“He was crazy all along,” Ginny said. “He must have been, to do what he did.”
“No, Ginny. He wasn’t crazy all along. He was troubled, but you made him crazy. He would have confessed to killing the child if he had killed it, Ginny. He needed to confess. He wanted to.”
“He blanked it out,” Ginny said. “You hear about people doing that all the time. When something’s too horrible for them to remember, they blank it out.”
“You were the only person who was gone, Ginny. The only person besides Stephen Harrow who wasn’t anywhere to be found in those two rooms, except for Carol and Stelle and Dinah, and they were together.”
“They say they were together. They could be lying for each other. They do a lot of lying up there at that camp. They’re all lesbians.”
“There isn’t anybody else, Ginny. There’s only you.”
“You can’t prove any of this,” Ginny said, straightening up. “It’s all—it’s all just a fantasy in your head.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Gregor said. “People say I’m so wonderful at solving crimes, but that isn’t really what I do best. What I do best is to find the evidence that’s needed to arrest and convict after the crime has been solved. That’s a much more useful talent.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
“North Carolina has the death penalty, Ginny.”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with me, either.”
“I think it does. I’ve never believed in the death penalty. I’ve always thought there were too many chances to make a mistake, to convict the wrong person, to execute the wrong person. But in your case, Ginny, those scruples would not apply. So I’ll tell you what.”
“I don’t want to hear any more,” Ginny said. “You have nothing to say to me.”
Gregor leaned forward and put his hands on the sides of Ginny’s chair. “Listen to me, Ginny. I am going to come back to North Carolina, and when I do, it’s going to be for one reason and one reason only. I am going to come back and watch you die.”
Ginny stood up, quickly, abruptly, almost making the chair topple and Gregor topple with it. “I’ve got some people I’ve got to talk to. I can’t say it’s been nice talking to you.”
Then she turned around and hurried off, pushing through knots of people with barely a nod of her head, half running, as if she had to get to the bathroom right this second or suffer something dire. Gregor watched her until she disappeared into a crowd of people. Then he went up to where David Sandler and Henry Holborn were still talking about cover copy and publicity releases and said, “I’ve got to go now, David. If I don’t hurry, I’ll miss my train.”
“I’ve got to drive you,” David said, standing up. “Henry, why don’t you come out to the house for dinner some night next week? We can go over all this. I’m sorry to have to rush off on you like this—”
“No, no,” Henry Holborn said. “You go right ahead. Mr. Demarkian is probably eager to get home.”
“I’m sure he’s glad he came,” David said. “Aren’t you, Gregor? Gregor loves to work on cases like this. It’s his life.”
Gregor shook Henry Holborn’s hand, said good-bye, and then stepped outside. David’s pickup truck was parked at the curb, with Gregor’s suitcase already in the back. Gregor started to walk around it to the passenger side door, and then he stopped.
Back on the tailgate, where David had once had a fish with feet and the word “Darwin” written inside, there was now no fish with feet. There was, however, a fish without feet, and what was written inside it was “Jesus.”
Gregor wondered how long it would take David Sandler, the most famous atheist in America, to notice.