I EASED OUT OF my imagination, out of the script I’d written in my head, and back into the real world. Lowering the article, I called Zora. She answered on the second ring.
“He’s toying with us,” I said.
“Shhhh,” someone hissed behind me.
“Oh, sorry,” I said, standing up. To Zora I whispered, “Give me a second.”
As the train rattled through New Jersey, I made my way out of the quiet car.
“I found it!” I blurted out once the door closed behind me.
“What?” Zora asked.
“The miracle. It’s a person. The daughter of Jasper’s first victim. I don’t have details. I guess she was left in a bathroom. And survived for like three days or something. That’s where the name came from. Her mom was murdered, but they didn’t ID the body until right before Jasper’s arrest …”
“Huh,” Zora said. “Okay, I’ll get on this. See if I can find anything else out.”
“I need to meet her,” I said. “You need to find her.”
“I’ll do my best, Theo. Like I always do.” She paused. “Oh, shit. I forgot. I talked to Martino.”
“Did he have second thoughts?” I asked.
“No, he wanted to see if you could meet him earlier. Tonight. And he can’t make it up to Dover. He wants you to drive down to Rehoboth Beach.”
“That’s two hours from Wilmington. I don’t get in until four.”
“An hour and a half, actually. Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell him you can’t make it. We can reschedule. He said he could meet up in a couple of weeks.”
“No,” I snapped. “No, I’m good. I need to rent a car. I can probably get there by seven.”
“I’ll let him know.”
“Text me an address where he wants to meet up. Okay?”
“Definitely.” She paused again. “Are you sure this isn’t too much? There’s no rush.”
“No, I need to see him. It’s all good.”
“Okay,” she said, sounding unsure. “Just drive carefully.”
“Of course,” I said, looking out the window again. “Definitely.”
My eyes burned as I neared Lewes, Delaware. It was six thirty and Waze told me I was fifteen minutes from the address Zora had texted me.
I hadn’t yet organized what I wanted to ask Martino. When I pulled into the restaurant parking lot, I eased into a spot away from the other cars but didn’t get out. Instead, I built a timeline in my head, like I was storyboarding the Halo Killer’s movie.
Twenty years prior, Jasper Ross-Johnson had taken his first victim. It would be sixteen years until that murder was attributed to the Halo Killer. And another four before his victim would be identified as Abbie Henshaw, the woman who abandoned the Miracle Baby.
Ten months ago, after abducting Barbara Yost, the ghostlike Halo Killer had slipped up after seeing a mysterious woman walking on the beach. He was captured and incarcerated, and Yost was rescued from a dingy cabin in the marshland bordering Delaware and Maryland.
And his words filled my head:
Miracle.
Not what, but who.
Could that baby, a local legend with a shocking tie to the Halo Killer, have something to do with his capture? The perfect emotional counterpoint to Jasper’s madness. Storytelling gold! I fought the urge to plot the rest of the story, fictionalize it. That wasn’t my job. I played in facts. Truth.
Why bring Miracle up at all? Could Jasper feel remorse? As he faced death, could he be regretting what he’d done? Could Miracle represent the pinnacle of that guilt? Maybe he needed to see her. Talk to her. Apologize for killing her mother.
As I sat in the car, my brain started to frame the shot. Jasper sitting behind the Plexiglas shield, his expression vacant and cold. Then, a door opens. Miracle appears, a grown woman. Jasper sees her. And in that instant, humanity slips into the eyes of the worst murderer in recent history. A generation of viewers raised on Disney movies melt in front of their smart televisions.
“That’s Beauty and the Beast shit,” I whispered.
As if in answer, my phone went off. It was a text from Zora.
Are you there? Martino just texted me.
I glanced at the time. Twenty minutes had passed. Instead of texting her back, I rushed out of the car and across the parking lot. I threw the door open and scanned the tables as I approached the host.
“Hi, I’m looking for—”
“Martino,” the man said, a huge smile of his face. “He told me you’d be here. I … I just want to say, I loved The Basement. It was amazing.”
“Thanks,” I said, looking away.
