Page 67 of Bad Mother

Malinda glanced down at them. “Under a floorboard in the closet in the first bedroom. It was pretty obviously loose, and I remembered finding evidence in a similar spot in that abandoned house we worked. We’re bagging as many things as possible in that room because it looks like the only one that was occupied. We took the bedding and—”

“Can I look through those real quick?” God, she hadn’t even thought to look in the closet for his games, even though he’d said that was where they were in his letters. Thank goodness for thorough criminalists with good memories.

“Oh... sure. Do you want me to set them on the table in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.” She followed Malinda back inside, and the criminalist used her gloved hands to open the plastic bag and remove the games, setting them on the table where, presumably—and if the gouges in the wood were any indication—Mr.Patches and Father had been sitting when they’d taken their final breaths.

This room and, from what she’d observed, the entire house, was neat and orderly. Their Danny Boy was definitely the detail-oriented perfectionist Professor Vitucci had guessed him to be.

“I’m looking for one that’s missing the dice,” she said, and Malinda nodded, setting the box of checkers, which didn’t use dice, aside and opening the top of the second in the pile, Monopoly.

“It looks like the dice are missing,” Malinda said after she’d swirled her finger through the small cup that held the player pieces. The Chance, Community Chest, and Property cards were neatly stacked in their respective holders.

Kat came up beside her. “Did you find something?”

“I don’t know,” Sienna said. “But this one is missing the dice.”

“The dice in Harry Lockheed’s pocket.”

“Yeah. Will you pick up the board?” Sienna asked Malinda, and when she did, there was a short portion of a note beneath, written in their Danny Boy’s hand. They both leaned forward, reading quickly.

My life was peaceful again. There was no reason to lie in bed concocting lies. But I mourned Mother. I mourned the absence of her potpourri, her homemadedoughnuts, and the lemon-scented spray that made our house smell clean and fresh.

I couldn’t conjure them anymore. I couldn’t conjureher. No matter how hard I tried.

I lived. I worked. I went about my life. I read books. I watched news programs in the evening so I was well versed on world politics and current affairs on the off chance someone spoke to me about such things, so that I could provide an intelligent reply. But people rarely spoke to me, and for the most part, I avoided them as well. When they did engage me in conversation, I made up stories about who I was and the things I did. Maybe I was imagining who I would have been.If.

In any case, I was mostly at peace, I suppose, but I was lonely.

I was so incredibly lonely.

And I had to come to terms with the fact that I always would be.

Sienna straightened. “Thank you, Malinda. Will you bag that up separately?”

Malinda nodded and began bagging the games and the note back up as she and Kat walked out to the porch again, where they’d be out of the way.

“What are you thinking?” Kat asked.

Sienna crossed her arms, tapped her fingers against her skin for a moment, and just as quickly uncrossed her arms. She felt antsy, troubled. “Kat, do you think it’s possiblehe’sMother?”

Kat frowned. “The wholeconjuringwording?”

“Yes.” She paused, thinking. “But also, both times Mother killed for him, he lost consciousness right beforehand.” She scraped her teeth overher bottom lip. “I’d have to look back at the exact wording of the notes, but when he came to, Mother already had the men tied to the chair.”

“Do you mean he has a split personality or something?”

Sienna’s frown grew deeper. “Not exactly...” She let out a frustrated breath.

They were both quiet for a moment as Malinda exited the house for the second time, heading for the city vehicle.

“The thing that goes against that theory,” Kat said, “is that the two crimesMothercommitted are very different. Stabbings are incredibly violent and bloody.”

“Because he was being actively abused, activelyhurt, in those two instances,” Sienna said. “Maybe he snapped, and the only way he could follow through with protecting himself was if he created this fictional ‘Mother’ who actually never existed at all.”

“A modern-day Norman Bates.”

“I’m not suggesting he really thinks he’sheror is even under the impression she’s real. But in the moment, she helped him do what he needed to do to stop his tormenter.”

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