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“Yes.”

“And killed the poor girls.”

I nod. “You understood,” I say. “You sympathized.”

“Of course.”

“Because you’ve done the same.”

I lean back. I put a hand into my pocket.

“Where is Arlo Sugarman?” she asks.

“I could just turn him in,” I say.

“You could, yes.”

“But you’d rather I not.”

The room falls silent. We are right on that edge now.

I say, “You know what happened to Lionel Underwood, don’t you?”

She doesn’t reply.

“It was too much for Leo Staunch. He didn’t want anyone else to endure what Lionel Underwood had. So he asked me to help him protect Arlo Sugarman. I found that odd.”

“As do I,” she says.

“No, not that he didn’t want to hurt Arlo—I got that.” I lean closer and lower my voice. “But why did Leo only ask about Arlo?”

“I’m not following.”

“Why,” I continue, “didn’t he ask me about Billy Rowan and Edie Parker?” I sit back. “It kept nagging at me, but the answer was obvious.”

“What’s that?”

“Leo Staunch didn’t ask about Billy and Edie,” I say, “because he knew they were already dead.”

Silence again fills the room, pushes out, suffocates.

“It is funny how so many of the early theories ended up being the correct ones,” I say. “Take the Jane Street Six. After Lake Davies turned herself in, there were only five. How, everyone wondered, could the remaining members have managed to stay hidden all these years? One person? Okay. Two? Unlikely, but perhaps. But all five of them alive and unseen for all these years? Now we know the answer, don’t we? Lionel Underwood has been dead for more than forty years. Nero Staunch took care of that. And Billy and Edie have been dead even longer. You saw to that, Ms. Hogan.”

Vanessa doesn’t reply. She just sits there with the sickly-sweet smile.

“You are eighty-three years old,” I say. “You are ill. You want to tell someone the truth, and you see me as a kindred spirit. You have my phone—I would have no proof anyway. Do you fear I will report what you say to the FBI?”

Vanessa Hogan’s eyes lock hard on mine. “I don’t fear anything, Mr. Lockwood.”

Of this I have no doubt.

“They stole my life.” Her voice is a pained and harsh whisper. She takes in a deep breath. I watch her chest rise and fall, taking in oxygen, gaining strength. “My only son, my Frederick…When I first heard he was dead, it felt like somebody had whacked me with a baseball bat. I dropped to the floor. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. My life ended. Just like that. All that love I had for that boy, the precious beautiful boy, it didn’t die. It turned to rage. Right there.” She shakes her head, her eyes dry. “Without that rage, I don’t think I would have ever stood up.”

There is a water bottle next to her with a straw. She lifts it to her lips, and her eyes close.

“I became consumed with justice. You, Mr. Lockwood, you worry about stopping bad people before they commit more crimes. What you do is admirable and even practical—you stop crimes. You prevent more people from having to go through the horror of what happened to Frederick and me. But that wasn’t my motivation. I didn’t think or even care if the Jane Street Six did it again. I had that rage. I had that rage—and I had to put it somewhere.”

“Tell me what you did next,” I say.

“Research,” she replies. “Do you research your enemies, Mr. Lockwood?”

“I do.”

“I learned that three of the six came from religious families—Billy Rowan, Lake Davies, and Lionel Underwood. I also figured that they were scared, trying to find a way to come in from the cold. So I made that pitiful religious appeal on television. And I prayed—no joke—that one of them would call me.”

“And one did call you,” I say.

“Billy Rowan. That part was true, just like I told everyone. He came in the kitchen door.”

“What happened next?”

“That baseball bat. A literal one rather than figurative. I hid it next to the refrigerator. Billy was sitting at my kitchen table. I asked if he wanted a Coke. He said yes, please. So polite. Hands folded in his lap. Crying. Telling me how sorry he was. But I had planned this. He had his back to me. I took the bat and whacked him in the skull. Billy’s whole body shuddered. I hit him again. He teetered on the chair and then fell to the linoleum. I hit him again and again. That rage. That burning rage. It was finally being fed—you’ve felt that?”

I nod.

“Billy was on the floor. Bleeding. Eyes closed. I raised the bat over my head again. Like an axe. It felt so good, Mr. Lockwood. You know. Beforehand I’d worry that the actual act would make me queasy. But my God, it was the opposite. I was enjoying myself. I was idly wondering how many more blows it would take to kill him when I suddenly had a better idea.”

“That being?”

Vanessa Hogan smiles again. “Find out what he knows.”

“Makes sense,” I agree.

“I called Nero Staunch. We had met in Lower Manhattan at a meeting for the victims’ families. I asked him to come alone. The two of us dragged Billy down into my basement. We tied him to a table, then we woke him. Nero used a power drill with a narrow bit. He started on Billy’s toes. Then he moved to his ankles. At first, Billy claimed he didn’t know where the others were—they had all split up. Nero didn’t buy it. It took some time. Billy loved Edie Parker. Did you know they were engaged?”

“I did, yes.”

“So Billy tried to hang on, which only made it worse. Inevitably, the truth came out. He didn’t know about the others, but he and Edie were hiding together. They planned on turning themselves in. And you’re correct, Mr. Lockwood—those two didn’t throw cocktails that night. They’d planned to, he admitted, but when the bus went over the railing, they all just ran.