CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A woman—Bernard’s wife—is angrily packing a suitcase.
“Don’t go.” Bernard tugs on his messy beard, his hair disheveled around his tired face. “Please don’t.”
“I can’t live this way,” she says without looking at him. “That killer is more important to you than either me or your living daughter.”
A killer? What a pity. Sounds like the kidnapping I witnessed ended in the worst possible way.
Bernard’s hands tighten into fists, but instead of yelling at his wife—or worse—he turns on his heel and slams the door behind him so hard it nearly flies off the hinges.
He storms into his office, where I can see the scope of his obsession. The place is completely covered with newspaper clippings. On the wall is a map with pushpins, and there’s even a collection of milk cartons w
