Page 15 of Killer Clone

Stacy dropped onto one end of the sofa. Stella took the other.

She’d done the album search too. Her father’s precinct in Memphis had a picture of him in his uniform. His sergeant stripes gleamed on his arm. Stella hadn’t loved the photo. His smile had been cooler and stiffer than the warm grins he always displayed at home, but he’d looked handsome, professional.

Finding a picture of her brother had been harder. He’d been so skinny at the end. They’d had to go back almost a year to find one that showed him at his best, before the ravages of the disease took him. They’d chosen a full body shot of him standing at a science fair, admiring the rocket he’d made.

Stella took out her notebook, forcing her mind from the past. “Tell us about Patrick. Did he have many friends? Did he mention anyone who was giving him trouble?”

Meghan took the photo from her daughter and put it back in its place. She turned the page. “No, nothing like that. Patrick was…he was a quiet kid. He didn’t make friends very easily. Most of the time, he was in his room, reading or doing something on his computer.”

“Playing video games on his computer?” Stacy had her own notebook open. “Do you know if he played by himself or online?”

Patrick’s father sat in the armchair at the other end of the room. It was his place, his throne. He looked like a king who’d lost his kingdom. “No, he never played video games. I’m not sure what he did on his computer. Browsed the web? Mostly, he was a reader. History books, usually. He got that from me. We were always swapping books about World War II and ancient civilizations and stuff.”

His daughter lifted her gaze from the photos. Stella was sure at any other time a mention of history would’ve produced a roll of her eyes. “You binged on the History Channel.”

“I wouldn’t say we binge-watched it.”

Tears filled Natalie’s eyes. “Dad, you and Patrick could sit there for four hours watching some show about Aztec empires or some crap.”

Andrew gave his daughter a weak smile. Those television sessions wouldn’t come again either.

Stella made a note. “History, huh? That’s what he was studying at college, correct?”

Andrew nodded.

She underlined the note. Their last case had hung on a former history teacher. But Maureen King had been a killer, not a victim, and if everyone who read books on the world wars or watched the History Channel was a suspect, they’d have to perform a lot of interviews.

David Broad had mentioned Maureen King’s job in his reports too. He’d thought a “killer teacher” would draw audiences in, and he hadn’t been wrong.

Natalie pulled a picture out of the album. “Hey, how about this one? He looks good here.”

Her mother snatched the photo and jammed it back into its place. “Don’t be silly. It’s the wrong side. Shows all his scars. We can find better pictures than that.”

Stacy tapped her notebook with the tip of her pen. “The scars look older. They’re fully healed. How did he get them?”

Meghan was in the middle of turning a page and stopped. For a second, she sat there without moving, then she shoved the photo album into Natalie’s lap and ran, sobbing, toward the kitchen.

Andrew watched her go before following. Meghan’s cries rang out, though, despite being muffled by her husband’s chest.

Natalie cradled the album in her lap. She looked from the kitchen to Stacy. Her cheeks reddened.

Stacy shifted in her seat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to?—”

“It’s not your fault. She’s been like this since…you know. The scars? They happened when Patrick was small, about five years old. Mom was about to deep-fry some drumsticks, and he reached for the handle of the pot. The boiling oil went over the left side of his face and down his back.”

Stella winced. “That sounds terrible.”

“Yeah, it was. Had a ton of operations. Mom blamed herself, for the accident and for everything that followed, though it wasn’t her fault. Just one of those things, really.”

“Everything that followed?”

Natalie toyed with the corner of the photo album. “Patrick…he wasn’t a happy kid. He was bullied all the way through school. Because of the scars. Kids suck. At some point, I think he just gave up. He rarely left the house and spent most of his time in his room.”

Stacy rested her elbows on her knees. She spoke quietly over the sobbing from the kitchen. “Was he looking forward to going to college?”

“Yeah. We were too. He thought…” Her eyes welled with tears. “We all thought college would bring him out. Give him a fresh start. College kids are supposed to be grown-up, so wehoped he’d make new friends. I know Mom was sure he was going to be just fine.”

“Did he make friends?”

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