Influenced by Eva Robinson (best free ebook reader TXT) 📗

ready to divulge everything. “Well, Luke asked me on a date a year ago, and I said no, like an idiot. Because I thought he was just doing it to be nice, and I looked and felt like crap. And now I think he’s dating someone else, and I’m imagining she’s perfect.”

“Are you in love with the father of your child? This is scandalous.”

“We were always just friends except for that one-night stand. But my feelings changed since he asked me if I could look after Nora tomorrow. And the jealousy is making me nuts. I keep imagining whoever he’s dating is basically a goddess, and I keep trying to find her on social media. Does that seem stupid and neurotic?”

Rowan leaned over the counter, her stare intense. “Oh, believe me, I know what that’s like. I know exactly what that’s like. I’ve created an entire imaginary vegan Stepford girlfriend for my ex.” She downed the rest of her cocktail. “If he doesn’t see how amazing you are already then he’s an idiot. Here’s what I’ve learned by the age of twenty-eight—and I need to remember this, too: we’re always imagining that these men are so fascinating and deep, that when they’re not responding to our calls, they’re contemplating the mysteries of the universe and falling in love with the perfect woman and composing poetry to her. I think we might give them more depth than they often have. Do you know what most men are actually doing in their free time?”

“What?”

“Playing video games and watching porn. Even my ex who everyone thinks is a genius—he’s mostly playing video games and watching porn, probably. When he’s not looking at sheep. The only difference is that he plays video games in the countryside with expensive beer and watches tasteful porn. The real perfect lovers are only in our minds. And you could do better than this guy of yours, I’m sure. Whoever he is. What does he do anyway?”

“Psychology professor. Kind of a genius. He’s writing a book with Theo Leigh called An Evil Mind, about the psychology of evil.”

“Theo Leigh. Was he the guy on Oprah?”

“Yep. He is extremely proud of that. And I think Luke is secretly hoping they’ll be on Oprah again with An Evil Mind, though he pretends like he doesn’t care.”

Rowan narrowed her eyes and took a sip of her cocktail. She seemed to be considering this bit of information, weighing up what to say next. “Hmm. Luke, you said?”

“Yes, why?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.” She drained her cocktail, then lifted the empty glass. “And what is their philosophy of evil, anyway?”

“Their book is about how anyone—even normal people—can become complete monsters given the right conditions. If they’re given too much power, for example, they can end up torturing people in prison. Or if they’re obeying authority figures, they can slip from moral into immoral easily, and they don’t feel the weight of responsibility. Any one of us could turn evil in the right circumstances.”

Rowan stared at her, seeming to go very still. “Oh, I have no doubt about that. Any of us could be monsters.”

Nineteen

Ciara turned down the music—a Franz Ferdinand song, “Take Me Out.” This had been her sister Jess’s favorite when they were in high school, and she’d played it on repeat. The old, dull ache spread through Ciara’s chest.

Because Jess never got to hear the music that came after 2004.

Once, this song meant bouncing around their shared bedroom, screaming the lyrics, thrusting their hips to the music. But now this song made her think of Jess, lying in the grass of Ye Olde Burial Ground, a gun in her hand and blood pooling around the old stones. It made Ciara think of all the people buried in that same cemetery, the lives cut short. The generations of people, one after another, who wept over the dead. The row of gravestones for six children from one family, all dead of smallpox in the same month. How much sadness could one patch of land take?

When she thought of the burying ground, the weight of the sadness pressed against her chest like a hag stealing her breath. It was hard to think straight.

When she stopped at a light, she changed the music on her phone. Meute again—a thumping drum, marimba, saxophone… “You can do this. You’re Ciara Munroe.”

She turned it up louder, and the music transported her back to the present.

Only then could she get her mind out of the past to think about the case again.

She really wanted to know what had happened to Arabella’s laptop.

They’d interviewed Adam repeatedly, bringing him into the station for the past two days. But either he was telling the truth, or his story was remarkably consistent. Ciara was growing frustrated with their progress. And when she couldn’t work something out, her mind got stuck on things, turning them over and over again.

The light turned green and she started driving on Mass Avenue. Warm lights beamed from inside the restaurants and bars that lined the wide road.

When she got back to the office, she’d watch the security footage again. And then again, and again, until she found something. Because someone stole Arabella’s laptop from her office, and that person had walked right past the camera in the lobby of the psychology building.

She rounded the corner onto Holyoke. At one point, this would have been Crooked Lane leading to Cow Yard Lane. “Crooked Lane” had to be one of the best names, because it came from a time before the world had straight lines and rational thought, before anyone understood planning, when meandering cows dictated a city’s layout. It came from a time when the men who made gravestones thought it was a good idea to engrave ministers’ heads with strange, drooping breasts for reasons no longer remembered.

But things had changed since then. In those old, irrational days, hallucinations and witch’s marks could close a criminal case. Now they had DNA, toxicology reports, and digitized security videos.

Whoever killed Arabella