Page 37 of Secrets Along the Shore

Dickson and Reuben both frowned.

“I don’t—” Dickson began, but I interrupted her.

“Listen to me. What drives a person to kill?”

“There’s a lot of reasons,” Dickson concluded.

“Tell me some,” I challenged.

Reuben obliged. “Money. Control. Mental illness. Thrill . . .”

I jumped in, using my hands to emphasize my theory. “There’s never been any ask for money, right?”

“No.” Dickson shook her head.

“So that’s out as a motive. Control, maybe, but . . . we can revisit that one. Mental illness?”

“Obviously a possibility,” Reuben broke in.

“Right. Caused by what? Often times mental illness is affected by someone’s upbringing. Their environment. It might make them feel out of control, or—unwanted—or—whatever. But it motivates them to do something.”

“Okay.” Reuben leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head, elbows sticking out. “So, you’re making the assumption that Sophia’s killer was raised in an abusive environment influenced by the women closest to him?”

“Yes.” I nodded.

“And you’re suggesting he’s recreating that family unit by abducting a grandmother figure, a mother figure, and—for the sake of argument—we’ll assume Sophia represents a sister?”

“Yes.” I leapt from my chair. It was too hard to sit down. The more I considered it, the stronger I felt I was moving in the right direction.

I looked over at Dickson, and I wasn’t surprised to see Sophia standing behind her. She smiled. Encouraging me to continue. To keep theorizing.

“Think about it,” I said. I was passionate now. “Lilian—grandmother type—loves dogs, helps out at retirement centers—she is the perfect picture of what we’d want as a grandmother.”

“We’d?” Reuben raised his eyebrow.

I ignored him. So what if I was internalizing this? Of course, I’d always wanted a grandmother. The kind that baked cookies and snuggled you up to watch a movie and read you stories for overnight slumber parties. “Rosalie,” I continued. “Smart woman, devoted mother, devoted wife, everything perfect about her. She runs a business, she makes it to her son’s games, she idolizes her daughter, and she’s got homemaking skills out the ying-yang. The perfect mother.”

And she was. Rosalie was exactly what I would have wished for had I had a mother who wasn’t a meth-head and deadbeat.

“And Sophia?” Dickson appeared to be tracking with me.

“I don’t know for sure, but I’d venture she wassupposedto be the perfect sister. But she disappointed him. That’s why he snapped. That’s why we found her body so easily. It wasn’t planned—it wasn’t supposed to happen. She was supposed to be a part of the recreated family dynamic.”

“Let’s assume this has even a minimal amount of truth to it,” Reuben inserted. “Why the snakes?”

I knew he wanted to tie this to me. To my case. And a part of me was grateful for his dedication to doing so. But I just didn’t see the similarities beyond the reptile.

“I don’t know why the snakes. They obviously mean something to him. I would guess connected to his upbringing.”

I glanced at Sophia.

She nodded again.

I smiled.

Dickson glanced over her shoulder, following my gaze.

I dropped my focus.