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Bonita nodded. She had one hand self-consciously clasped over her scarred wrist, forearm turned in. Both maids had worn long-sleeved uniforms, D.D. realized now. She wondered what other damages they had to hide.
Whatever had happened to Martha Counsel, D.D. wasn’t feeling very sorry about it anymore. Nor did she have any sympathy for the mayor’s show of crocodile tears. Best she could tell, they’d both made a deal with the devil. Apparently, last night the devil had come to collect his due.
Reap what you sow, she thought. Except how did a demon man with a penchant for knife games and torture figure in to Martha’s illegal kidney operation?
They had learned much in the past twenty-four hours, but it still wasn’t enough.
Bonita had returned to the console. She was drawing again. Slower now. Her posture had changed. Her shoulders slumped, her black hair falling around her like a curtain. There was sorrow in every line of her body. If D.D. didn’t know differently, she would’ve sworn that the crayon was crying in the girl’s hand, weeping tears of wax across the page.
Blue, then red, so much red.
D.D. braced herself as Bonita finally rose, produced her third rendition.
A flowing river of blue into a sea of red. D.D. felt her throat close up just looking at it. Pain, suffering, and sorrow.
Bonita might not be able to talk, but her artwork communicated volumes.
D.D. took the paper, her fingers trembling. She held it back, let her eyes blur, then focus, then blur again.
The river of blue had a form. Slowly but surely, she could see it. A woman’s body in a blue dress, sprawled across the floor. Into the pool of red. Blood.
D.D. looked up. “Is this Hélène?”
Head shake.
“Is this what you’re afraid will happen to her?”
Another head shake.
D.D. paused, considered. “Is this another girl? Another maid?”
Nod.
“She died.”
Nod.
“You saw.”
Double nod.
“The demon did it?”
Head shake.
“Mrs. Counsel, Mayor Howard?” Head shake, head shake. “The cook?” Head shake.
D.D. pursed her lips, running out of ideas. Good God, how many killers were they talking about in this community? “But you saw her die?”
Nod.
“Recently?”
Vigorous nod.
“Past few days?” D.D. attempted.
Definite nod.
D.D. paused again. So they had another murder. This time of a maid from the B&B. But before Martha Counsel. So first a maid, then the owner. All in the past few days—meaning, right after the taskforce arrived.
She held this picture on her lap. She traced the blue form as gently as Bonita had traced the shadows.
If these pictures were to be believed, this town was a graveyard of young women. How many bodies now dotted these woods?
And how many killers? How deep did this kind of coercion run?
“Thank you, Bonita,” D.D. said softly. “I think now... I’ll check on our pizza. Then both of us need to sleep.”
