Page 48 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

Historic Yorktown is splendidly decorated, strands of LEDs spangling lampposts and trees. Men dressed as American Revolutionary soldiers march along Main Street, the stirring fife-and-drum music reverberating. Gift shops, art galleries and museums are crowded this sunny Christmas afternoon.

When Lucy would visit during my Richmond years, we’d explore all sorts of places, each trip an education.

She’d look up details in advance, and I’d quiz her in the car.

If she got all the answers right, we’d stop for lunch at the restaurant of her choice.

Naturally, she never missed a question, and we always ended up at Wendy’s.

Beyond woods is Georgine Duvall’s cloistered neighborhood on a sheer cliff overlooking the York River. Her old frame house is one-story and small, painted dark green with a slate roof.

“Anybody hungry?” Hank asks, pulling into the paved driveway.

“Yes,” we reply as he parks by the front porch.

He says there’s a Raising Cane’s fried chicken restaurant close by, and we give him our order. An elderly man steps out of the house on the left, shielding his eyes from the sun as it settles lower on the horizon. He stares long and hard at us before walking back inside, shutting the door.

It’s all over the news that Georgine was murdered by the Phantom Slasher. I can imagine the uneasiness of her neighbors.

“Are you coming in?” Benton asks Hank.

“No, sir,” he says. “I’ve been inside already, and it’s a shoebox. I don’t want to get in the way.”

“The place has been searched,” Benton assumes.

“We’re all squared away.”

“Do we need to suit up in PPE?” I ask.

“I don’t see any reason for that,” he tells us. “It’s obvious nobody’s been in here since she was last. And we’ve had the place under surveillance since we were notified about her murder.”

“What about while you were picking us up?” Benton asks. “Because we have to worry about other people who might be interested in her records.”

“See that car in the driveway across the street?” Hank points at a white Volvo sedan. “One of ours.”

The car is backed in, the engine off, and I can see the silhouette of someone in the driver’s seat. Benton and I open our doors, climbing out.

“Off to rustle up lunch.” Hank shifts the SUV out of park. “Call if you run into problems.”

He drives away as Benton unlocks the front door with the key Lucy gave him, and the air inside is chilly and stale. No doubt Georgine turned down the heat before leaving for Mercy Island. I turn on the overhead lights and open the draperies in the living area.

Ceilings are low, the paneling stained dark, everything I see tired and dreary except the view.

I look out at trees leading to the sheer face of the cliff, and beyond the river as wide as a bay.

Between two windows overlooking the water is an antique partner’s desk with a printer on it.

The computer that went with it is gone, seized by the FBI.

I find the thermostat, turning up the temperature.

“We’re probably going to need to wear our coats until it warms up in here,” I tell Benton as the heat clunks on, dusty warm air blowing from vents.

It’s unspoken that we’re going to look around before anything else.

We start with the kitchen, small with coppertone appliances that haven’t been updated in decades.

There’s nothing inside the refrigerator except condiments, water and wine.

Georgine must have cleared out everything perishable before leaving for Mercy Island.

I don’t see rare art, nothing on the walls, and the furniture is old but not grand like the antiques she had in Charlottesville. A bookcase is double shelved with out-of-date psychiatric, legal and other professional tomes. She has books on philosophy, sociology and woke culture.

We follow the hallway to the main bedroom, and it would have a fabulous view of the river were the drapes not drawn.

I duck inside the bathroom, detecting the faint scent of potpourri in a dish on top of the toilet.

Making my usual inspection of cupboards and the medicine cabinet, I find nothing of consequence.

Everything I see is cheap or drearily antiquated, and I’m constantly reminded that Georgine had no money, only what Calvin Willard gave her. I can only imagine how bad that must have made her feel. I suspect that after a while he whittled away any self-respect she had.

Across from her bedroom is a guestroom big enough for a twin bed and a dresser. I open the closet, men’s shirts, several jackets and pairs of pants hanging. On the floor are sneakers and cowboy boots. In a drawer are William & Mary sweatshirts and T-shirts, and socks and boxer shorts.

“Where Zain stayed when he was here,” I gather.

“The poor kid never stood a chance,” Benton says. “She and his uncle emotionally hobbled him forever. For all practical purposes, he was their hostage.”

We return to the living area, focused on a row of low metal filing cabinets lining the wall on either side of the desk. I count eleven of them, my heart sinking. I don’t know what I’m looking for, having little idea where to begin.

“Nothing to do but open one drawer after the other, seeing what’s inside,” I tell Benton.

“Let’s just hope she has actual names on files and not cryptic numbers,” he says.

“Georgine didn’t strike me as cryptic,” I reply. “She also wasn’t careful. Not about her security or her finances. Not to mention whatever she had going on with Graden Crowley and Calvin Willard.”

The house is warming up fast, and we take off our jackets. Benton starts with one end of the cabinets while I work the other, opening a drawer, the creamy files tightly packed inside. They’re labeled with names penned in Georgine’s generous scrawl, last name first.

I look for the obvious, starting with W and finding nothing for Willard.

“Dammit.” I tell Benton what’s not here. “I’ll check for Zain just in case.”

I walk my fingers through that drawer, having no better luck.

“What else might it be under?” I wonder.

