Chapter 34 David's Mother Appears

Chapter 34 David's Mother Appears
Amelia Noah POV
"This is a terrible idea," Kate says for the fifth time in ten minutes.
"Noted." I adjust my laptop on the coffee table, angling the camera so the background is neutral wall instead of Kate's family photos. The video call is scheduled for 3 PM. It's 2:58.
"Andreas said not to talk to her without legal counsel present."
"Andreas advised against it. He didn't forbid it."
"Dr. Chen said it could be re-traumatizing."
"Dr. Chen said a lot of things could be re-traumatizing. Breathing is re-traumatizing some days." I look at my sister. "Kate, I need to do this. I need to understand."
"Understand what? How his family created a monster?" Kate's voice is sharp with fear disguised as anger. "You already know. They're rich. They paid off his victims. They protected their reputation over everyone's safety. What more do you need?"
"I need to hear it from her." I don't know how to explain the pull—this need to look into the face of the woman who birthed and enabled a serial killer. To understand how someone can know their child is dangerous and choose silence. "She testified against him. She's the reason the prosecution has his childhood journals, his psychiatric history. She's destroying her own son to tell the truth. I need to know why."
Kate sits beside me, jaw tight. "I'm staying for the call."
"Fine. But you can't interrupt."
"Can't promise that."
The laptop chimes. Incoming call from an international number. My finger hovers over the accept button.
"Last chance to back out," Kate whispers.
I click accept.
Margaret Thornton materializes on screen and I understand immediately why David could charm anyone: he inherited it. She's impeccably composed—silver hair in a perfect chignon, pearl earrings, cream blouse that probably costs more than my monthly rent. Her background is all dark wood paneling and leather-bound books. Old money. British aristocracy. The kind of wealth that believes it's above consequences.
"Miss Noah." Her accent is crisp, controlled. "Thank you for agreeing to speak with me."
"Mrs. Thornton." I keep my voice neutral. Beside me, Kate is rigid with tension.
Margaret doesn't smile. Doesn't soften. Just studies me through the screen with eyes exactly like David's—pale blue, calculating, seeing too much.
"I imagine you're wondering why I requested this call," she says.
"Your lawyers tried to block my book. Your son tried to kill me. I have several questions, yes."
"The cease-and-desist was my husband's doing. Edmund still believes David can be protected through legal maneuvering. He's delusional." She says it flatly, clinical. "I, however, am not. David is exactly what the prosecution claims. A sophisticated predator. A serial killer. And I need you to understand how that happened."
"Why?"
"Because you survived him. You're the first woman who did more than escape—you ensured his conviction. You deserve to know what you were up against." Margaret shifts slightly, and I see she's holding papers. "David has always been... particular. As a young child, we thought it was artistic temperament. Intensity. The kind of focus that creates prodigies."
"When did you realize it was something else?"
"Age six. His nanny found him in the garden with insects. He'd collected them in jars, was watching them die. When she scolded him, he explained he was 'studying stillness.' The transition from alive to not-alive fascinated him." Margaret's voice doesn't waver. "We dismissed it. Boys are curious. They examine death. We thought he'd grow out of it."
Kate makes a noise beside me. I squeeze her hand—let her talk.
"Age ten," Margaret continues, "his school called. Other students complained David was following them home, taking their photographs without permission, writing detailed observations about their routines. The headmaster suggested evaluation. Edmund refused. Said it would create a record that might affect David's university prospects."
"You prioritized his future over their safety."
"Yes." No defensiveness. Just fact. "We did. Repeatedly. Age fifteen, three girls accused him of stalking. They had photographs he'd taken—hundreds of them, catalogued and dated. Edmund paid settlements. Thirty thousand pounds total. The girls signed NDAs. The records were sealed."
I feel sick. "How many times?"
"Seven formal complaints before he turned twenty. Edinburgh was the eighth—Anna de Vries. She reported attempted strangulation. Police investigated but couldn't find David. We'd already helped him leave Scotland, enrolled him in Swiss psychiatric facility under false name."
"You helped him flee."
"We enabled him." Margaret finally shows emotion—a tightness around her mouth. "Dr. Margaret Chen evaluated him there. Her report was... explicit. She warned us David would kill someone within two years if not institutionalized permanently. She said he exhibited textbook narcissistic psychopathy with violent ideation. She recommended immediate commitment."
"But he wasn't committed."
"Edmund blocked it. Said the scandal would destroy his firm's reputation, that we'd lose our social standing, that David just needed better therapy, medication, time." Margaret's hands grip the papers. "I should have overridden him. Should have signed the commitment papers myself. Instead, I chose my marriage and our reputation over the lives of strangers. Over your life."
Kate whispers, "Jesus Christ."
"Dr. Chen's prediction was correct," Margaret continues. "Two years later, Sophie Laurent was murdered in Paris. Edmund convinced me it was coincidence—David was traveling for photography, terrible timing, tragic accident. I wanted to believe him because the alternative was admitting we'd created something monstrous."
"You knew."
"I suspected. Strongly. But I chose comfort over truth." She looks directly into the camera. "Miss Noah, I'm not telling you this to gain forgiveness. I don't deserve forgiveness. I'm telling you because you deserve to understand exactly what David is and how he got that way. He wasn't born a killer. We made him one by teaching him that other people's pain doesn't matter as long as it stays quiet. That money can erase consequences. That his desires supersede everyone's safety."
"Why testify against him now?" I ask. "Why break your silence after all these years?"
"Because you recorded him. Because you documented evidence they couldn't dismiss as coincidence. Because eight families finally had undeniable proof their daughters were murdered." Margaret's voice cracks for the first time. "And because I'm seventy-three years old. I'll die soon. I won't die protecting him anymore."