As I moved in behind him, I saw Martino for the first time. He sat in a shadowed booth in the far corner of the mostly empty dining room. Bright-blue eyes looked out from a tan face. His expression was flat, but more from Botox than from lack of emotion. When he stood to greet me, he moved with a youthful grace that made me feel older, though I knew he had to be close to twice my age.
“Theo, it’s so great to meet you,” he said.
“Hey … Hi …” I wanted to use his name as he’d used mine, but I still wasn’t sure if it was his first or his last. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
“My pleasure. Sit, sit.” He smiled at the host. “Thanks, Stephen.”
Stephen blushed and stammered something before walking away. I took a seat, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Martino. The perfectly trimmed silver hair. The long fingers, like a musician’s. The androgynous quality of his mannerisms. He caught me staring.
“He’s got you under a spell, I see.”
“What? Who?”
“Jasper. Don’t worry, I don’t blame you. He is a very complicated man.”
“Yeah,” I said, taking a slow breath. “I’m … yeah. Hey, is your name …? Should I …?”
“Martino,” he said, his smile showing shining capped teeth. “Just Martino.”
As I nodded, a server passed the table. She almost bowed to the man as she passed. I stared at her, then turned back to him.
“I’m not famous,” he said, laughing. “Not like you. Or like Jasper.”
“Oh, I …”
“I own three restaurants. And I understand that I’m considered a nice boss. They all want to work for me, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, rubbing at my face. “It was a long drive.”
Martino squinted. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s great. I really wanted to meet you. And … yeah … he has gotten under my skin. Just a little, I guess.”
“He’s always been like that,” Martino said.
That’s when I noticed the sadness in his eyes. It made me think of a parent who has lost a child.
“Where would you like me to start?” he asked.
“Wherever you want,” I said.
“There’s so much to say, I guess. I don’t want to take your entire evening.”
I laughed. “I’ll listen to everything you want to say. Everything you can remember.” I paused. “What was he like?”
Martino’s eyes grew distant before he answered. “I don’t think anyone really knew.”
ACT ONE/SCENE 10
EXT. BEACH RESORT MAIN STREET—DAY
MARTINO struts down the sidewalk, past kite shops and colorful eateries. His feathered, shoulder-length hair bounces as he nods and chats with nearly everyone. The bronze Adonis carries a bottle of champagne under his arm, and the most carefree smile imaginable, as he hurries to a party, one hosted by the parents of a killer.
Martino rushed down Rehoboth Avenue, the heart of Delaware’s most popular beach resort. The town was big enough that not everyone knew each other, but everyone certainly knew him. He was a fixture at local parties, along with the Ross-Johnsons. That was where he headed, across Silverlake to the edge of Carpenter’s Beach. To Franklin’s sprawling beachfront home with its crystalline windows and salt-touched breezes. He would be early, but that was okay. Clara wouldn’t mind the help getting everything ready.
When he reached the house, he opened the front door without announcing his presence. He heard voices from the hallway but turned instead to the bar in the great room. Humming to himself, he fixed a dry martini and plopped two pearl onions in before swirling it around.
“Hello,” he called out.
No one answered. So, he moved toward the bedrooms, walking slowly, a warm smile lifting his sun-bronzed cheeks. His lips parted, about to call out again, when Clara’s voice rose up, shrill and near manic.
“Get over here!”
Martino froze. His smile faded. He loved Clara. She was his favorite type, unpredictably fabulous. But as he stood there, overhearing, he thought for the thousandth time that she should never have been a mother. It didn’t suit her. Nor did it suit the boy.
“Hold still.”
Martino disliked the tone. On the balls of his feet, he inched past Jasper’s room. The door was open. Despite himself, he peeked within. It was just a flash, but he saw Clara kneeling, one hand gripping the frail child’s shoulder so tightly that her knuckles whitened. With her other hand, she racked a fingernail across the sharp edge of his collarbone, cutting into the skin. Blood beaded and Jasper flinched.
Martino turned his head, slipping past. His pace quickened as he headed to Franklin’s room in the back. But he was not fast enough to avoid hearing Clara’s venom.
“Really? Really! What? Are you a little baby? Are you? You’re just like your father,” she hissed. “Just like him.”