Chapter 11 Tom #2
Julia. My mind spun through our interactions like shuffling cards, searching for anything that could be misconstrued.
The girl from the bookstore who couldn’t have been more than seventeen, eighteen at most. Who helped me locate obscure medical texts and out-of-print book editions.
Who was intelligent and curious, reminding me vaguely of students I’d known in medical school—eager to learn, hungry for knowledge.
Who was also completely off my radar as anything more than a helpful clerk.
“Mrs. Winslow, I think there’s been a misunderstanding—”
“I may be old,” she continued, swiftly cutting through my attempt at explanation. “But I’m not blind. I’ve raised three children. I know what it looks like when a young girl develops an infatuation. And I know what it looks like when a grown man encourages it.”
“I have never—” I started, but she held up a hand.
“She talks about you constantly. ‘Mr. Hayes said this.’ ‘Mr. Hayes recommended that book.’ ‘Mr. Hayes thinks I should consider this program.’ Tell me, what am I supposed to think?”
The mere suggestion of impropriety, the implication that I might be the kind of man who preyed on teenage girls, made me feel something close to rage.
I tried to keep my voice level, however.
“Mrs. Winslow, I promise you, nothing inappropriate has happened between Julia and me. I’ve never touched her.
Never suggested anything beyond casual conversation about books and her academic interests. Our interactions have been entirely—”
“She’s a child, Doctor Hayes. She may be eighteen, may think she’s all grown up and ready for the world, but she’s still a child. And you’re a grown man—a doctor, for God’s sake—who should know better than to encourage whatever this is.”
“I haven’t encouraged anything.”
“Then why is she lying to me?” The question came out raw, stripped of the controlled anger that had colored her previous statements. “Why is she sneaking around, making excuses, hiding her phone from me? If there’s nothing happening, why all the secrecy?”
I didn’t have an answer. Because I genuinely didn’t know what Julia had been doing with her evenings, who she’d been texting, what secrets she was keeping from her grandmother.
Our interactions had been limited to the bookstore—brief conversations about literature and book recommendations, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes at a time whenever I happened to stop by.
“Mrs. Winslow,” I said, carefully choosing each word.
“I can only speak to my own actions, and I assure you that I have never behaved inappropriately with Julia. I don’t have her phone number.
I don’t follow her on social media—I don’t even know if she has social media.
I’ve never contacted her outside of your bookstore. ”
She studied my face for a long moment, and I let myself meet her gaze, allowing her see the truth there. Let her read whatever she needed to read to understand I wasn’t lying.
As I’d hoped, it seemed that she was starting to believe me.
She nodded, deflating slightly, exhaustion settling over her features like a veil. “I’m sorry if I accused you unfairly, Doctor Hayes. I’m just… I had to be sure.”
It was understandable. I would have done the same thing if I were in her place.
“I should get these groceries home before the ice cream melts,” Mrs. Winslow said, gesturing to her bags. “Thank you for listening. And for being honest with me.”
“Of course.” I watched her walk away, her small figure moving down the sidewalk with careful steps that spoke of age and weariness.
I stood there for several minutes after she disappeared around the corner, my mind replaying the conversation, examining it from every angle. Julia. The girl I’d barely thought about beyond our brief interactions at the bookstore. Who apparently thought about me considerably more than I’d realized.
An idea began forming in my mind. Not fully developed yet, still nebulous and unformed. But there. Waiting to be examined more closely.
* * *
The Winslow house sat at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in a neighborhood that had seen better days. The lawn needed mowing, though someone had made an effort with flower boxes beneath the windows—marigolds and petunias struggling against the early autumn chill.
Mrs. Winslow’s car wasn’t in the driveway. She went to the community center every Thursday evening from six to nine, for senior citizens’ bingo night. Which meant Julia would be home alone.
I rang the doorbell.
The peephole darkened as someone looked through, then the door opened slowly. Julia stood there in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Genuine shock registered on her face when she saw me.
“Mr. Hayes? What are you doing here?”