“Unless she has it hidden somewhere,” Benton supposes. “Which would make sense considering who his uncle is.”

The front door opens, and Hank is here with our food and drinks. He sets bags and a cup carrier on the coffee table out of the way of the piles we’re perusing.

“Enjoy,” he says, leaving as abruptly as he appeared.

The food smells delicious, and we unwrap everything, eating as we work.

“Confirm for me how Zain is related to Calvin Willard?” I tear open a packet of ketchup.

“His mother is Calvin’s sister.” Benton devours a chicken finger.

“Then her family name is Willard,” I reply.

“Correct.” Benton has pulled a file and is flipping through it, sipping iced tea through a straw.

“Then why is Zain’s last name Willard?” I eat several French fries. “Who was his father?”

“Let me check the background report.” Benton sets the open file on top of a cabinet.

He searches his phone for the results of an investigation that qualified Zain to work in the White House. And I don’t understand that like so many things.

“How is it that his psychiatric issues never came up? How could he keep his cutting and other problems from everyone?” I wipe my hands with a napkin.

“I think you heard it for yourself. Calvin Willard has made sure everything was off the radar. And if people knew anything, he’s made sure they don’t talk.” Benton is scrolling through the report on his phone. “He’s done everything in his power to protect his nephew.”

“In the end, he did nobody any favors,” I reply. “And it’s really not about Zain. It’s about his uncle’s ambitions.”

“Soble,” Benton says. “Zain’s father was Frederick Soble, the mother Marta Willard, her married name Soble. And it appears that after the father died, Zain legally changed his name to Willard.”

“But he was born Zain Soble.” I’m opening another file drawer.

“Yes,” Benton says. “And I’m in the F’s now,” he adds, a note of reticence in his tone.

But I’m barely listening. An entire drawer is filled with files for Z. A. Soble. Zain Alexander Soble, the only son of Frederick and Marta.

“I’ve found him,” I tell Benton.

Pulling out the thick folders, I carry stacks of Zain’s confidential records to the coffee table, sitting down on an old brown leather sofa.

I begin perusing the first file, Georgine’s earliest notes from early June six years ago, right after Zain graduated from high school.

Their therapeutic relationship was brokered by Calvin Willard.

At first, the psychiatrist was seeing Zain at his uncle’s home on Embassy Row in D.C. , and they also Zoomed.

Later that summer she began having sessions with Zain here in Yorktown.

Her handwritten records describe a frightened seventeen-year-old who was angry that his mother had moved to Seattle.

His first few weeks at William & Mary were tempestuous.

He was homesick and overwhelmed. He began seeing Georgine several times a week.

Repeatedly, she mentions that Zain felt existential and controlled like a puppet. She notes that he first self-harmed when he was fourteen. This was soon after his father was struck by a tree toppling in the backyard after a storm. His head was crushed, and he died while Zain watched in horror.

Cutting, Georgine writes. He describes paralyzing anxiety, slicing with razor blades and causing other harm the only way to relieve it…

File after file, and the notes are of the same ilk. Zain was uncomfortable in his own body. He was consumed by self-loathing, and obsessively fantasized about self-mutilation and suicide. He would explore the best way to end himself, almost always coming back to cutting.

Watching himself bleed is soothing, Georgine comments several months into his therapy.

She reports that he was averse to taking medications, didn’t want anything to cloud his thinking or turn him into a zombie. His academic studies were important to him, she observes. He believed that failure wasn’t an option and made excellent grades. His professors spoke highly of him.

But he never believed it, she writes. He no longer accepts anything good is due to his own merits.

Zain was accustomed to his uncle Calvin opening doors and charging to the rescue. She notes that the more others do for Z, the less confidence and feeling of self-worth he has. Yet it didn’t seem to dawn on her that perhaps she was guilty of causing the very same damage.

Starting on a new folder, I find Georgine’s detailed accounts for late December and early January of his freshman year.

She’s begun mentioning the event. There are multiple references to something that negatively impacted Zain in an alarming way.

But I pick up no clues about what that might have been.

Around this time, she began seeing Zain more often. They conferred daily on the phone, and she encouraged him to dispose of his emails and journals for his own safety. Apparently, he copiously wrote down his feelings and thoughts.

He was emailing lengthy missives for her review that she would read and instantly delete to protect his privacy. Weeks after this mysterious life-altering event Zain’s self-harm was out of control. Georgine describes him as morbidly depressed and almost paralyzed by fright.

She advised Calvin Willard that if there was no significant improvement, it might be best to have his nephew hospitalized before anything else precipitous. It’s obvious that the senator was opposed to her suggestion.

Zain’s challenges are to be handled privately, thereby avoiding possible repercussions, she records in notes that weren’t intended to be read by outsiders.

“He was the senator’s de facto son. And clearly still is,” I say to Benton. “A perfect example of someone who gets every advantage and it’s ruinous.”

“The only thing he could control was picking up a razor and slicing himself,” he answers without looking up.

Benton has been engrossed in the same file for a while. The expression on his face tells me that whatever he’s reading is unsettling.

“We’re really not supposed to look at patient records that are nongermane,” I remind him.

“I’m federal law enforcement,” he replies. “Everything’s germane.”

“It isn’t,” I reply, but he’s not going to listen.