Page 42 of The Death Row Club
He kept the paintings in storage until theTo Catch a Killerproducers asked to film in our home. Then he brought them out and arranged them into a gallery in our living room.
“What do you think?” he asked when I came home from school. He was tense, clearly ready to strip the walls bare at the slightest hint of discomfort from me.
I’d expected the paintings to dredge up feelings of guilt and loss, but instead, it felt like a reunion with old friends still awash in the giddy glow of our twenties. “Thanks.” I smiled, as he hugged me to his side.
I angle my easel so Greer can see the rough outline there. “This one will not be joining the gallery.”
“Not bad, but if I may—” She loads a brush with black paint and readies it above the canvas, as if waiting for my permission. I motion for her to proceed. A thick slash appears in the sky, followed by another, until she’s painted what looks like a stick-figure dragon. “Rawr,” she says, then looks at me as if to say,your turn.
I pick up my brush, dip it in the black, and draw a little group of stick men fleeing the clearing, their hands waving in the air; their mouths, dots dabbed onto their faces.
“Trying to escape, is that the plan?” She grabs another brush and splashes first yellow, then orange, then red across the painting: flames raging through the woodland grove. She flicks her brush one final time before saying, “Nice try, but no one can outrun a dragon.”
“Oh, really?”
I stick my thumb in the water cup, then swipe the canvas, so there’s nothing but a smudge where her dragon used to be. Her jaw drops in comic disbelief. “Wow, is that how it’s going to be?”
“That’s how it’s going to be.” I wipe my thumb on my overalls, already speckled with paint from my classes. When I look back up, she’s smiling at me, and I can’t help but smile back. It feels just like old times.
“So,” Kemy says, interrupting the moment, “what happened last night? Did you agree to help Steffani investigate her father?”
Greer grabs her brushes and dunks them in the water. “We can’t.To Catch a Killerhasn’t been renewed for a second season. The network execs are waiting to see what happens.”
“I thought the ratings were good. What are they waiting for?”
“To see if my dad will be available for filming.”
An uncomfortable silence fills the clearing. The network’s waiting to see if his sentence gets commuted; they don’t want to renew the show for another season without a serial killer attached, and there’s no way he can sign a contract if he’s dead.
“Have they considered partnering you up with someone else? It doesn’t need to be Tom Woods. What about his last victim—the one who escaped? I would think she’d have some valuable insights about the nature of serial killers.”
Greer continues swirling the brushes around and around. “A judge determined that she’s entitled to her privacy, since she was a minor when the crime was committed. The press has played nice so far. She’s not going to fuck that up by appearing on a stupid television show. Besides—” She knocks the brushes against the side of the cup, shaking any remaining droplets loose, and lays them on the table. “She doesn’t want to see me. It’d just bring up all kinds of bad memories, I’m sure.”
“Have you asked her?”
She hesitates before admitting, “No.”
“Do you think maybe you should?”
Greer wrongly assumed that I wouldn’t want to hear from her afterTo Catch a Killerpremiered; is it possible she could be making the same mistake with her father’s final victim? That maybe she would welcome the chance to reconnect with the woman who saved her life by calling 911?
“I’ve made a lot of mistakes with the show,” Greer says, “but at the end of the day, we caught a serial killer, and that never would’ve been possible without my father. He helped all those families get closure; whether you like him or not, he did good here.”
Ros lays her paintbrush on the nearest table. “Greer, honey, withall due respect, our parents aren’t capable of doing good. That’s just not who they are.”
“I know who my father is, thanks.”
“Do you? Because it took wading through all my childhood memories for me to understand who mine really was. Have I ever told you about the time we went on vacation to Niagara Falls? We were all enjoying the view, when out of nowhere, my father picked me up and started swinging me back and forth, like he was going to toss me over the edge. There’s even a photo: We’re both laughing, and I’m dangling upside down over the safety rail, ponytail swaying above the water. I could feel the mist on the back of my neck.” She reaches back and rests her hand there. “I was scared shitless, but I never said anything.”
Greer, likewise, says nothing. She stares at the damp patch spreading under her waterlogged brushes, her hands tensing into fists in her lap.
“Him getting arrested was the best thing that ever happened to me,” Ros continues. “Have you even considered what your life might be like without your father? If maybe that would give you a little more freedom, a little more—”
“You know—” Greer stands and yanks her jacket off the back of her chair. “It’s probably time for me to start getting lunch ready.”
Ros, clearly sensing she’s crossed a line, backtracks. “Oh, come on, we didn’t mean to upset you. There’s no need to leave.”
“I’m not upset. I just want to make sure food is on the table when you get back. Enjoy yourselves, and I’ll see you in a few hours.” Ros prepares to make another attempt, but Greer doesn’t give her the chance. “It’s fine, really. Just give me some space.”
