Part of him wanted to believe that. The ten year old who hero-worshipped his father - the doctor that went to work every day and saved lives - wanted to believe that his father regretted plotting to murder him, a little boy who would have gone anywhere with him and done anything he said.

Look at that bird, he could have said to Malcolm in the forest outside the cabin. Malcolm would have innocently looked at it while his father cut his throat. He does believe Dr Whitly would have made it quick, in his case. It wasn't his hobby, like his other murders. It was a distasteful but necessary chore. Like taking out the garbage. Blood spattered on the leaves and the nearby trees. A tiny body buried somewhere it would never be found. A tearful story to his wife about how the boy went missing at a reststop on the New Jersey turnpike as he wrapped his arms around her and shared her grief.

Malcolm just stared at him.

"I hope you know it's been a long, long time since I could believe anything you've ever said," he told him evenly. "In fact, it's been a long time since I could really believe anything anyone has ever said." A beat. "Thank you for that," he added stonily.