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  So I thought of a different story, a much simpler one. I would tell everyone that I had become terrified of Detective Henry Kimball, who had been following me for over a week. I would tell them I had spotted him several times—that part was true—and that I had begun to fear for my life. If they asked me why I didn’t call the police, I would tell them that he was the police. I’d tell them that I’d taken to traveling with my stun gun and my small knife, and that on the day in question, I’d driven out to my favorite cemetery in Concord. When I’d spotted him there, I’d panicked, attacked him with the knife. I knew it was the wrong thing to do, but I wasn’t thinking straight. It was a moment of insanity, brought on by stress.

  And that was the story I’d told, first to the arresting officer who questioned me at the Concord Police Station where I was booked for attempted murder, then later that same evening to Detective Roberta James, the woman who had saved Detective Kimball’s life. I tried to glean from the interview whether Kimball and Detective James had both been following me in concert, or whether the female detective had just stumbled upon the scene. I had been so positive that Kimball was following me on his own, and not in a professional capacity. It was clear that he’d become obsessed with me, and it was only a matter of time before he started looking into every facet of my life. I’d already given him Eric Washburn’s name, and no doubt he’d checked records and discovered that we were together when he died. I had started to panic a little, and the thought occurred to me that if he really was following me on his own, then I could simply lure him to an isolated spot, and take care of the problem. I thought of the cemetery I’d been to with Ted Severson. I’d never seen anyone else there, and yet it was fairly open. If Detective Kimball followed me to Concord he could see me in the cemetery from the town below. I’d stare for a long time at one grave, and hope that he would visit it himself. Then I’d simply wait for him.

  It worked perfectly, until Detective James showed up.

  I felt confident in my story. I would probably wind up temporarily in jail, or in a psychiatric institution, but I doubted very much that I would be put away for any considerable length of time. My biggest concern was just how much digging they would do into Miranda’s death and Brad’s disappearance. I had no alibi for that night, but why would I? It was late on a Tuesday night, and I lived alone. Even if they questioned my mother, I thought it was a very slim chance that she would mention my needing a ride to southern Maine. I thought it was a very slim chance that she’d even remember it.

  While thinking of my mother, I heard the unoiled hinge of the door at the end of the hall creak open, and recognized my mother’s hectoring voice. I heard the word bail and the word ridiculous. Both my parents were brought to my barred door by the same officer who had brought me my lunch. My mother looked outraged, my father looked old and frightened. “Oh, darling,” my mother said.

  Three days later, the day before my bail review, I was brought to an interrogation room after my breakfast of microwaved eggs and potatoes. I’d been to the room before, a windowless box, its walls painted a harsh industrial white.

  Detective James entered, announcing her presence and the current time to the camera mounted in the room’s high corner.

  “How are you, Ms. Kintner?” she asked, after taking a seat.

  “I’ve been better,” I said. “How’s Detective Kimball?”

  She paused, pursing her lips, and I caught her eyes flickering toward the rectangle of one-way glass that stretched across one of the room’s walls. I wondered if he was watching this interrogation.

  “He’s recovering,” she said. “He’s very lucky to be alive.”

  I nodded but chose to say nothing.

  “I have some follow-up questions for you, Ms. Kintner. First off, you said in our previous interview that you’d spotted Detective Kimball following you on a number of occasions prior to the Sunday when you traveled to Concord to visit the cemetery. Can you tell me what those occasions were?”

  I told her about the times I’d spotted Detective Kimball following me. Once in Winslow town center, and once I’d seen him in his car driving slowly past my driveway. She asked me about my relationship with Ted Severson, and my reasons for going up to Kennewick after his death. I told her the same things I’d told Kimball.

  “So what you’re telling me,” she said, “is that when you had crucial information on a murder that had taken place, you chose to withhold that information from the police and go investigate the crime yourself? Then later, when you believed that a police detective who was just doing his job was following and harassing you, you decided to murder him? You have some very interesting solutions to your problems.”

  “I didn’t decide to murder Detective Kimball.”

  “Well, you did decide to put a knife in him.”

  I didn’t say anything. Detective James stared across the table at me. I wondered if there was something going on between her and Kimball, something romantic, but I doubted it. She was almost beautiful—with the bone structure and the tall, lanky body of a model—but there was something fierce and predatory about Detective James. Maybe it was just the way she was staring at me right now, as though she could see straight through me and out the other side.

  The silence hung there, and I thought that Detective James had run out of questions. Then she said: “Detective Kimball told me that you spoke to him right before you stabbed him. Do you remember what it was you said?”

  I did remember, but I shook my head. “Honestly,” I said, “I barely remember anything from that afternoon. I think I’ve blacked it out.”

  “How convenient for you,” she said, and stood and walked out of the room.

  I was left alone for what felt like thirty minutes. I wasn’t wearing a watch, and there were no clocks in the room, so I wasn’t sure. I remained in my seat, tried to keep my face expressionless. I knew I was being watched through the glass, analyzed, talked about. It was like I was tied down naked, being pawed at by a bunch of dirty hands. But I knew that if I stuck to my story, and if Brad’s body was never found, they wouldn’t be able to keep me here forever. I would get my life back, or a life back, at least. And I would never make the same mistakes again. I wouldn’t let people in. It only led to trouble.

  The door opened, and Detective Kimball came in. He wore his usual outfit, a tweedy blazer and a pair of jeans, but he had a week’s worth of beard, and his skin was pale. He moved gingerly toward the chair, but didn’t sit on it, placing one of his hands on its back instead, and fixing me with a stare that seemed more curious than angry.

  “Detective,” I said.

  “I know you remember what you said to me,” he said. “Right before you stabbed me.”

  “I don’t remember. What did I say?”

  “You said ‘I’m sorry.’”

  “Okay. If you say so.”

