"And then there's this," Mendez said, slowly tapping his finger on the file folder. He did it over and over and over and over, the sound seeming to fill the otherwise silent room like water dripping from a faucet.

He could almost see Darren Bordain's nerves fraying.

"Why don't you just show it to me and get it over with?" Bordain snapped. "Whatever it is, there's probably a logical explanation for it."

Mendez pretended to think about it, then shrugged. "Okay."

He opened the folder and slid it across the table.

"You should pay particular attention to the box marked 'Father.' "

As he looked at the birth certificate the color drained from Darren Bordain's face, then rose back up again, bright red.

"That's a lie."

"That is an official doc.u.ment from the county of Los Angeles."

Bordain shook his head. "It can't be. It's not. I am not Haley's father."

"No? We showed her a photograph of you. She called you Daddy."

"She calls every man Daddy."

"Yeah, but apparently with you it's official," Mendez said, tapping his finger on the birth certificate. "Do you happen to know your blood type, Mr. Bordain?"

"A-negative."

Mendez raised his brows. "Really? Because we've got the sweatshirt you wore the night you killed Marissa. Man, it was soaked in blood."

"Marissa's blood, not mine."

"Marissa's blood-AB-positive. Lots of it. But also a little A-negative," he lied. "She must have scratched you, or you cut yourself. Knives get slippery when they're covered in blood."

"This is ludicrous!" Bordain shouted up at the ceiling, throwing his arms up. "I didn't kill Marissa!"

"What's that cut on your wrist?"

Bordain looked at his left wrist and quickly pulled the cuff of his shirt over it. "I-I-must have done that on the golf course."

"They golf with knives now?" Mendez asked. "That might make it interesting enough to try."

Bordain pushed his chair back and got up. "I'm done now. That's it. I don't have to talk to you. I'm free to go."

He went to the door and turned the k.n.o.b, but it didn't open.

"It's like I told you yesterday, Darren," Mendez said. "Some of our guests are not as free to go as others."

80.

"Dennis. What are you doing here?" Anne asked.

How the h.e.l.l had he gotten her address? Their phone number was unlisted. She had a P.O. box for an address on her business cards.

"How did you find me?" she asked.

"I asked your dad."

"You went to my father's house."

Dennis nodded. "Uh-huh. He's really old."

"And he gave you my address?"

"Uh-huh."

Oh my G.o.d. That man will be the death of me yet.

Anne's gaze skated past Dennis to the sheriff's radio car sitting parked at the sidewalk. The deputy was eating a sandwich, paying no attention. Why would he pay attention to a little boy in a baseball cap? His a.s.signment here was to keep Anne and Haley safe from a murderer.

"I set the hospital on fire," Dennis announced.

"I know. I heard about that," Anne said calmly.

"It was really cool," he said, his eyes lighting up in that gla.s.sy, unnatural way they did when he talked about killers and crimes. "This one guy came running out of his room and his arms were on fire! And he was screaming and s.h.i.t. It was so cool! And then this oxygen tank exploded and BAM BAM!! It went right through a wall and killed a lady!"

Anne's blood ran cold at his obvious delight-not just in his attempt to shock her but in the actual details of what he had done. The burned man and the dead woman meant absolutely nothing to him except in terms of his own amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Why did you do that, Dennis?"

He shrugged, his hands tucked into the big pouch on the front of his too-big hooded sweatshirt. "'Cause I wanted to. 'Cause I was mad. You said you were gonna come yesterday, and you didn't. You said you would bring me something cool, and you didn't."

"I called to say I couldn't make it, Dennis."

"No, you didn't," he said, getting angry. "You never called. You don't care about me. You're such a liar!"

"Dennis-"

"Shut up!" he shouted, his temper about to erupt. "You're just a lying, f.u.c.king c.u.n.t and I hate you!"

Before Anne could react Dennis had pulled his hands out of his pockets and came at her swinging and screaming. She wasn't aware of what he had clenched in his fists until she felt something sharp and pointed stick her in the breast. By the time it registered he had struck her twice more.

There was nothing she could grab to hit him with. She didn't want to run backward into the house. If Dennis saw Wendy or Haley she knew he wouldn't hesitate to hurt either one of them.

