The Whisper Man

“Daddy did find him.”

“Yes,” Pete said. “But that’s not information that’s been released to the people out there. As far as they’re concerned, the two of you are not really part of the story. That’s the best way to keep it for now, I think.”

“Okay.” Jake sounded disappointed. “Can I look around and see what they’ve done?”

“Of course.”

He disappeared upstairs. Pete and I waited by the front door.

“I meant what I said,” he told me after a moment. “You don’t need to worry. The media won’t want to prejudice any trial. I can’t stop you from talking to them, obviously, but all they know is the remains were found here, so I don’t think they’ll be that interested in you. And they’ll be very careful around Jake.”

I nodded, feeling sick. That might be all the media officially knew, but I’d told Karen so much yesterday that it was hard to keep track of it all. She knew about the nighttime visitor attempting to abduct Jake. The fact that it was me who had found the body. That Pete was my father—my abusive father. And I was quite sure I’d said things I couldn’t even remember right now.

I’m good at finding things out.

At the time, it had just been a conversation with a friend; I hadn’t realized I was spilling everything to a fucking reporter. And it hurt. She should have told me. It had felt like she’d been genuinely interested in me, but now I wasn’t so sure about that. On the one hand, there was no way she could have known in the beginning that I was connected to the case. But on the other, at no point in our conversation had she suggested that she really wasn’t the person I should be telling everything to.

My father frowned.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

But I would have to check the damage from that conversation later. In the meantime, there was no way I was going to tell my father about it.

“Are we safe here?” I said.

“Yes. Norman Collins isn’t going to be released anytime soon, and even if he was, there’s nothing of interest to him here anymore. Not for any of the others either.”

“Others?”

He hesitated.

“People have always been interested in this house. Collins told me it was the neighborhood scary house. Kids would dare each other to come near it. Take photographs and things.”

“The scary house. I’m tired of hearing about that.”

“That’s just kid stuff anyway,” Pete said. “Tony Smith’s remains are gone. That was all Collins was ever interested in. Not you or Jake.”

Not me or Jake. But I kept thinking back to seeing Jake at the bottom of the stairs that night, with the man talking to him through the mail slot. I couldn’t remember the exact words I’d heard, but I could recall enough to know he’d been trying to persuade Jake to open the door, and I wasn’t convinced it had only been the keys to the garage he was interested in.

“What about Neil Spencer?” I said. “Has Collins been charged with his murder?”

“No. But we have a number of suspects now. We’re closing in. And believe me, I wouldn’t let you both come back if I didn’t think it was safe.”

“You couldn’t stop me.”

“No.” He looked away. “I’d certainly argue the case, though, especially with Jake living here. Neil Spencer’s abduction was opportunistic; he was out walking alone. This isn’t a man who wants attention. You should obviously keep an eye on Jake, but there’s no reason to think either of you are in any danger.”

Did he sound convinced? I wasn’t sure, but it was difficult to read him today. He looked exhausted. When I’d first seen him it had been obvious he was in good physical shape, but today he really looked his age.

“You look tired,” I said.

He nodded.

“I am tired. And I have to do something that I’m not looking forward to.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said simply. “What matters is that it has to be done.”

This whole case must have taken a toll on him, I realized, and that was apparent in his whole demeanor right now. What matters is that it has to be done. Before me now, I saw a man weighed down by so much, struggling to cope with the load. He looked like I often felt.

“My mother,” I said suddenly.

He looked back at me and waited, not asking the question.

“She died,” I said.

“You told me that.”

“You said you wanted to know what happened. She had a difficult life, but she was a good person. I couldn’t have asked for a better parent. It was cancer. She didn’t deserve what happened to her, but she didn’t suffer for long either. It happened very quickly.”

That was a lie—my mother’s death had been prolonged and painful—and I had no idea why I was telling it this way. There was no duty incumbent on me to make Pete feel better, or to ease any pain or guilt he felt. And yet a part of me was still pleased to see the weight on him lift a little.

“When?”

“Five years ago.”

“So she got to meet Jake?”

“Yes. He doesn’t remember her. But yes.”

“Well. I’m glad about that, at least.”

There was a moment of silence. And then Jake came downstairs, and we both turned slightly away from each other at the same time, as though some tension between us had snapped.

“It’s exactly the same, Daddy.”

Jake sounded almost suspicious.

“We do a good job of searching through things carefully,” Pete said. “And cleaning up after ourselves afterward.”

“Admirable,” Jake said. He turned and walked back into the living room.

Pete shook his head. “He’s a character, that one.”

“Yes. He is that.”

“I’ll be in touch about any developments.” He handed me a card. “But in the meantime, if you need anything—and I mean anything at all—my details are there.”

“Thank you.”

I watched my father walk off down the driveway, head bowed slightly, and turned the card around in my hand. As he got into his car, I looked past him at the reporters gathered beyond it. Most of them had left now. I scanned the faces that remained, looking for Karen.

But she was gone.

Forty-two

This is the last time, Pete told himself. Remember that.

The thought was something to cling to while he sat in the bright white interview room at the prison, waiting for the monster to arrive. He had been here so many times over the years, and each occasion had left him shaken. But after today, there would be no reason for him ever to return. Tony Smith—always the focus of these visits in the past—had been found, and if Frank Carter refused to talk about the man they were looking for now, Pete had already made the decision that he would walk out of this room and not look back. And he’d never have to suffer the crawling aftermath of being in Carter’s presence again.

This is the last time.

The thought helped, but only a little. The air in the silent room felt full of anticipation and threat, the locked door on the far side throbbing with menace. Because Carter must also know this was likely to be their last meeting, and Pete was sure he would be determined to make it count. Until now the fear of these encounters had always been mental and emotional. He had never been physically afraid before. But right now he was glad for the width of the desk dividing the room and the strength of the shackles the man would be wearing. He even wondered if, subconsciously, all those hours in the gym had been spent preparing himself in case a moment like that ever happened.