Author/Uploaded by Peter Swanson
Contents Cover Title Page Dedication Contents Part 1: The Tender Age of Murderers Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 ...
Contents Cover Title Page Dedication Contents Part 1: The Tender Age of Murderers Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Part 2: The Third Person Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Part 3: Dirty Work Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Acknowledgments About the Author Also by Peter Swanson Copyright About the Publisher v vii 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270 271 272 273 274 275 276 277 278 279 280 281 282 283 284 285 286 287 288 289 290 291 292 293 294 295 296 297 298 299 300 301 302 303 304 305 ii iii vi Guide Cover Contents Part 1: The Tender Age of Murderers Dedication To David Highfill Part 1The Tender Age of Murderers Chapter 1 Kimball “Do you remember me?” she asked, after stepping into my office. “I do,” I said, before I could actually place her. But she was familiar, and for a terrible moment I wondered if she was a cousin of mine, or a long-ago girlfriend I’d entirely forgotten. She took a step inside the room. She was short and built like an ex-gymnast, with wide shoulders and strong-looking legs. Her face was a circle, her features—blue eyes, pert nose, round mouth—bunched into the middle. She wore dark jeans and a tweedy brown blazer, which made her look as though she’d just dismounted a horse. Her shoulder-length hair was black and glossy and parted on one side. “Senior honors English,” she said. “Joan,” I said, as though the name had just come to me, but of course she’d made this appointment, and given me her name. “I’m Joan Whalen now, but I was Joan Grieve when you were my teacher.” “Yes, Joan Grieve,” I said. “Of course, I remember you.” “And you’re Mr. Kimball,” she said, smiling for the first time since she’d entered the room, showing a row of tiny teeth, and that was when I truly remembered her. She had been a gymnast, a popular, flirtatious, above-average student, who’d always made me vaguely uncomfortable, just by the way she’d said my name, as though she had something on me. She was making me vaguely uncomfortable, now, as well. My time as a teacher at Dartford-Middleham High School was a time I was happy to forget. “You can call me Henry,” I said. “You don’t seem like a Henry to me. You still seem like a Mr. Kimball.” “I don’t think anyone has called me Mr. Kimball since the day I left that job. Did you know who I was when you made this appointment?” “I didn’t know, but I guess I assumed. I knew that you’d been a police officer, and then I heard about . . . you know, all that happened . . . and it made sense that you were now a private detective.” “Well, come in. It’s nice to see you, Joan, despite the circumstances. Can I get you anything? Coffee or tea? Water?” “I’m good. Actually, no, I’ll have a water, if you’re offering.” While I pulled a bottle of water from the mini fridge that sat in the south corner of my two-hundred-square-foot office, Joan wandered over to the one picture I had on my wall, a framed print of a watercolor of Grantchester Meadows near Cambridge in England. I’d bought it on a trip a number of years ago not because I’d particularly liked the artwork but because one of my favorite poems by Sylvia Plath was called “Watercolor of Grantchester Meadows,” so I thought it would be a clever thing to own. After I’d rented this office space, I dug out the print because I wanted a calming image on my wall, the way dentists’ offices and divorce lawyers’ always display