Page 103 of The Wedding Party

“What does this woman do for a living? How does she live her life?”

“She’s a nurse.”

“She helps people. Good. Maybe she is my daughter.”

“You were a counselor at a sexual assault clinic, correct?”

“I was. And I liked helping people.”

“Carrie does, too,” I say, believing that as truth. “But she has another side to her. A darker side.”

“What does that mean?” he asks, and I feel like I’m getting somewhere. He’s engaging with me.

“She killed her fiancé, but she says she doesn’t remember doing it. What do you think I can do to help her remember?”

“She’s not my daughter. I can’t help you.”

“Try.”

“She’s not my daughter,” he says, more firmly this time. “Just because some woman kills someone does not make her my daughter. I thought maybe you came to help me. You don’t want to help me. You want to turn someone else into a criminal because she’s like me.”

Because she’s like me. Now he’s claimed the other side of himself. “She’s like you. And yet, you didn’t kill anyone, right?”

“Why don’t you leave now.”

“I don’t want to leave,” I reply.

“I think you should leave.”

“And if I don’t?” I challenge.

His response is not what I expect. “I won’t say another word.”

In other words, he’s promised me the childish silent treatment. I don’t accept that answer. I look for any sign of his humanity. “Surely you want to know if you have a daughter.”

He says nothing.

“Everyone needs to know who their family is.”

Again, he says nothing.

I shift gears. I try a different tactic, pushing him, not coddling him, using the information I’ve read about Norman over the days since finding out he’s Carrie’s father. “Selma says you were gentle, touching her, kissing her. She wanted to slow down and then you changed. You strangled her. You hurt her. Is that how it started? You just wanted to touch your victims, and then they made you angry? Maybe they rejected you? So you had to kill them?”

He says nothing.

For ten minutes I try to get him to speak, but he just won’t let me push his buttons.

Finally, I say, “If you decide you want to talk to me, the warden knows how to reach me.”

I try to stand up and suddenly his legs grab my legs. My heart leaps and I struggle to free myself. “I was never gentle. I liked to surprise them,” he says, his voice this raspy, deeper baritone, his eyes darker, shifty. Evil.

I twist again and free one leg, ramming him in the groin. He grunts and releases me while I scramble to my feet. The door bursts open behind me and the warden joins me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say, holding up a hand for him to stay silent.

Norman is leaning down, his face toward the table, and starts laughing. “Tell me, Agent Castle.” His head lifts and he looks at me, evil barely contained in human skin. “Did she stab him? Is she just like me?”

“Yes,” I say. “She stabbed him.”