The nanny murders Read Online Free PDF Page B

she concentrated on her picture so completely that, despite her formidable size and multiple serpent tattoos, she seemed more like a girl Molly’s age than a twenty-eight-year-old psychotic killer. Evie’s drawings always showed what was literally in front of her. The chairs in the corner. A potted plant, a pair of slippers. The view of the train tracks out the window. I wondered if her mind ever traveled outside these walls to other times or places. Her drawings hadn’t let on.
    Her session went peacefully. I began to relax. Then, near the end of the session, a new, overeager orderly barged in to take her back to Section 5. Maybe Evie thought he wasn’t going to let her finish her drawing. Maybe his energy level startled her. Whatever her reason, though, she moved quickly. Six feet tall and 190 pounds, she bounced up and grabbed a chair and swung it at the orderly’s head. He ducked, avoiding the blow, then grabbed the chair legs. I came up behind her and, while the two of them danced around the chair, tried to hold on to her,telling her in a calm, soothing voice to put down the chair. But the orderly sounded an alarm, and suddenly nurses, aides, orderlies, and the janitor ran in. I was certain that, given a moment, I could have calmed her. Instead, half a dozen frantic screaming people in pastels rushed her from all sides and tackled her and slammed her to the floor.
    Afterward, I lost it with the orderly and his cohorts. As the therapist in charge, I and only I should have determined what happened in the session. But the damage had already been done, and all afternoon I kept hearing the crunch of Evie’s jaw landing on linoleum.
    The day that had begun with Michael’s call did not improve with age. Each of my patients and even the staff members were off kilter, unsettled. Like me. Maybe there was a full moon. Or maybe emotions were contagious, spreading like the flu.
    Finally, just before four, I closed the art room for the day. It was Thursday, the night Susan and I took Emily and Molly to gymnastics class—our weekly night out—and I wanted to get home early enough that Angela could get home before dark. I hurried to Market Street to catch a train and, reaching into my pocket for my SEPTA TransPass, found the message from Detective Stiles. Damn. I wondered if he’d gotten my message. I tried him again on cell, but there was no phone service in the subway, so for the entire train ride it nagged me. Why had he called? What could he want?

SIX
    T HE WALK HOME FROM THE TRAIN, AT LEAST, WAS PEACEFUL .Crisp December air, late afternoon sun. The sounds of traffic and my own shoes on solid pavement. Finally, I thought, my day was settling down. But when I got to my house, old Charlie was sitting on the front steps. I hoped he was just resting, that he’d get up and let me pass. He didn’t. No, as I approached, Charlie didn’t move at all, other than to stretch his mouth into one of his wide, open grins.
    “Hi, Charlie.” I tried to step around him to follow.
    “Hello, Miss Zoe.” He nodded my way. “Not too cold today.” Still smiling, he slid over slightly to the center of the steps, blocking my way. “Sit awhile?”
    “Sorry.” I tried to sound friendly. “I can’t. The sitter has to get home, and we have someplace to go.”
    Charlie looked up the steps. “Give it a minute. All that can wait.”
    What? He didn’t budge. “Charlie, I’ve got a million things to do before we go.”
    “Sit a minute.” It was a command. “Just for a minute.” He didn’t look at me. “Go on. Sit.”
    It wasn’t like Charlie to order people around. Something must be on his mind; as reluctant as I was to linger, I was also curious. Besides, I was tired. It wouldn’t hurt to sit for a minute. One.
    So I sat. The cement was hard and cold, and Charlie’s aromawas strong. It wasn’t quite offensive, just stale. Musky. I leaned back against the railing and looked at him. Charlie’s jacket was frayed at the collar,