Page 13 of What’s Left of You (What Left #2)

“I guess so. At first she’d just tell me I was doing something wrong, you know?

Then she’d start complaining that I needed to get into their head and understand what it was like to be them.

But like, I was just a kid so I didn't get what she was saying. I thought they were games, not real experience like she seemed to. Eventually when we stopped playing, she started talking to herself a little more. She would carry around this notebook and write down things in it about people, but I don’t know what. She didn’t let me read it or anything.”

His eyes flash. “I don’t suppose you have that notebook?”

“No. I sold everything and got the fuck out of here, remember? I’m pretty sure I threw the notebook out because it was with some of her junk.

She’d make notes on how people acted, their expressions, how they would react to questions and stuff.

I just thought maybe she wanted to be an actress or something. I didn’t think it meant anything.”

Sterling nods, gesturing for me to continue.

“She’s not clever enough to be a true master of disguise,” I reason, unwilling to believe my mother could just naturally fall into a role like that.

“Maybe it’s different now since she lied for fifteen years.

But she used to do this thing where she would talk to herself in the mirror, rehearse how she needed to act.

She wanted to be able to perfectly emulate people.

It was weird, like acting class except she started pretending like she was the person she was playing, and she even ignored me when I called her mom.

She’d get totally into the role and act like nothing else mattered.

If she thought she was messing up something, she’d go mental and have to try and figure out how that person might act.

She did it for all sorts of people. Married couples, lawyers, teachers, doctors, anyone we met that she thought was interesting.

She’d pretend to be them and be totally engrossed in the role.

She’d check her notes constantly until she gave up the role, then days or weeks later something else would come along and draw her attention. ”

He nods again, and I can almost see the gears in his head spinning.

Fifteen years ago, this information might have meant something to his father, and the notebook and all of mom’s other junk would still be here.

But my mom was dead as far as the world knew, and I was just a kid who was hurting so I threw everything out.

“Did she ever do that in public?” he asks. “Did you see her trying to mirror the behavior she would study at home?”

“Sometimes,” I say, looking up towards the ceiling as I think.

“She loved doing it if we went out of town for supplies. She’d act like a totally different person during those runs and it was annoying.

Sometimes she’d pretend to be clueless to get the guy at the home improvement store to do all the work, and she’d really lay it on thick.

She’d have a whole backstory. Or she’d do the opposite when we went to get paint or wallpaper or art supplies and there was a woman working.

Suddenly, Mom knew everything about everything again.

I just always thought it was an insecurity thing. ”

“Could be,” Sterling replies, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s humoring me.

He looks like he’s thinking about something, but other than adding another layer to my mom’s deranged behavior, I don’t think I’m offering anything substantial.

“Did she ever pretend to be someone in town? Pretend she had their life or even impersonate them?”

“Only at home,” I admit. “Again, I thought it was jealousy. Like when we would mock someone at school or on TV and act like we were them, or could do better than them. Again, I didn’t think it was anything serious.”

“That’s the thing about mental illness,” he tells me, meeting my gaze. “We rarely understand the signs until we know what they mean. Your mother could be anything from a Narcissist to suffering from Borderline Personality Disorder or Antisocial Personality Disorder.”

I snort. “Definitely antisocial. She was always trying to fit in with society, not hide from it.”

“Antisocial Personality Disorder is a real mental disorder,” he informs me, and I frown. “It’s not just a pun for people who don’t like the company of other people. People with ASPD might study how others behave to mimic them because they don’t have the empathy or remorse like others do.”

His words settle over me, and slowly my jaw falls open. “Like a serial killer?”

“Many serial killers have undiagnosed disorders,” Sterling tells me, standing from the couch.

“Porscha was never the focus of our investigation until now, and unless she’s caught we can’t study her or send her for any sort of diagnosis.

But if she does have Antisocial Personality Disorder, it would lend to the idea that she’s the CGS in one of the forms, either the original or copycat.

God, or maybe even both.” He ran his hand down his face and I noticed his exhaustion peeking through.

“We know Alastair couldn’t have committed five of the six new kills. ”

I swallow, the elephant in the room only growing bigger. “But… my mother could have. She could be the copycat, right? She could have killed those girls.”

