Sarah shook her head. “It’s all right. The truth is what it is.” She met Jerri Lynn’s curious gaze. “Yes. I saw several. I’ve seen more since. I guess my profession is a little gruesome, but it’s what I know better than I know anything else.”
Maybe that was a little more honest than she’d intended to be.
“Do the police have any clues about the killer?” Jerri Lynn wanted to know. “Everybody says they’re totally lost.”
“Unfortunately, no clues yet. But they’ll figure it out.” At least, not unless there was something Sarah didn’t know about yet. She’d been shut out of the Appleton briefing.
“I knew that curse stuff was crap.” Jerri Lynn scoffed at the idea. “The police are just too stupid to figure it out.” A pointed look from her father had her backpedaling. “Sorry. I guess they’re doing the best they can.”
“Do you think this case will go unsolved like the one from twenty years ago?” Lynda asked, her own curiosity showing.
Sarah weighed the question. “I think this case will go unsolved until they have some evidence or get extremely lucky.”
The evening dragged on another hour. Sarah used that time to further analyze the Popes. Jerald was difficult to read. Careful. Polite.The daughter was another story. Outspoken. Curious. The mother was a little jaded but honest. Sarah appreciated honesty.
When Sarah announced that it was time for her to go, Pope walked her to the door.
“You are a genuinely fascinating woman, Sarah Newton.” He helped her into her coat.
She’d worn the same black dress from dinner with the Conners. It was the only dress she’d brought on the trip. It was her stock packing item. Wrinkle-free, slinky material. No buttons, no zipper. Just stretchy, clingy material that looked elegant without maintenance.
“Thank you for dinner,” Sarah said to her host. “And for a pleasant distraction.”
“I would like to ask one last question,” Pope said before opening the door for her.
“Ask away.” Sarah looped her bag onto her shoulder.
“Do you believe that who we are is entirely genetic?”
That was easy. “Pretty much.”
“So you ultimately become some version of who your parents are or were?”
Sarah stiffened. She should have seen that one coming.
“To some degree,” she answered carefully. After all, she’d told him to ask. “Everyone does.” Her pulse reacted to an adrenaline charge. Her heart pounded. Her muscles tensed with the fight-or-flight response.
“If that’s true”—he pushed the issue when she was more than ready to let it go—“one with the misfortune of being born to parents who kill, could, in fact, become a killer simply by virtue of DNA.”
Sarah couldn’t respond for a pulse-pounding moment. She’d asked herself that question a million times. She’d researched the subject. Read every relevant published journal and book.
And the conclusions were always the same.
She could walk out the door and not answer the question. Instinct compelled her to play along. See where this went.
“Some say,” she ventured, “that we make our own choices regardless of DNA. Their opinion is that those who make the wrong choices use their genetic history as an excuse. Others insist that we do what we’re hardwired to do with no real free choice. Bottom line, in my assessment, inheriting the DNA of a killer puts the potential into play.”
He searched her eyes as if looking for her thoughts beyond her words. “That,” he said finally, “is a very heavy burden to wake up to each morning.”
Yes.
It was.
26
Sarah sat at the intersection of Calderwood Lane and Beauchamp Road.
She stared into the mist swirling around her headlights.
