Page 105 of Stalker

I certainly couldn’t blame her for that.

“Ms. Franklin?”

“Um, well, actually it’s now Mrs. Marcus, although my husband died last year.” She laughed nervously as if realizing she was giving out way too much information.

“Mrs. Marcus. I’m Cassandra Penticoff, a prosecutor for the city.”

Her eyes opened wide. “Oh.”

Perhaps she’d expected someone would eventually knock on her door. “I need to talk to you about the Blackwell boys.”

“Who?” The single slight twitch in the corner of her mouth was a clear indication I was right.

The dog continued to yap, racing toward the door and growling as if on command.

“I believe you know, the children of Cain Demarco, the man considered one of the most notorious serial killers in Chicago’s history.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about and I have a few things I’m in the middle of so if you’ll excuse me.” As soon as she tried to close the door, I placed my foot past the threshold.

“I don’t think you understand, Ms. Marcus. I have a court order and unless you’d like me to call the police so they can assist me with obtaining the information I need, I suggest you talk with me.” I cocked my head, also furrowing my eyebrows.

Of course I was bluffing, but I was also very convincing.

She acted as if she was confused at my intensity but bit her lower lip and opened the door. “Hush, Sweet Pea. Let the nice lady in.”

The dog immediately stopped yapping as she moved aside so I could walk in.

“Thank you.” Her house was neat and tidy but still showed signs of age. On her walls were pictures of both her and a man about her age. What I didn’t notice were photographs of other family members including children. The room was cold and dark, the drapes drawn. It was as if she was shutting out the world.

“I was just making some tea. Would you like some?” she asked, more than a hint of nervousness in her voice.

“That would be lovely.” I followed her into the kitchen, the room much brighter than the living room.

A kettle was on the stove, almost ready to whistle. She didn’t ask me anything, nor did I grill her as she pulled two cups from her cabinet, taking her time to prepare the hot tea.

After she placed them on the table, she pulled out a pitcher of cream and motioned toward one of the kitchen chairs.

One aspect of my job was being a keen observer. Her hand was shaking, which meant not only was she disturbed by being confronted with the past, but with what she’d been forced to do in the moment.

“What do you want to know, Ms. Penticoff?” She also couldn’t look me in the eyes. “That was a very long time ago.”

“Yes, it was. The three young children were placed in your care when they were brought in. Yes?”

She took a sip of her tea before answering. “Their cases were assigned to me. Yes.”

“I understand you hadn’t been working at the agency very long.”

“About eighteen months.”

“A difficult case for someone new to the system herself.”

Mrs. Marcus flitted her gaze toward me. “Ms. Penticoff, all cases involving children are difficult. Any time you have a minor brought in under any circumstances, everything you learned and everything you believe will benefit them is tossed aside. Children simply can’t understand why their parents left them or died. They can’t fathom why they can’t go home to their beds and play with their friends. They cry pitifully at night from loneliness and despair. They begged me to take them home. Do you know what it’s like to look a child in the eyes and need to remind them that their parents are dead?”

Her entire expression had changed, her eyes locked on mine and full of darkness and hate. There was so much hate.

“No, Mrs. Marcus. I can’t say that I do. I’m certain with the three young boys, the situation was even worse.”

She nodded about six times, the liquid sloshing in her cup as she tried to take a sip. “They were sweet boys, at least at first. They were just hurting so much and far too young to understand. The older one, Wilder, tried so hard to look out for his brothers, but he was just a lost little boy himself.”

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