  “Why would you say that, if you were scared of me, if you thought I was stalking you?”

  I shook my head at him.

  “I will find out what you don’t want me to find out,” he said. “I don’t know where it is, or what it is, but I’ll find it.”

  “I hope you do,” I said, and stared into his eyes. I thought he’d break contact, but he didn’t. “I’m glad you’re okay,” I said, and I actually meant it.

  “Well, at this point, it’s probably best for you that I am.”

  I didn’t say anything else, and he kept looking at me. I searched for the hatred in his eyes, but didn’t see it.

  The door punched open with a loud bang, and a man in a suit I hadn’t seen before slammed into the room. He was middle-aged, and hefty, with a gray mustache. “Out, Detective, right now.” Henry Kimball turned slowly away from me, then walked briskly out of the room, the man holding the door for him. Before the door latched behind them, I heard the man’s loud voice again: “Jesus Christ, what the fuck were—” I was left again in silence.

  That evening, after I’d been returned to my cell, my lawyer visited me, pulling up a
chair outside the bars on my door. “You had an unexpected visitor today,” she said. She was doing something strange with her face, and I realized that she was trying not to smile.

  “You mean Detective Kimball.”

  “Yes. I hear he barged into an interrogation room. You shouldn’t have been there alone, in the first place. You can always request to have me present for questioning.”

  “I know.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wanted to know if I remembered what I’d said before I stabbed him, and I told him that I didn’t remember anything about it, which is true. And he said he was going to find out what I was trying to hide.”

  Now my lawyer really was smiling, and I noticed, for the first time, that she had those almost invisible plastic braces along the bottom row of her teeth. “Sorry,” she said. “I know it must have been upsetting for you, and it never should have happened. Henry Kimball has been officially suspended from the police department. It was going to happen anyway, believe me.”

  “So, he was definitely acting alone in following me?”

  “Oh, yeah. We knew that already. His partner was keeping an eye on him because she was worried about his mental health—he’d admitted to her the night before that he was following you in his spare time. She thought he was getting obsessed. So the next day she drove over to see him, and wound up following him herself. That led her to Concord.

  “Not only that, but apparently they found some things he’d written about you when he was taken to the hospital. Poetry.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “It’s pretty incriminating. I don’t think Detective Kimball will ever work for a police department again.”

  “So what does all this mean?” I asked.

  Her cell phone must have vibrated because she pulled it out of her blazer pocket, punched a button, and put it away again. “I don’t want to get your hopes up, Lily, but I think we can make some sort of deal here. I need to ask you how you’d feel about a psychiatric evaluation, and maybe spending some time in a hospital working on anger management issues.”

  I told her that I’d be happy to agree to that.

  “Good,” she said. “We’re moving forward here.” She looked up at me, smiled again. “One way or another, I don’t think you’ll be spending much more time in here.” She stood, then dug into her bulging briefcase. “I almost forgot, you got another letter. They gave it to me upstairs.”

  She slid the envelope through the slot where my meals were delivered to my cell. It was another letter from my father. In the three days since I’d last seen him, he’d sent me three letters. “Thanks,” I said.

  My lawyer left and I sat back down on my cot, not opening the letter immediately. I took a moment. The news was so much better than I thought. I was going to get my life back. Maybe not right away, but eventually. I opened the letter, looking forward to reading it. My father had been writing me letters since I was a little girl, and they always cheered me up.

  My dearest Lil,

  Your mother is off teaching her adult ed class (her only bloody income!) this evening so I’m here at home microwaving a frozen lasagna. Apparently this takes fifteen minutes so I’ll jot down another letter. I spoke with your lawyer this morning and she said all sorts of hopeful things that made it sound as though you might be free to return to your life sooner rather than later. We can hope.

  It feels as though it’s about ten at night but it’s only five! The nights get dark early here. I’m enjoying a lovely cocktail I’ve just invented. One tall glass of water topped up with about two fingers of scotch. In essence, a whiskey-flavored water. Very tasty, and I can drink it morning to night without ever getting in any way impaired. On the plus side, I am also never completely sober at any point during the day, yet I wake up the next day feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I wish I’d discovered this drinking method years ago. I would have patented it and made a fortune.

  The microwave has dinged at me, and my drink needs refreshing. Your mother mentioned something about her driving us up this weekend to see you. Until then—“HANG IN THERE,” said the kitten dangling from the branch.

  Cheers darling,

  Daddy

  Oh, PS. I forgot to tell you in my last letter, but I have some bad news. The old Bardwell farm next door has been sold to a teenaged hedge fund manager from the city. He’s leveling the place and building a sort of weekend flophouse with about fifty-seven rooms. The bulldozers have begun to arrive. I’m only telling you because I know you loved that little meadow next to the farm and I’m afraid they’re going to tear the whole thing up tomorrow. Your mother has suddenly become an outraged environmentalist. Sorry for the bad news. For all I know you’re wondering what the hell I’m even talking about. See you soon, Lil. Daddy loves you, and always will, no matter what.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photograph by Jim Ferguson

  PETER SWANSON is the author of The Girl with a Clock for a Heart. He has degrees from Trinity College, the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, and Emerson College. He lives with his wife in Somerville, Massachusetts, where he is at work on his next novel.

  Facebook.com/PeterMSwanson @PeterSwanson3

  www.Peter-Swanson.com

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  ALSO BY PETER SWANSON

  The Girl with a Clock for a Heart

  CREDITS

  Cover design by Amanda Kain

  Cover photograph © by Vanessa Ho / Trevillion Images

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  THE KIND WORTH KILLING. Copyright © 2015 by Peter Swanson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  FIRST EDITION

  ISBN 978-0-06-226752-8

  EPub Edition February 2015 ISBN 9780062267542

  1516171819OV/RRD10987654321

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