When you own the mind of a child, you can get away with murder. I’d taught Richie well.
The police found both Rose and her mother battered to bits. The father found em. He didn’t make it too long afterward, seemed his mind began to slip as well.
Richie came to me afterward, hammer still in hand. He was wearing bits of Rose’s scalp as a wig, pieces of hair frayed out around his rosy face. He was scared. He told me so. I cleaned him off in my office shower and told him what to say if he was ever asked. I gave him his alibi, but I told him he’d have to do something for me.