He hung up and looked at the house.

For a long moment, he watched the study, staring at the blind as if it would suddenly pop open and reveal to him the secrets that lay behind it. It didn’t, of course, and after a few more minutes, Striker placed his focus on the office below. It appeared vacant. All the lights were off. There was no movement inside.

He looked at the master bedroom. There the drapes were only half pulled shut, but with the telescopic lens of the binocs he could see inside.

Everything there was just as dark and still as the office.

He was just about to reposition himself to be more comfortable, when the bedroom door opened and the light flicked on. Walking in through the door was Dr Ostermann – although walking seemed an odd word for it. He moved gingerly, limping more than walking. And when he began to take off his shirt, the action clearly pained him. He slid the shirt off his body and let it drop to the floor.

As Striker watched the man, he noticed a few long reddish marks. Scratch marks maybe. One ran down the side of the man’s neck and one trailed across the top of his back. He tried to focus in for a better look, but the doctor stepped out of view and remained hidden behind the partly closed curtains.

Striker remembered how gingerly the man had moved the first time he had met him – just hours after the suspect had fought with him and jumped out of the third-storey window of Mandy Gill’s building.

Now, here he was, seemingly injured again.

It was strange.

The thought had barely formed in his mind when the front door suddenly swung open. From the house ran Dalia. She had her hands over her ears and her face was tight. She raced across the front yard, opened the gate, and then ran down Belmont Avenue to the west. When she reached the next lot, Striker lost sight of her.

Something was wrong.

Striker took out his cell and called Felicia. ‘You getting anything back there?’

‘Nothing. All dead.’

‘Well, I got the doctor in view, and he looks like he’s been in a fight again. Plus, Dalia just went racing out of the house like it was on fire. Something’s going on here, Feleesh. I’m moving in for a closer look.’

‘Let’s get another unit here first.’

‘This will just take a second.’

‘There’s something weird about this family, Jacob. I don’t like it. It’s not safe.’

‘No police work is.’

‘This is different.’

‘Just cover me, Feleesh. Cover me and keep your radio turned on.’

He hung up the phone, got up from his prone position and made his way through the plum trees. As he reached the driveway and roundabout, he tucked the binoculars inside his inner coat pocket, then made his way up the steps of the front walkway.

The front door was half open, and everything inside the mansion was quiet and still. Down at the far end of the hall, the lights from the kitchen and library were on, flooding the area with bone-yellow light.

No one was there.

Striker stepped inside the foyer. The air felt hot compared to outside, and the soft hum of the furnace filled his ears.

‘Hello?’ he called out.

No response.

He leaned back outside and hit the doorbell. Loud chimes rang through the house, echoing in the foyer. Moments later, the sound of footsteps could be heard, stomping across the hardwood floor above.

Master bedroom, Striker deemed.

He waited patiently as the footsteps grew louder, until Dr Ostermann appeared at the top of the stairs. Even from a floor away, the beads of sweat on the man’s skin were noticeable, as was the heavy breathing of his chest. His dark eyes were acute and flitted constantly around the foyer, even if his body moved lethargically. He took one step down the mahogany staircase and, upon seeing Striker, came to a sudden stop.

‘Detective,’ he said. He could not hide the surprise in his voice. ‘This is rather . . . unexpected.’

‘You and I need to talk.’

Dr Ostermann nodded slowly. ‘Need to talk . . . Well, yes, of course. Why don’t you drop by tomorrow morning and we—’

‘Not tomorrow. Now,’ Striker said.

He closed the door behind him.

Seventy-One

For some reason, the library was excessively hot and humid. Hot air blew in from the furnace ducts all around the room, strong and steady. Striker closed one of the vents with the toe of his shoe. As he looked around the room, he saw the Ostermann family’s photographs on the mantel once more. Staring back at him were the pictures of Lexa and Dalia, Dr Ostermann and Gabriel. The first time Striker had come here, something about these pictures had bothered him. At the time, he didn’t know what.

Now he understood.

It was the smiles. Each one near perfect, as if carved into their faces. But there were signs within those expressions of other emotions. The fear in Lexa Ostermann’s eyes; the hollowness in Dalia’s stare; and the way that Gabriel looked back, eyes acute and focused, the smile on his lips never causing a wrinkle near his eyes or brow.

It was all plastic.

Only the doctor looked truly happy, his smile stretching his goatee across his face. The rest of the family looked like they were all wearing masks. Striker wondered what was behind each one. As he considered this, Dr Ostermann stepped into the room behind him. His face looked tired and his slumped posture was no different.

‘This is about Billy again, I would presume.’

Striker gestured towards the picture of Dalia. ‘She’s a beautiful girl.’

Dr Ostermann nodded, almost hesitantly. ‘She is that. She is also stubborn and defiant and complicated.’

‘How is her hearing?’

The doctor blinked. ‘Her hearing? Why, it’s fine, as far as I’m aware. Why do you ask?’

‘Because she ran out of here like a bat outta hell, covering her ears. So I’m thinking either she’s been hearing things she doesn’t like, or there’s a problem with her ears.’

Dr Ostermann’s face turned slightly pink. ‘What are you here for, Detective?’

‘I came here to discuss some . . . oddities that keep popping up with Billy’s case, but then when Dalia came racing out of the front door, I reconsidered.’

‘I can assure you, Detective, you do not need to worry about Dalia.’

‘I think I do.’ Striker took a step closer to Dr Ostermann and gazed at the side of the man’s neck. At the crimson bands in his flesh. ‘Where’d you get those marks?’

Dr Ostermann’s face reddened further. ‘I hardly think that’s any of your business.’

‘Then we got a problem here, because I do think it’s my business. In fact, I think it’s my duty.’ Striker took his hands from his coat pockets and explained. ‘I got a girl racing out of here like the house is on fire, and I got you with marks up your neck and back, moving about with the sensitivity of a burn victim. All in all, it makes me ask myself: is everyone here all right?’

For a moment, Dr Ostermann’s eyes took on a strange, panicked look, and Striker half expected the man to run. Or maybe even attack. But the doctor did none of this. Dr Ostermann took a long look at him, as if to compose his thoughts, and then let out a jovial laugh.

‘You think I’m abusing my family?’ he asked.

‘It crossed my mind.’

Dr Ostermann finally stopped chuckling, and when he did all humour left his face. ‘You are quite the investigator, Detective Striker.’ He pulled his collar away from his neck, so that Striker could better see the marks. ‘It’s called shingles.’

‘Shingles?’

‘Yes. Brought on by the herpes zoster virus. I’m sure you’ve heard of it before – the chicken pox virus.’ When Striker said nothing back, Dr Ostermann continued. ‘It usually only comes out when a person is at their weakest. Which, I guess, would make it my own fault. I’ve been working weeks of sixty and seventy hours for half a year now. Stress at Mapleview; stress at Riverglen – it’s no wonder my body has become run-down. And then all the drama that was happening with Billy – well, I guess that was all it took to put me over the edge.’