Did she refuse to marry you? Is that what set you off?”
Finch’s expression never changed, but something dark glinted at the back of his eyes. “After all these years and all the files you people have amassed—mountains, I’m told—no one has ever gotten it right. Not even the esteemed James Merrick.”
“Is that a denial?”
Finch studied his hand for a moment. “Merrick’s profile was flawed from the start. It was written from the cynical presumption that I harbored ill will toward my own mother. Nothing could be further from the truth. I was a happy child. We didn’t have money, but I never wanted for affection. I wasn’t starved for attention. Your psychological evaluations to the contrary, I wasn’t bitter then about my lot in life and I’m not bitter now. That must surprise you. You’re thinking, if he’s really innocent, how can he be so accepting of such a cruel injustice?”
“How do you accept it? If you really are innocent, that is.”
A smile flickered for the first time. “I could never give an explanation that would satisfy someone like you. Acceptance isn’t in your nature. A man like you will always be at war with his emotions. Tormented by what he can’t know. Unable to make peace with his past.”
Damn if the observation hadn’t been insightful and perhaps even prophetic.
After Ethan had left Orson Lee Finch, he’d driven to the state psychiatric hospital. He was no stranger to the layout of the parking area or the maze of hallways and wards. He’d visited regularly for years and was afforded certain privileges because of his position and background. He had signed in and then been escorted up to the fourth floor, where an orderly had unlocked a small room and waved Ethan inside.
James Merrick had been at the window, gazing out over the shady grounds. He hadn’t turned when Ethan entered, nor had he acknowledged Ethan’s presence in any way. That wasn’t unusual. He never gave any indication of recognizing Ethan from one visit to the next. Ethan had learned to ignore the long silences and unblinking stares, as well as the disturbing sounds that came from deep within the facility. He focused his attention instead on the patient’s journals, poring over pages and pages of painstakingly scribbled gibberish in the hope of finding the one clue that would break everything open.
He had that clue now. The last piece of the puzzle was finally within his grasp.
“I came here to tell you that new evidence has turned up in your case,” he’d said to Merrick.
The man had given no indication of comprehension, but Ethan hadn’t let the prolonged silence discourage him.
“I won’t go into the details yet. It’s early stages of the investigation. But I wanted you to know that I’m still out there looking for the truth. I never believed you were guilty. Not once in all these years.” Ethan walked over to the window and placed his hand briefly on the man’s frail arm. “Do you remember me?” he murmured. “I’m Ethan.”
Nothing so much as a blink.
“I work for the FBI just as you did. I even do support investigations for the BAU. Back in your day, it was called the Behavioral Science Unit.”
Still no response.
“My stepfather is Richard Barrow. You knew him once. I took his name when he married my mother, but he’s not my dad. My real name is Merrick. Ethan Merrick. I’m your son.”
The muted thrum of a car engine drew Ethan’s attention, pulling him out of that twelve-by-twelve room, away from the power of his father’s vacant stare and back to his roadside vigil in front of the Gainey house.
He turned his head toward the sound, noting the presence of a black Dodge Charger—the preferred FBI pursuit vehicle—at the end of the street. The car did not approach, nor did the driver pull to the curb to accommodate oncoming traffic. The Charger sat idling in the middle of the road as if daring Ethan to notice.
Any hope he’d had of flying under the radar vanished. He’d seen that same vehicle or one like it parked outside his hotel that morning. Ethan had gone about his business, taking tortuous routes as he ran aimless errands, and eventually he’d lost the tail in downtown traffic. He had no doubt, though, that whoever was keeping tabs on him had already heard about his trip to Columbia and his visit that morning to the Charleston Police Department. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that they’d found him again so quickly—they were pros, after all—but it had only been by sheer luck that he’d overheard mention of Adaline Kinsella’s name and her whereabouts. He had no idea why the agents had thought to look for him here unless they’d known all along he would come to Addie.
He glanced around, once again scoping out his surroundings. He needed an exit strategy in case the occupants of the Charger got too curious. The house sat at the end of a dead-end street, nearly hidden by a canopy of live oaks and palm trees. The nearest neighbor was a block away, but Ethan was hardly alone. While he stood contemplating his options, the voices behind the fence grew louder, and through one of the grimy sidelights, he caught the silhouette of a woman.
Was it Addie?
Had she spotted him?
Probably not, he decided. If she had an inkling of his presence, she would have already come outside to give him a piece of her mind. Not that he could blame her. He deserved every insult and condemnation she could heap upon him. Still, he’d come here with his hat in hand, offering her the chance to help solve the case of a lifetime.
He squinted down the end of the road, trying to determine if the car had crept a little closer. Even from a distance, he could tell the windows were tinted and the license plate obscured. He wondered briefly if a tracker had been planted on his vehicle. Maybe that was how they’d found him again so quickly. More likely they’d used his phone’s GPS. Electronic surveillance usually meant clout and someone with serious intent.
The surveillance had annoyed him earlier, but now he was just plain pissed. He resented having his every move scrutinized and disseminated. He’d used personal days to come to Charleston on his own dime, relying on his own resources. As far as he was concerned, this was not the FBI’s business, but of course, his section chief would likely see things differently.
So be it. Might as well give them enough rope.
He climbed into his rental and made a U-turn in the street, picking up speed as he headed toward the Charger. The acceleration thrilled him. He pushed the pedal to the floor, and the powerful V-8 roared. The scenery blurred in the side windows as the vehicle shot forward.
For a moment, he wondered if the driver meant to call his bluff. The vehicle remained immobile for so long that a crash seemed imminent. Ethan braced himself and was just about to swerve when the car reversed down the street and backed around the corner in one smooth move. Then the driver shifted and the Charger catapulted through the intersection.
Ethan made the turn without slowing. He gripped the wheel as the SUV fishtailed and the tires spun on the graveled shoulder. Up ahead, the Charger careened around another corner and blasted through a stop sign, narrowly missing a woman and two small boys as they stepped off the curb. The mother had plenty of time to pull the children to safety on the sidewalk, but she froze. Ethan could have sworn he saw her lips move in prayer a split second before he hit the brakes.
