101

Jessica arrived at the Devonshire Acres facility at just after four o’clock on February 5. The imposing fieldstone complex was set atop a gently rolling hill. A few outbuildings dotted the landscape.

Jessica came to the facility to speak with Roland Hannah’s mother, Artemisia Waite. Or to try to. Her boss had left it up to her whether or not to conduct the interview, to put a period at the end of the report, the story that began on a bright spring day in April 1995, a day when two little girls went to the park for a birthday picnic, the day when a long litany of horrors began.

Roland Hannah had pled out, and was serving eighteen life sentences, no parole. Kevin Byrne, along with a retired detective named John Longo, had helped compile the state’s case against the man, much of it based on Walt Brigham’s notes and files.

It was unknown whether Roland Hannah’s stepbrother Charles had been involved in the vigilante murders, or whether he had been with Roland that night in Odense. If he had, one mystery remained: How had Charles Waite gotten back to Philly? He could not drive. It was the court-appointed psychologist’s opinion that the man functioned at the level of a bright nine-year-old.

Jessica stood in the parking lot, next to her car, her mind swirling with questions. She sensed a presence approaching. She was surprised to see it was Richie DiCillo.

“Detective,” Richie said. It was almost as if he had been expecting her.

“Richie. Good to see you.”

“Happy New Year.”

“Same to you,” Jessica said. “What brings you all the way out here?”

“Just following up on something.” He said it with the sort of finality Jessica recognized in all veteran cops. There would be no more questions about it.

“How’s your father?” Richie asked.

“He’s good,” Jessica said. “Thanks for asking.”

Richie glanced at the complex of buildings, back. The moment drew out. “So, how long have you been on the job now? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Jessica said, smiling. “It’s not like you’re asking my age. It’s been more than ten years.”

“Ten years.” Richie mugged, nodded. “I’ve been at it almost thirty. Flies by, doesn’t it?”

“It does. You don’t think it will, but it seems like just yesterday I put on the blues and hit the street for the first time.”

It was all subtext, and they both knew it. Nobody saw through or created bullshit better than cops. Richie rocked on his heels, glanced at his watch. “Well, I’ve got bad guys waiting to be caught,” he said. “Good seeing you.”

“Same here.” Jessica wanted to add a great deal to that. She wanted to say something about Annemarie, about how sorry she was. She wanted to say how she understood that there was a hole in his heart that would never be filled, no matter how much time passes, no matter how a story ends.

Richie got out his car keys, turned to go. He hesitated for a moment, as if he had something to say, but had no idea how to say it. He glanced at the main building of the facility. When he looked back at Jessica, she thought she saw something in the man’s eyes she had never seen before, not in a lifer, not in a man who had seen as much as Richie DiCillo had seen.

She saw peace.

“Sometimes,” Richie began, “justice is done.”

Jessica understood. And the understanding was a cold dagger in her chest. She probably should have let it lie, but she was her father’s daughter. “Didn’t someone once say that we get justice in the next world, but in this world we have the law?”

Richie smiled. Before he turned and walked across the parking lot, Jessica glanced at his overshoes. They looked new.

Sometimes justice is done.

A minute later Jessica saw Richie pull out of the parking lot. He waved one last time. She waved back.

As he drove away, Jessica found she was not all that surprised to find that Detective Richard DiCillo drove a large green SUV, an SUV with yellow fog lamps and extensive detailing.

Jessica looked at the main building. On the second floor were a series of small windows. In the window she spotted two people watching her. It was too far away to make out their features, but there was something about the tilt of their heads, the set of the shoulders, that told her she was being observed.

Jessica thought about StoryBook River, about that heart of madness.

Had Richie DiCillo been the one who tied Marius Damgaard’s hands behind him and hanged him? Had Richie driven Charles Waite back to Philadelphia?

Jessica decided that she just might take another ride to Berks County. Maybe justice had not yet been done.

FOUR HOURS LATER she found herself in her kitchen. Vincent was in the basement with two of his brothers watching a Flyers game. Dishes were in the dishwasher. Leftovers were put away. She had a glass of Montepulciano working. Sophie sat in the living room, watching a DVD of The Little Mermaid.

Jessica walked into the living room, sat next to her daughter. “Tired, sweetie?”

Sophie shook her head and yawned. “No.”

Jessica held Sophie close. Her daughter had that little-girl bubble-bath smell. Her hair was a bouquet of flowers. “Time for bed anyway.”

“Okay.”

Later, with her daughter snuggled under the covers, Jessica kissed Sophie on the forehead, reached over to turn out the light.

“Mom?”

“What, sweetie?”

Sophie rummaged under the quilt. She pulled out a book by Hans Christian Andersen, one of the tomes Jessica had checked out of the library.

“Read me a story?” Sophie asked.

Jessica took the book from her daughter, opened it, glanced at the illustration on the title page. It was a woodcut illustration of the moon.

Jessica closed the book, flipped off the light.

“Not tonight, honey.”

TWO AM.

Jessica sat on the edge of the bed. She had felt the stirrings inside her for a few days. Not the certainty, but the possibility of the possibility, a feeling once removed from hope, twice from disappointment.

She turned to look at Vincent. Dead to the world. God only knew what galaxies he conquered in his dreams.

Jessica glanced out the window, at the full moon high in the night sky.

Just moments later she heard the egg timer ding in the bathroom. Poetic, she thought. Egg timer. She got up, scuffed her way across the bedroom.

She flipped on the light, looked at the two ounces of white plastic sitting on the vanity. She was scared of the yes. Scared of the no.

Babies.

Detective Jessica Balzano—a woman who strapped on a weapon and faced danger every day of her life—trembled slightly as she stepped into the bathroom, and closed the door.