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Dad’s eyebrows furrowed. “Dominic Hopkins?”
I nodded.
“The kid that used to live a few blocks from us?” Another nod. “Why?”
“Because the Vigilante is a psychopathic serial killer.”
“Did you get hurt?” Dad’s widened eyes combed over my face. I hid my bandaged hand beneath the table.
“I’m fine. The Vigilante ran off a few seconds after I saw him,” I assured, leaving out the part where I’d gotten stitches. Also leaving out the part where Franco seemed to think I’d taken something from Dominic as he lay dying.
“But you actually cameface-to-facewith the Windy City Vigilante?”
Uh-oh.
“Only for a few seconds.”
Dad’s voice rose higher. “What if he’s worried you could identify him?”
“He wore a mask.”
He leaned forward. “Yeah, but what if he’s second-guessing leaving a witness behind that might be able to help police ID him?”
Dad hadn’t seen the press conference then, where I publicly put pressure on the city to hunt him down. Guess I’d file that little nugget away for a later time.
“I have no idea who the guy is,” I assured. Though I’d been wondering about it ever since.
Surely, he was some stranger I’d never met, but when one comes face-to-face with a masked killer, one can’t help but look at the people in her circle and wonder. No matter how statistically unlikely it was.
A guard escorted another prisoner into this visiting room. My mind was spinning…
“How tall would you say Rodney is?”
Rodney—Charlotte’s father. My dad’s former cellmate and only friend. According to my dad, Rodney was always professing his innocence and spiraled into anger, often griping about guilty men walking free while Rodney was serving time for grand theft auto—a crime he didn’t commit.
I’d seen him once, on the other side of the visitor room, but he’d gotten out a couple of years ago. Right around the time the Vigilante started his crimes.
“Rodney isn’t the Vigilante.” Dad leaned back in his chair. “He’s a family man.”
Maybe he was before the justice system ruined his life.
“I know, but how tall? Six two?”
My dad looked down, and winced when he moved the wrong way. “How tall was the Vigilante?”
“You first.”
Dad’s mouth pursed. “Six four. How tall was the Vigilante?”
“Same height.”
Plus, Rodney had the same build as the Vigilante, and it would explain the Vigilante’s motive—seeing criminals getting off scot-free while Rodney had served time.
Come to think of it, why hadn’t Sean ever explored the case of the Vigilante for his podcast? It would make for one heck of a true crime episode. Maybe even a string of them, trying to solve the identity of the masked criminal.
“Rodney isn’t the Windy City Vigilante.” Dad shook his head.
I was glad Dad was so certain because I wasn’t. But maybe that was silly. Chicago had three million people in it. The odds I knew the man behind the mask were slim to none.
