“Trina Simms,” Dean said. “According to the visitor logs Agent Sterling showed me, she’s visited my father with increasing frequency over the past three years.” He gritted his teeth. “There’s reason to believe that it may be romantic, at least on her part.”

I didn’t ask Dean to elaborate on what that reason was. Neither did Michael.

“I doubt she knew him before he was incarcerated,” Dean continued, saying each word like it didn’t matter—because if he let it, it would matter too much. “She’s in her forties. In all likelihood, she’s either convinced herself that he’s innocent or that the women he killed deserved to die.”

The real question wasn’t how Trina Simms had justified her interest in a man most people considered a monster. The real question was whether or not she was a killer herself. If so, had she considered the murders a romantic gesture? Had she thought Dean’s dad would be proud of her? That it would bring them closer together?

I knew instinctively Daniel Redding didn’t care about this woman. He didn’t care about people, period. He was callous. Unemotional. The closest he could come to love was whatever it was he felt for Dean, and that was more narcissistic than anything else. Dean was worth caring about only because Dean was his.

“What’s our game plan?” Michael asked. “Do we just knock on the front door?”

Dean shrugged. “You got a better idea?”

“This is your rodeo,” Michael told him. “I’m just the driver.”

“It would be better if I went in alone,” Dean said.

I opened my mouth to tell him that he wasn’t going anywhere alone, but Michael beat me to it.

“No can do, cowboy. They call it the buddy system for a reason. Besides, Cassie would try to go after you, and then I would go after her, so on and so forth….” Michael trailed off ominously.

“Fine,” Dean capitulated. “We go in as a group. I’ll tell her you’re my friends.”

“A clever ruse,” Michael commented. It hit me then that Michael hadn’t agreed to drive Dean here for me, or for Lia. Despite everything he’d told me about their history, he’d done it for Dean.

“I’ll do the talking,” Dean said. “If we’re lucky, she’ll be so fixated on me that she won’t be able to pay attention to either of you. If you can get a read on her, great. We get in. We get out. With luck, we’ll be home before anyone realizes we’ve left.”

On the surface, the plan sounded simple, but lucky wasn’t an adjective I would have applied to a single person in this car. That thought lingered in my mind as Michael drove past a sign: WELCOME TO BROKEN SPRINGS, POPULATION 4,140.

Trina Simms lived in a one-story house the color of an avocado. The lawn was overgrown, but the flower beds had clearly been weeded. There was a pastel welcome mat on the front porch. Dean rang the doorbell. Nothing happened.

“Bell’s broken.” A boy with a buzz cut came around the side of the house. He was blond-haired and fair-skinned and walked like he had someplace to be. At first glance, I’d put his age at close to ours, but as he came closer, I realized that he was at least a few years older. His accent was like Dean’s, magnified. He offered us a polite smile, more a reflex in this part of the country than a courtesy. “You selling something?”

His eyes skimmed over Dean and Michael and landed on me.

“No,” Dean replied, drawing the man’s attention back to him.

“You lost?” the man asked.

“We’re looking for Trina Simms.” Michael’s eyes were locked on the man. I took a small step sideways, so I could get a better look at Michael’s face. He would be the first to know if the polite smile was hiding something else.

“Who are you?” the blond guy asked.

“We’re the people looking for Trina Simms,” Dean said. There was nothing aggressive about the way he said it, no hint of a fight in his voice, but the smile evaporated from the stranger’s face.

“What do you want with my mother?”

So Trina Simms had a son—a son who was significantly taller and bigger than either Michael or Dean.

“Christopher!” A nasal shriek broke through the air.

“You should go,” Trina’s son said. His voice was low, gravelly and soothing, even when the words he was saying weren’t. “My mother doesn’t like company.”

I glanced down at the pastel welcome mat. The front door flew open, and I nearly lost my balance hopping out of the way.

“Christopher, where is my—” The woman who’d come out of the door came to a standstill. She surveyed us for a moment with squinted eyes. Then she beamed. “Visitors!” she said. “What are you selling?”

“We’re not selling anything,” Dean said. “We’re here to talk to you, ma’am—assuming you are Trina Simms?”

Dean’s accent was more pronounced than I’d ever heard it. The woman smiled at him, and I remembered what Daniel Redding had said about Dean being the kind of child people loved on sight.

“I’m Trina,” the woman said. “For goodness’ sakes, Christopher, stop slouching. Can’t you see we have company?”

Christopher made no move to stand straighter. From my perspective, he wasn’t slouching at all. I turned my attention back to his mother. Trina Simms had hair that had probably been up in rollers all morning. She wasn’t wearing any makeup except for red lipstick.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope you’re friends of Christopher’s?” she said to us. “He has all of these friends, but he never brings them by.”

“No, ma’am,” Dean replied. “We just met.”

If by “met” Dean meant “silently assessed each other.”

“You’re a pretty one.” It took me a moment to realize that Trina was talking to me. “Look at all of that hair.”

My hair was slightly longer and slightly thicker than average—nothing worth commenting on.

“And those shoes,” Trina continued, “they’re precious!”

I was wearing canvas tennis shoes.

“I always wanted a girl,” Trina confessed.

“Are we inviting them in or aren’t we, Mother?” Christopher’s voice had a slight edge.

“Oh,” Trina said, stiffening suddenly. “I’m not sure we should.”

If your son hadn’t said anything, you would have invited us in yourself, I thought. There was something about the dynamic between the two of them that made me uncomfortable.

“Did you ask them why they’re here?” Trina’s hands went to her hips. “Three strangers show up on your mother’s porch, and you don’t even—”

“He asked, but I hadn’t gotten to introduce myself yet,” Dean cut in. “My name is Dean.”

A spark of interest flickered in Trina’s eyes. “Dean?” she repeated. She took a step forward, elbowing me to the side. “Dean what?”

Dean didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t react in any way to her scrutiny. “Redding,” he said. He glanced over at Christopher, then back at Trina. “I believe you know my father.”

The inside of the Simms house contrasted sharply with the overgrown front lawn. The floors were immaculately clean. Porcelain figures sat on every available surface. Dozens of framed pictures hung on the hallway walls: Christopher in school picture after school picture, the same solemn stare on his face in each. There was only one picture of a man. I took a closer look and froze. The man was smiling warmly. There were a few wrinkles near the edges of his eyes. I recognized him.

Daniel Redding. What kind of woman had a fondness for doilies and hung a serial killer’s picture on her wall?

“You have his eyes.” Trina ushered us into the living room. She sat opposite Dean. Her gaze never left his face, like she was trying to memorize it. Like she was starving, and he was food. “The rest of you…Well, Daniel always said you had a lot of your mother in her.” Trina paused, her lips pursed. “I can’t say I knew her. She didn’t grow up here, you know. Daniel went to college—always so smart. He came back with her. And then there was you, of course.”