* * *
SPECIAL AGENT ETHAN BARROW stood at rigid attention beside his rented SUV as he eyed the abandoned house through his Ray-Bans. His gaze traveled over the crumbling roofline and then dropped once more to the sagging porch. The place was as dark and creepy as one might imagine the lair of a ruthless predator would be. Even the sun shining down through thick curtains of Spanish moss seemed muted, casting the house in perpetual gloom.
Ever since Ethan’s return to Charleston, the news had been dominated by the gruesome discovery inside that house, managing to overshadow the upcoming anniversary of Orson Lee Finch’s incarceration and James Merrick’s subsequent confinement to the state psychiatric hospital. Twenty-five years after the fact, Orson Lee Finch remained at Kirkland Correctional Institution, housed in a specialized unit for the state’s most violent inmates. Most people thought he deserved worse. James Merrick remained a patient on the infamous fourth floor, a ward for the criminally insane. Most people thought he deserved worse.
Ethan wasn’t one of those people.
He shifted his position so that he could glimpse around the corner of the house. He heard voices over the fence, but no one approached him. That was good. He needed a few minutes to plot his strategy. Or to work up his courage. No reason in the world Adaline Kinsella should agree to hear him out after what he’d once put her through, but she was the only person he could turn to right now. The only person he trusted with the potential bombshell that had fallen into his lap.
He moved back to the other end of the SUV, killing more time. It had now been twenty-four hours since his arrival in Charleston, and he had yet to make contact with Addie. He hadn’t slept much. He’d eaten poorly, consumed too much coffee, and now he was starting to feel the strain. He’d forgotten just how hot and humid the city could be in the middle of summer. Virginia was bad enough, but coastal South Carolina was a whole new level of misery. He wasn’t dressed for the weather. He loosened his tie and tugged at the collar of his starched shirt, but he didn’t remove his jacket. The dark suit was his uniform now. Both his identity and his camouflage.
His first order of business upon landing at Charleston International Airport the day before had been to rent a vehicle and drive to Columbia to interview Orson Lee Finch. Over the years, Ethan had studied dozens, perhaps hundreds, of photos and videos of Finch, but he’d never met him in person. Face-to-face, Finch’s appearance had taken him by surprise. The Twilight Killer was a small man, pale and wiry with bright blue eyes magnified behind the thick lenses of silver-framed glasses. His grooming was fastidious—crisp khaki uniform, combed hair, clean and clipped nails. He resembled a scholar or historian. He did not look like a serial killer. Ethan couldn’t help but wonder how Finch had managed to survive for as long as he had behind bars. Maybe he was small enough and his appearance so nondescript that he’d managed to go unnoticed. Or maybe his looks were deceiving.
They’d sat on plastic chairs, eyeing each other warily through the partition until Finch had picked up the phone. A few minutes of awkward conversation had ensued while Ethan tried to get a feel for his subject. Finch had struck him as quiet and reflective, a man who’d long ago made peace with his deeds and circumstances. His placid demeanor never altered until Ethan had broached the topic of Finch’s mother. Then the blue eyes seemed to intensify behind the glasses and the corner of Finch’s mouth twitched, as if he were suppressing a painful memory.
“Your mother never married, did she?” Ethan had spoken in a conversational tone, trying to draw the man out. “That must have been tough. Children born out of wedlock were stigmatized back in your day. You were probably teased in school, maybe even bullied.”
Finch said nothing.
“Your mother worked as a housekeeper, so I imagine money was tight. Barely enough for necessities, let alone extras. You wore hand-me-down clothing from the people whose houses she cleaned, and as much as you enjoyed having those nice things, you resented where they came from, didn’t you? You were hostile to the hand that fed you.”
Finch watched him avidly through the partition.
Ethan glanced down at his notes even though he had everything memorized. “Despite your disadvantages, you were a good student. Always the brightest in your class, but your financial situation limited your prospects. A full-ride scholarship must have been the answer to all your prayers. A dream come true. You studied horticulture at a state school, right? You wanted to be a landscape architect. Then your mother became ill during your junior year, and you were forced to drop out of college to take care of her. That’s when you got your first job as a gardener. You had to go back, hat in hand, to the people who had given you their throwaway clothing.”
Finch had stared at him for the longest moment before answering. “Is this your way of establishing rapport, Special Agent Barrow? Or do you wish to impress me with the amount of homework you’ve done?”
“How’s this for homework? You have a daughter out there somewhere. No one knows her name or where she’s been since your incarceration. Some believe her mother was your first victim. Did she fit your criteria? A single mother without morals. A loose woman who valued her freedom more than her child. What happened? Did she refuse to marry you? Is that what set you off?”
Finch’s expression never changed, but something dark glinted at the back of his eyes. “After all these years and all the files you people have amassed—mountains, I’m told—no one has ever gotten it right. Not even the esteemed James Merrick.”
“Is that a denial?”
Finch studied his hand for a moment. “Merrick’s profile was flawed from the start. It was written from the cynical presumption that I harbored ill will toward my own mother. Nothing could be further from the truth. I was a happy child. We didn’t have money, but I never wanted for affection. I wasn’t starved for attention. Your psychological evaluations to the contrary, I wasn’t bitter then about my lot in life and I’m not bitter now. That must surprise you. You’re thinking, if he’s really innocent, how can he be so accepting of such a cruel injustice?”
“How do you accept it? If you really are innocent, that is.”
A smile flickered for the first time. “I could never give an explanation that would satisfy someone like you. Acceptance isn’t in your nature. A man like you will always be at war with his emotions. Tormented by what he can’t know. Unable to make peace with his past.”
Damn if the observation hadn’t been insightful and perhaps even prophetic.
After Ethan had left Orson Lee Finch, he’d driven to the state psychiatric hospital. He was no stranger to the layout of the parking area or the maze of hallways and wards. He’d visited regularly for years and was afforded certain privileges because of his position and background. He had signed in and then been escorted up to the fourth floor, where an orderly had unlocked a small room and waved Ethan inside.
James Merrick had been at the window, gazing out over the shady grounds. He hadn’t turned when Ethan entered, nor had he acknowledged Ethan’s presence in any way. That wasn’t unusual. He never gave any indication of recognizing Ethan from one visit to the next. Ethan had learned to ignore the long silences and unblinking stares, as well as the disturbing sounds that came from deep within the facility. He focused his attention instead on the patient’s journals, poring over pages and pages of painstakingly scribbled gibberish in the hope of finding the one clue that would break everything open.
He had that clue now. The last piece of the puzzle was finally within his grasp.
“I came here to tell you that new evidence has turned up in your case,” he’d said to Merrick.
The man had given no indication of comprehension, but Ethan hadn’t let the prolonged silence discourage him.
“I won’t go into the details yet. It’s early stages of the investigation. But I wanted you to know that I’m still out there looking for the truth. I never believed you were guilty. Not once in all these years.” Ethan walked over