Page 72 of Vicious Hearts

So hedidstart with his son. He just took more care to hide his body far from home?

No. It's still not quite right.

So what? The man was a fucking child-murderer. He might have done things for no reason. Maybe it was symbolic or something.

He waslookingfor the kid. On the news, making appeals. As soon as the body was found, he and his wife were there, wanting to make a formal identification and end the nightmare they were going through.

I remember when I first met him. The rage on his face as he talked about his son's stupidity. It was like he was lashing out at me, at him, at anyone he could. Guilty knowledge could easily do that, but so could grief.

He had zero sense of self-preservation when I went to his house the second time after he was rude to Roxy. Goading me, trying to get me to act out. Then again, in the restaurant. Needless attention-seeking. Not the conduct of a calm, methodical sociopath.

Graham was a shitty person. I was keen to see him as a potential serial killer because I hated him. I dismissed anything that didn't fit the hypothesis. And, like Hillard, I was too desperate to make it stick.

But Graham Fisherdidkill himself. He failed to kill Roxy. He must have realized he couldn't try and kill her again—not with me around and the cops making inquiries. But that wouldn't be enough to push him over the edge. Something made him believe he was doomed, that he'd be found out.

We'd barelybegunto look into it. We were still wrangling with Hillard. I'd been arrested and released. Roxy had found out Farraday wasn't insane after all, and we located Lois, but Graham knew none of this. He was at Always Home, being distracted by—

Holy shit.

The shrill whine in my ears cuts out, replaced by a thundering, deafening silence. I draw a deep, shuddering breath, trying not to pass out, and lunge for my cell phone.

Roxy doesn't answer. I try Ali, then Leo, but no dice.

Snippets of memory scatter my mind like confetti. Each one I catch hold of seems to take on a new significance.

The walls of Roxy's apartment are covered in press photos of her and her colleagues. Different pictures of the charity winning awards, handing over funds to children's wards, that kind of thing.

Oliver Buckley was at the center of each and every one.

There are photos on the wall at Always Home, too. The same images, in fact. But they were scanned, blown up, and cropped, so Buckley was the main focus. Certificates in his name, letters of thanks. His good works surround him, protecting him.

He lives alone, devoting his life to his charity work. He knew Graham Fisher. He must have met Farraday through him.

My phone is ringing. It's Ali calling me back.

"Ben, I'm trying to get Luna ready for—"

"Is Roxy still with you?" I ask.

Please say yes. Please say I've gone crazy and I'm wrong and she's fine and I just need my fucking head examined.

"No. She left last night with Moira to visit Oliver in the hospital."

"Which one?"

"What's wrong, Ben?" Ali asks. "I've never heard you sound like this. Do you need me to—"

"Ali, which fucking hospital?" I cry. "Just tell me!"

"Presbyterian, lower Manhattan!"

I hang up on her and look up the switchboard for the hospital, typing the number in with shaking fingers. A bored-sounding woman answers.

"Hello," I say, trying to sound casual. "Can you tell me if you admitted an Oliver Buckley? It would have been yesterday."

She taps on the keyboard for a few agonizingly long seconds.

"There's no one here by that name," she says. "Are you sure that's the person you're looking for?"

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