Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
Henry’s brother, James, was hounded, just as she was, when the news broke.
He was forced to stand by as his own personal life was plundered and splashed across the papers.
He’d been imprisoned for grand theft auto several years prior, and the headlines made the most of Henry’s “criminal family past.” James had a family of his own, two young children and a wife, who found themselves targeted by journalists after the murders.
The last thing Beverley knew was that James’ wife had divorced him and taken the kids to live in New Zealand.
“I can’t talk about that, I’m afraid.”
Charles tugs at his tie and clasps his hands over his knee. “Well, okay, what would you like your children to know about their father?”
She holds his gaze for a second. His eyes are green, his cleanly shaven face tan and healthy; he looks like a man who plays a lot of golf.
There is the faintest hint of a smile lifting the corner of his mouth.
She recognizes the expression. It means he does not respect her.
It means he thinks he is better than her.
“I want—” she starts to say.
“No, no.” He waves his finger at her. “Say it to the camera.”
Her tongue brushes the front of her teeth, and the girl is there, the one in the advertisements, the one who did this all so easily so many years ago. She smiles, turns to face the lens. “I want them to know that he loved them very much.”
Charles raises his eyebrows again and shuffles his notes. “I’m sure the victims’ families will be very happy to hear that,” he says drily. “Well, thank you, Beverley, for coming in.”
No. It can’t end like that.
Charles shifts on the sofa, turning away from her and back to the cameras.
That can’t be it. She didn’t get to say anything she wanted to say. What about the investigation? The killer who is out there. What about Cheryl, Emily, Diane and Sarah? She can’t believe she squandered the opportunity, that she let herself get so flustered by his questions.
“Now, if you’ve ever wondered if a mongoose can surf,” Charles quips to the camera, “take a look at this.” Someone with a clipboard is shuffling toward Beverley, hunching over, reaching for the microphone on the lapel of her jacket.
No. Her head swivels from left to right. She can’t let that be it.
“Wait!”
Charles freezes midway through the text on his teleprompter and turns his head to her, his eyes wide in silent warning.
“Sorry, folks.” He turns back to the camera. “I think we’re just having some technical difficulties here.”
“I wasn’t finished.” The cameras swing back toward her. “There’s something else I need to say.”
Charles raises a hand to his neck and makes a subtle cut gesture to the camera, but he is ignored.
He clears his throat, turns back to her.
“Of course, Mrs. Lightfoot.” She can tell by the quivering muscles in his cheek that he is furious.
“It’s not often that we have people like yourself on the show. What is it you would like to add?”
She has the attention of everyone in the room now. They have stepped out from behind their cameras, lowered their clipboards to watch her intently.
She looks into the largest camera, trained on her face. She can see its lens expanding and zooming in. Closer, closer. She feels as if she could get lost in it, as if it might swallow her up entirely. She stares directly ahead and makes her voice as clear as possible.
“I have a message for the women of California.” This is what she practiced in the mirror. “The wives and the sisters and the girlfriends.”
Charles shifts on the couch. The producers share nervous glances.
“Be aware of who is out there on the streets.”
Charles nods, relieved, begins to turn back to the camera to start his mongoose segment again.
“And in your homes.”
Charles stiffens.
“Women are getting hurt.” Roger will be enraged if she reveals specific details of the case, but she cannot get into trouble for saying what has always been true, that women are not safe.
“Keep your doors locked and bolted,” she continues, staring straight down the lens. “Shut your windows at night, no matter how hot it gets outside. And keep an eye on the men in your life.”
Charles clears his throat beside her, but the camera does not move; it stays trained on her face.
“Watch your husbands, brothers and sons,” she continues.
“Even if he seems like an honorable man, is he acting differently? Is he cold, detached, prone to volatile mood swings or outbursts? Is he spending more time out of the house than normal? Have you found evidence of sexual digressions, perversions? Do you catch him making excuses? Is he tired, injured, secretive?”
“Hold on one moment there, Mrs. Lightfoot,” Charles finally interrupts her. “Are you saying women need to be afraid of all men?” He barks out a laugh. “Because that doesn’t really seem fair. Am I right?” He opens his arms and makes a show of looking around the studio for backup.
“Of course not,” Beverley stammers. “I just mean—”
“Santa Claus?” he taunts. “He’s a man. Should we fear God because he is male? The Easter Bunny—anyone have tabs on him?”
The camera moves from Beverley back to Charles, and she knows she’s blown it.
She wants to grab the lens and jolt it back to her, to tell California that there is someone out there on a spree, killing women.
She wants to tell them about the arrow, the tattooed knuckles, the designer coat and suspender stockings—all the shocking, strange details. But she has ruined her chance.
She is numb as staff swarm around her, removing her microphone and leading her through dark corridors and eventually out into the blinding California sun.
“Good luck, Mrs. Lightfoot,” a runner calls grimly as he turns and closes the studio doors, leaving Beverley alone on the stark, bright street.