“How would she know what ricin is, much less how to use it?”
“Kid’s smart. Smart enough to listen, observe, and check the web.”
“And the paralytic used on Williams. How’d she get her hands on it?”
“She volunteers, some organization called From the Kids. You know what they do?” She tapped the copy of Rayleen’s busy schedule. “They visit pediatric wards, geriatric wards, spend time with the sick and infirm to brighten their day. I bet she could get whatever the hell she wanted. Who’s going to look at some sweet, socially conscious little girl? I need to find her diary.”
“You’re sure she has one?”
“That was a little mistake she made right off, mentioning her diary to me when she was pulling the spotlight on herself. Cued in to that from the get,” Eve told him. “All those I’s. I saw, I found, I think, I know. But I didn’t see, not clearly enough.”
Her mouth firmed. “Well, neither did she. How could she know I’d go poking around in her personal space? It’ll be in her diary—all of it. Who can pat her on the back but herself? The only way to do that is to write it down. She got it out of the house before we searched it.”
She circled the board again, picking out details, separating them, mixing them together again. “Plenty of time to get it out of the house while her daddy flexed his lawyer muscles. Hell, maybe she destroyed it. She’s smart enough to have done that, cover herself. Maybe I just have to prove, for now, that she had a diary.”
“You’re cool about this,” Roarke commented.
“I have to be. I let it slip by, again and again. I didn’t want to look there. Jesus, who would? I didn’t want to look at that kid with her pretty curls and see a murderer. But I did. I do. If I’m going to get justice for the dead, I have to have every detail and tie them up with a bow. Nobody’s going to want to hang multiple premeditated murders on a sweet-faced school girl.”
“If you’re right…what if there are more?”
Letting out a breath, Eve switched displays on screen manually, brought up Rayleen’s ID photo. “Yeah, that’s gone through my head, and stuck in my gut. What if there are more? Sick kids, sick elderly. Did she put one down? She’s got activities scheduled all over hell and back. How many people does she intersect with every day, every week, month, and so on? Was there another accident, another death, another unsolved murder? Going to find out eventually.”
“She must be very, very sick.”
“I don’t know what she is, but I know I’m going to do everything I know how to do so she pays for what she’s done.” She saw his face, felt her muscles tighten. “You think I should feel sorry for her?”
“I can’t say, that’s God’s truth. I’m not sure what to think, but the fact is you believe, and you’ve crafted a very convincing argument that this child has committed cold-blooded murder.”
He stepped up to her triangle again, her family gallery. “Let me argue back. Have you considered that one or both of her parents killed, that somehow she knows. That this is what you sense in her.”
“We’ll keep it on the table.”
“Eve.” He turned to her, his intense eyes in contrast to his gentle hand as he touched her hair. “I need to ask. Is there something in you that wants it to be her?”
“No. No. There’s something in me that doesn’t want it to be her. So I let it slip by, I didn’t look close enough. Then today, standing with her in that perfect little girl’s room, I couldn’t not look. I couldn’t not see. I’m not going to feel sorry for her, Roarke. But I can feel sick about it.”
“All right, then.” He rested his brow on hers. “All right. What can I do?”
“Can you think like a homicidal ten-year-old girl?”
“It’s not in my usual repertoire, but I can give it a try.”
“If you kept a diary, and didn’t destroy it, and were smart enough to know you had to get it out of the house, where would you put it?”
She turned away, paced around the board once more. “She’s got dance class, probably has a locker of some kind there, or she could have a hidey-hole at one of the wards she visits. The school’s too risky, she wouldn’t be that careless. Maybe—”
“Who’s her closest mate?”
“Her what? I figure her for a killer, but I don’t think she’s already having sex.”
“Friend, Eve. Her best friend.”
“Oh.” Eve narrowed her eyes. “I’d vote for Melodie Branch. That’s the kid who was with her when they found Foster. She has regularly scheduled socialization dates with her. That’s a strong maybe. I’m going to tag Peabody for some OT. We’ll pay a visit to Melodie tomorrow, and to Allika. I need to talk to Mira.”
“Eve, it’s nearly eleven at night.”
“So? Shit,” she muttered when he only sent her a mild stare. “Okay, I’ll save that for the morning. Better, probably. It’ll give me time to write this all up, set it up, lay it out. I’m going to need a lot of muscle—mine, hers, Whitney’s—to pull the kid in for a formal interview.”