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Although it was the last thing I wanted to dwell on, I couldn’t help thinking that the little boy must have slept in the small room across from the big bathroom, closest to the den, while his grandparents had shared the bigger room at the end of the hall. That would have allowed him to sneak out undetected while his father murdered his wife and in-laws. I tried not to think too much about any of that, though. Instead, I focused on what I was doing, running my scorer up and down the walls, its tiny serrated wheel punching long lines of tiny holes in the wallpaper, making a soft scratching noise as it went.

But no; I’m stuck with kinky strands of reddish-blond crimps. I’d take Kate’s figure, too, if it came to it. She could give Marilyn Monroe a run for her money, whereas my figure is, if not exactly dainty, at least not swimsuit model material. “I’ve never had occasion to be here, no,” she answered, her native Bostonian accent underlying her words. My father was from Boston, and listening to Kate always reminds me of him. “I’m not the type to go gawking at crime scenes. Especially crimes that happened ten years or more before I moved here.

I shook my head. “It’s a great house. Big rooms, nice open feel. Once the blinds are down and the carpet’s up, it’ll look like a different place. I’m surprised it’s been sitting here gathering dust for seventeen years. ” “Two reasons,” Derek said, leaning his excellent posterior against the fake-wood kitchen counter. ” “Makes sense. ” He shook his head, causing a lock of sun-streaked hair to fall into his eyes. “I think it’s been long enough that some of the stigma has worn off. ” Flatlander is what a Mainer calls someone from the less mountainous New England states.