“And the originals,” he reminds me. “It’s just a guess, Jo, and I’m not a doctor or therapist. I can’t diagnose anyone, I can only make an educated guess. Help us find Porscha, and maybe we can get the answers we need.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” I hiss, sweeping my arms wide. “I’m telling you what I know.”

He nods. “And I appreciate it. I’ll want to look more into your homelife with Porscha, understand her better-”

“I’ve already been over all of it,” I snap.

“You’ve asked for a chronological history, for the details of my attack, for everything from my sophomore to senior year and I gave you that!

You can look through my history forever hoping to find lies, but there aren’t any, Sterling.

I’ve given you my truth, now you need to give me yours.

Find Alastair and my mother and end this. ”

His gaze is hard as he stands, and I follow suit.

He’s a few inches taller than me but I wore wedges for this meeting specifically so there was no chance he could look down at me.

I might still be shorter, but I’ll go nose to nose with him if I have to.

“I will end this, Jo. We are going to find them, dead or alive. There’s no future where I let them get away. ”

I purse my lips, holding his gaze before dropping my voice. “Alastair didn’t break out, Sterling. He was abducted. Extenuating circumstances shouldn’t add him to the dead or alive list. He’s already on Death Row. You can at least do your best to bring him back alive to await his fate.”

He raises a brow at me. “Currently Jo, abducted or not, he’s a missing Death Row inmate.

He’s climbed the ranks to the FBI’s Most Wanted.

He’s considered highly dangerous and extremely combative given his history in the prison system.

We don’t like to kill people who are already on borrowed time, but I cannot allow Alastair to escape. ”

“And my mother?” I press, my heart feeling torn in my chest. I can’t tell who I’m more concerned for right now, but my heart aches all the same talking about either of them.

Everything inside me is at war with itself; the lover in me wants to campaign for Alastair but the part of me that’s a daughter can’t turn my back on my mom. “What of her?”

“Porscha is also high on our list, but she needs to be brought in alive. We need to question her above all else so there won’t be any force used in bringing her in. There’s no proof that she murdered at least five people. That’s what we’re working on. Her fate is yet to be determined.”

“And Alastair’s isn’t?” I breathe.

Despite myself, I can feel the tears threatening to spill over. And no matter what I try to tell myself, they aren’t tears for my mom who just returned from the grave. Sterling takes a breath before he responds, but I can see the hard set in his eyes.

“Alastair is a Death Row inmate,” he repeats.

“He pled guilty to fifteen counts of murder. He accepted that fate and is waiting his turn to die. The only way off of Death Row is death, Jo. Be it by lethal injection through the state of Florida or by gun if he resists arrest, Alastair’s fate was sealed long ago. ”

I shake my head. “But if somehow my mother was involved-”

“Stop,” he tells me, holding up a hand. “Turning the blame to your mom doesn’t right any wrong either, Jo.

Perhaps she is to blame for some of it, maybe even more than he is.

For all we know, it’s all because of her.

It doesn’t change the evidence, or Alastair’s admittance of guilt.

A lot would have to happen to change that ruling, and he would have to be completely blameless to get off of Death Row.

His DNA, fingerprints, and his own blood and hair was mixed into several crime scenes.

He had vivid accounts of several of the deaths.

You might love him, but he isn’t an innocent player in this. ”

My eyes turn away from him. “If someone else was involved, even if it wasn’t my mother, then he might not be the demon everyone perceives him as either, Sterling.”

“Jo-”

“He might be the devil in everyone else’s story,” I interrupt, jabbing a finger towards him, “but for two summers, he was the angel in mine.”

“And then he tried to kill you during the third summer,” Sterling reminds me.

I shake my head, and this time I do feel the tears breaking free. “The details of that day were always hazy, Sterling. My memory matched the evidence then, but does it match it now?”

“I’m not sure it would be a good idea to dig into that right now-”

“Then make someone else do it!” I scream, shoving him. “You may hate Alastair but I don’t. He destroyed my entire life, and I still haven’t learned how to hate him. What’s your fancy word for that, Sterling? Can’t be Stockholm Syndrome, right? He wasn’t the one living with me!”

I turn away at the same time I hear hurried steps, and if one of those steps doesn’t belong to Vinny I’ll be surprised. I let my voice carry back as I reach the door. “I’m done, Sterling. For tonight we’re finished. Maybe do some fucking work with what I gave you this time.”