications of this. This was wrong—in complete conflict with the psychological profile I had created. An organized control-oriented killer didn’t provide first aid, not unless it was to keep his victim alive for a specific purpose. These wounds weren’t life threatening, so they didn’t require first aid. This was almost . . . I thought of Meredith, her question of aftercare. Yes. This was potentially aftercare, which, again, didn’t match my profile. While there were no absolutes in human psychology, there were patterns, and this would be breaking every pattern of human behavior.

I stuffed my phone in my bag and gripped the handles of the cart, spinning it to the left and heading toward the checkout, skipping the rest of my shopping list as I beelined for the shortest queue.

I had known that something was off. Maybe this was the key to figuring out what that was.