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“It was just a bird, Zoë. You could see the feathers, surely?” It sounded as if he was kneeling by the mail slot now, because his voice was clearer.
She froze. He knew exactly what was bothering her, as if he had read her mind. She pictured again his beautiful face smeared with blood. Yes, she had remembered the feathers later. She had seen no body, no human body, only crushed feathers.
“I w
as hungry.” He sounded miserable.
She shuddered. What kind of person ate raw birds? Could he be that desperate and hungry? Was he homeless and destitute enough to do that? Her disgust was almost tempered with pity. Or was he really sick, crazy sick? The pity fled, and she was shaking again. There had been a body later on that night, in another place. She had read about it in the newspaper the next day. Her mouth was unbearably dry.
“If you’re sick enough to do that, you might do other things. You might be the killer they’re looking for.” There, it was out. Let him know she was on to him. She turned, hugged herself, and leaned with her back against the door.
“That’s not me!” He sounded indignant.
“Maybe not”—though she wasn’t sure about that—“but you’re weird.”
“I’ll grant you that,” he said quietly. There was silence just long enough to make her hope he’d left. She turned to the door again and cautiously bent down to the mail slot to look out.
“I know who the killer is.”
She jerked upright, sucking her breath in sharply. Was it him? Was he playing games with her? “Then tell the police.”
“They wouldn’t believe me.”
“Then why tell me?”
“I don’t know yet. I thought you could help.”
“Help what, for Christ’s sake? Bring him to justice?”
“I have to.” His voice was hoarse with emotion. She was shocked by the intensity of his feelings. She slowly crouched on the other side of the mail slot, trying to make sense of the confusion she felt. A minute ago she thought he was a crazed killer; now she was wondering if he wasn’t an aspiring, lunatic vigilante. God knows what was pushing him so hard. Was it delusion?
“Why do you care so much?” she asked, almost before she realized she was speaking out loud.
“He killed my mother.” The voice broke.
My God, Zoë thought. I believe him. I don’t want to, but I do.
“He’s the cause of my loneliness.”
Tears stung her eyes.
“But you’ve been spying on me.” Dammit, she wasn’t going to feel sorry for him; he was dangerous, crazy. “You were on my back steps. Why?”
He didn’t even try to deny it. “Because you talked to me, and I felt like a person again. Maybe I hoped to catch a glimpse of you through the window. Maybe I hoped you would come out, and we could talk again. I don’t know. Perhaps being close to you made me feel safe and real. Zoë, please let me in. I need you.”
She could feel the truth of it in his voice. If she turned from him, would it be an act of cowardice, another hospital room she couldn’t cross?
She stood up and pulled back the dead bolt. Oh, God, she thought, I’m letting a crazy boy into the house, a crazy boy who eats birds. She slowly opened the door.
He was tall and slim. Beneath his tight black jeans and leather jacket she could sense lean, powerful muscles. Motionless, yet taut with energy, he was like a dancer a breath before movement. His dark clothing emphasized the pallor of his finely sculptured face and the ashy silver of his hair, fluffed to an almost airy, spiky texture. He reminded her of a thoroughbred animal gone feral. His eyes glittered to match the sparkling of the metal studs in the jacket he wore. She couldn’t tell if it was just the light, or if he had tears in his eyes, like she did. But he winced as if the light from the house were too bright, and averted his face before she could tell for sure. That’s when she noticed he was carrying something under his arm. It appeared to be a painting.
He held out a slender hand to her, but he made no move to enter. “You have to invite me in,” he said. “I can’t come in unless you ask.” He waited for her answer with eyes lowered.
There was probably a name for this type of behavior in psychology textbooks, she decided. “Come in, Simon.”
A smile lit his face, although he seemed too shy to look at her.
That face could break a heart, she thought. It was suddenly hard to think of him as a murderer.