“May I come in?” I asked
She hesitated, her hand tightening on the doorframe. For a second, I thought she might refuse, might close the door in my face and force me to find another way to confirm what I suspected. But then she stepped back, pulling the door wider.
“Sure. Yeah. Of course.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the interior of the house. “My grandmother’s not home, though. She won’t be back until late.”
“I know,” I said, stepping inside.
“Would you like something to drink?” Julia asked, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her hoodie. “Water? Tea? I think we have some soda in the fridge.”
“I’m fine, thank you.” I turned to face her fully, studying her expression. She looked nervous, but there was something else underneath—anticipation, maybe. Or fear. “I ran into your grandmother a few days ago. She was quite upset.”
Julia’s face went pale. “She—what did she say?”
“She’s worried about you. The late nights, the secrecy, the lying about where you’ve been.” I paused, watching her reaction carefully. “She seems to think you’ve gotten involved with someone inappropriate. An older man, specifically.”
“Oh god.” Julia’s hand flew to her mouth, embarrassment and horror mixing together. “She thinks—she told you that? What did she say? Did you—”
“I assured her nothing was happening between us,” I said calmly. “Which is true. Isn’t it, Julia?”
“Yes! Of course!” Her words tumbled out in a rush. “I would never—you’ve always been completely—I don’t know why she would think—”
“But there is something going on,” I continued, paying no attention to her stumbling words. “Isn’t there? Something that’s made you lie to your grandmother. Something that keeps you up late at night, gives you that light in your eyes when you think no one’s watching.”
She stared at me, and I watched several emotions flicker across her face in rapid succession—panic, confusion, and then something that looked almost like relief. Like she’d been holding her breath for months and was finally being given permission to exhale.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, but her voice wavered.
I took a step closer, and she didn’t retreat. “I think you do. I think you’ve been watching me for a while now, Julia. Following me. Leaving me messages.”
“Messages?”
“Letters,” I clarified. “Saying things that indicated you understood something about me that most people don’t.”
The color had drained completely from her face now, leaving her skin paper-white against the dark fabric of her hoodie.
“It’s okay,” I said softly. “I’m not angry. I’m not here to hurt you or threaten you. I just need to understand.”
For a long moment, she didn’t speak. She just looked at me with those too-bright eyes, and I could see her weighing her options, calculating the risk of honesty against the risk of continued deception.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “It was you, wasn’t it? The one who killed my father.”
The confirmation I’d been expecting still sent a jolt through my system. I kept my expression carefully neutral. “What makes you think that?”
“Because I know.” She took a shaky breath, her hands unclenching and then reclenching. “I know. Which is why I started watching you.”
She took a step toward me now, and I saw something in her eyes that made my skin prickle with unease.
There wasn’t fear there; it was fascination.
“I followed you. I wanted to be sure. Wanted proof that I wasn’t crazy, that you really were the one who’d saved me from him.
I’ve been documenting everything. Where you go, what you do.
Not to expose you,” she added quickly, seeing my expression.
“But to understand you. To learn from you.”
The room felt suddenly smaller, the walls pressing in. “Learn from me,” I repeated slowly.
“I want to be like you.” The words came out in a rush, urgent and desperate. “I want to do what you do—find the people who hurt others and make sure they can’t do it anymore.”
She moved closer still, and I could see the intensity burning in her eyes, the zealot’s conviction of someone who’d found purpose in the aftermath of trauma.
“I’ve been studying. Learning everything I can about forensic science, criminal investigation, how to avoid leaving evidence.
I’ve been planning, thinking about who deserves it next.
There’s a man who lives three blocks from here—everyone knows he touches the neighborhood kids, but no one will testify.
And there’s a woman who runs a daycare where children keep showing up with bruises, but the state keeps finding excuses not to shut her down. ”
“Julia.” I kept my voice level, though alarm bells were screaming in my head. “What you’re describing is murder. Premeditated murder.”
“It’s justice,” she corrected. “The same justice you gave my father. The same justice those other people got. Don’t you see? You showed me that there’s another way.”
“I never showed you anything,” I said firmly. “Whatever you think you know about me, whatever conclusions you’ve drawn—”