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She didn’t answer.
“In the hospital, you said your dad had an old gasmask. Do you know where it is now?”
“It went missing.”
“How long ago?”
“I don’t know.”
“Has Tate been acting differently recently?”
She pulled a face of disgust. “He was kidnapped by a—”
“Before that. Has his behavior changed?”
“People he knew were dying. He was upset, that’s how I know this isn’t him. If it was … he wouldn’t have cried. He wouldn’t have been asking me whether they were in pain, and screamed himself awake in the night thinking he couldn’t breathe.”
“Do you have a key to Tate’s room?” Chad asked, risking another step into the house.
“I need to ask his permission. I need him here to explain it or else you’ll jump to stupid conclusions.”
There was a tremble in her voice and a shake in her hand.
“Explain what?”
“I can’t…”
“Show me,” Chad whispered. “Or I’ll call the station, and you’ll have to showeveryone.”
Chapter Seventeen
Tate’s bedroom door was enough to set off alarm bells in Chad’s head.
Three shiny metal numbers.
213.
Eleanor flashed him a guilty look before producing a key.
She clutched it while biting her lip.
“You know who had that room number, right?” Chad asked.
She nodded, stepping up to the door.
“Tate’s a true crime fanatic?”
Eleanor didn’t answer him. She opened the bedroom door and let Chad see for himself. He strode into the room, only to stop by the desk, and just look.
The curtains were drawn, putting shadows on all the photographs, pictures, and news articles on the walls.
Familiar killers stared back at him, black and white print outs to the full high definition of Romeo’s mug shot. Romeo was pinned between Vincent Whitehall and Doctor Carter he got from the hospital website.
“I’m sorry about what he did to you.”
Chad twisted to look at Eleanor. “What?”
“Romeo. My son might be interested in this, but that doesn’t mean he condones it.”