She tried to grab at his arms as he swung at her, and his weapons cut her hands and forearms. She shouted at him, "Dennis! Stop it! Stop it!"

Wendy had heard the commotion and came running from the kitchen. As soon as she saw Dennis, she started screaming at the top of her lungs. And right on her heels came Haley.

"Wendy, run!" Anne shouted as Dennis struck her again. "Take Haley and run!"

Haley stood at the end of the hall, shrieking.

Oh my G.o.d, Anne thought as she tried to fend off her attacker, she's seeing it happen all over again. she's seeing it happen all over again.

Dennis was in a frenzy. He was big for his age, and strong, and with strength of purpose he kept coming at her, shouting and swinging and pushing her backward into the house. They were now out of sight of the deputy parked at the curb.

"I f.u.c.king hate you!" Dennis yelled, bulldozing into her.

Anne's feet tangled with his and then she was falling backward. The back of her head struck the floor so hard it bounced. Blackness rushed in from the outer edges of her vision.

Dennis Farman came down on top of her, one arm raised high, ready to plunge a blade into her chest.

81.

"I did not kill Marissa," Darren Bordain said.

Mendez got out of his chair. "Why don't you have a seat for a little longer? I've got to step out and get a cup of coffee. Would you like one?"

Bordain looked at him like he had lost his mind completely. "Do I want a cup of coffee? No, I don't want a f.u.c.king cup of coffee! No, I don't want to sit down!"

Big sweat stains ringed the underarms of his blue oxford shirt with the neat little logo embroidered on the pocket: MEF.

"I'll be right back," Mendez said, unfazed.

He let himself out of the interview room and went across the hall to the break room where Dixon, Hicks, and Vince were watching the monitor.

Vince smacked him on the back. "Good job, Junior."

"You've got him back on his heels," Dixon said. "I can't believe he hasn't asked for a lawyer."

"I think he wants to tell you something," Vince said. "But he can't quite do it."

"If he confesses to killing her, then it's out there," Mendez said. "He can't take it back."

Vince went to the machine and rewound the tape. "Watch him when you ask about the nights in question. Watch what he does."

Mendez stared hard at the monitor as the moments that had just happened unfolded again in front of him.

"Watch him here when you ask him about last night, if anyone saw him at home. Watch how he kind of closes his shoulders like he wants to wrap his arms around himself."

"Protective?" Mendez said.

"And the same thing here when you press him about his alibis," Vince said. "He's hiding something."

"The fact that he's a murderer?" Hicks suggested.

"Press those points again," Vince said. "See what he does."

"Okay."

Mendez poured two cups of coffee and went back across the hall.

"I brought you one anyway," he said, setting the cups on the table. "It's not half bad today. Someone brought Irish Cream beans in."

Bordain had taken his seat and lit another cigarette. He ignored the coffee. His hands were still trembling.

"I did not kill Marissa," he said again. "I had no reason to kill Marissa."

"I'm thinking you got tired of her blackmailing you."

"No one is blackmailing me."

"It's ironic, isn't it?" Mendez said. "You say you toyed with the idea of going out with her because it would wind your mother up like a top-but you get her pregnant and have a child out of wedlock and you keep that information to yourself-and the old lady would really blow a gasket over that."

"It's not ironic. It's not true."

"You can't account for your whereabouts the night she was murdered. Your name is on her daughter's birth certificate. And you're sitting here in front of me sweating like a wh.o.r.e in church."

"I was at Gina's house the night Marissa was killed," Bordain said.

"Gina, who is still conveniently in a coma."

"I didn't try to kill Gina."

"Is that why you wanted to go into her room this afternoon? To say your last good-byes and accidentally pull a plug?"

"That's ridiculous."

"She can't help you, Mr. Bordain. By your own admission, you left her house and were home alone by eleven thirty."

Bordain closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Mendez waited, watching his shoulders draw inward toward his chest, holding whatever it was inside.

"Darren," Mendez said quietly, leaning across the table. "There's nothing worse than murder. That's the big enchilada. It doesn't get worse than that. Whatever it is that you're not telling me could not possibly be worse than that."

Bordain smiled bitterly as tears came to his eyes. "You're not from where I'm from."

"I'm going to read you your rights and put you in jail. Does that go over big where you're from?"