"What about your husband?"
"Edmund still funds David's defense. Believes expensive lawyers can create reasonable doubt. He's drowning in denial." She straightens. "I've filed for divorce. I'm testifying for the prosecution. I'm cooperating fully with Detective Mateo's investigation into earlier victims. This is my penance."
"Penance doesn't resurrect eight women."
"No. It doesn't." Margaret meets my eyes through the screen. "I'm glad you survived him, Miss Noah. You're the first woman who saw through his performance while there was still time to fight back. The first one who trusted herself enough to document and escape. Someone finally had to."
The words land strange—is that admiration in her voice? Respect? From the woman who enabled my near-murder?
"I have one question," I say. "Did you love him? Your son. Did you ever actually love him?"
Margaret is silent for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is tired. "I loved who I wanted him to be. The brilliant, sensitive artist I imagined raising. I never loved who he actually was because I refused to see it. That's perhaps the greatest failure—I chose fantasy over reality until reality murdered eight women."
"Nine," I correct. "Mei Zhang's verdict was not guilty, but everyone knows he killed her."
"Nine. Yes." Margaret stands, moves off-screen briefly, returns with a box. "I'm sending you something. David's childhood journals. Ages twelve through seventeen. The prosecution has copies, but I thought you should see the originals. You should understand how early the pathology manifested and how thoroughly we ignored it."
"Why would I want to read those?"
"Because knowledge is power. Because you're writing a book. Because other parents need to see these warning signs and act on them instead of hiding them." She pauses. "And because you deserve to know you couldn't have saved yourself sooner. He's been perfecting this for twenty-five years. You saw through it in four days. That's extraordinary."
After we end the call, I sit staring at the blank screen. Kate wraps an arm around my shoulders.
"That was..." She can't find words.
"Horrifying. Validating. Both." I lean against her. "She's right, though. I couldn't have known sooner. He's been doing this since he was a child. I never had a chance."
"You had enough of a chance. You survived."
My phone chimes. Email notification from a shipping company: package from London, signature required, estimated delivery in three days.
The journals are coming.
I should refuse them. Should tell Margaret to keep her son's pathological documentation. But I won't. Because she's right about that too—knowledge is power. And I need to understand exactly what I was up against.
Three days later, Kate signs for the package. International shipping, expensive courier, a box wrapped in brown paper and sealed with wax. Aristocratic even in its horror.
I open it alone in Kate's guest room. Inside: five leather-bound journals, ages stamped on the covers. 12. 13. 14. 15-16. 17.
I open age twelve first.
The handwriting is neat, controlled, already calculating. The first entry is dated February 14th—his birthday.
Today I am twelve. Mother gave me this journal to document my "artistic observations." She doesn't understand what I observe. The way things transition from alive to still. The moment consciousness leaves. I've practiced with insects, small animals. The birds are best—they struggle, then they don't. There's beauty in the stillness.
I flip pages. Detailed drawings of dead things. Notes about classmates—which girls walk alone, who's vulnerable, who notices when they're being followed.
Age thirteen: The girls at school don't see me watching. I'm invisible until I choose not to be. That's power. Knowing everything about someone while they know nothing about you.
Age fourteen: Photographs pasted in. Girls sleeping on train. Girls unaware. Girls who trusted him.
Age fifteen: Sarah said I'm obsessed. She threatened to tell her parents about the photos. Father paid her family £10,000. She won't tell now. Money makes truth disappear. Father says this is important to remember.
The lesson learned: consequences are optional if you're wealthy.
Age sixteen, the entry Margaret mentioned: They don't know I'm watching. That's the art. They think they're safe. They think privacy exists. But I can be anywhere, see everything, and they'll never know until I want them to. That's the ultimate power—controlling someone's reality without them knowing it's controlled.
Age seventeen: Anna almost died. I got scared and stopped. That was weak. Fear is weakness. Next time I won't stop. Next time I'll see the full transition from alive to still. From person to subject. From chaos to peace. That's my art. Stillness.
I close the journals. My hands are shaking.
Kate appears in the doorway. "You okay?"
"He was planning this at twelve. Practicing at fifteen. By seventeen, he knew exactly what he wanted to do." I look at her. "Anna de Vries wasn't his first attempt. She was just his first failure. He'd probably attacked others before her. Girls who escaped and never reported. Girls whose families took settlements. Girls who disappeared into the statistics of missing persons no one connects."
"How many do you think there were?"
"I don't know. But Emily and I are going to find out." I stack the journals carefully. "These need to go to Detective Lily. And to Emily. And to every parent who thinks their child's concerning behaviors will resolve with time."
"What are you going to do with them?"
"Put them in the book. Show exactly how monsters are made and enabled. Make it impossible for other families to choose reputation over safety." I stand, surprising strength flooding through me. "Margaret wanted me to have these for a reason. She's giving me ammunition to prevent other Davids. I'm going to use it."
Kate hugs me tight. "You're terrifying when you're determined."
"Good. David was terrifying when he hunted. I should be terrifying when I hunt him back."
That night, I email Rebecca: Chapter outline revised. Adding section on how family systems enable predators. Attaching David's childhood journals as source material. This book just became bigger than my survival story—it's an indictment of every system that protected him.
Her response comes within minutes: This is going to change everything. Publishers will fight for this. Are you ready?
I type back: I've been ready since Frame 217. Let's burn it all down.
Margaret Thornton didn't give me those journals for redemption.
She gave them to me as a weapon.
And I intend to use it.