The large, suburban double-lot outside Seattle carried a gloomy countenance beneath graying skies as they pulled into the cracked asphalt driveway. The blue-siding and darkened windows gave the home an almost lunar glow.
Ilse spotted, through the windshield, the two figures standing in the already open door. Mr. and Mrs. Stevens had agreed to meet with them on short notice.
“Looks like they're ready to get on with it,” Ilse murmured beneath her breath.
Sawyer shot her a look and gave a quick nod. “Wouldn't you be?”
Ilse considered this and gave a faint shrug with a single shoulder. Together, the two of them exited the vehicle, and moved up the poorly maintained drive to the large house. The lawn itself was overgrown, and a portion of fence, leading into the back, was moldered.
The two figures in the doorway were similarly shabby, wearing old, worn clothing and sweatpants. Mr. Stevens had a long face with a sharp nose. Mrs. Stevens had curling hair a shade removed from auburn.
The two figures waited in the threshold, in the illuminated hall of their home as the two FBI agents moved up the drive, up the steps and towards the house.
“Hello!” Ilse called, raising a hand and twirling her fingers in a semi-wave.
The Stevens both watched her, not speaking as she drew near.
“Are you FBI?” Mr. Stevens asked at last as they reached the porch.
The wooden step creaked as Ilse moved off it and came to a halt next to Sawyer, facing the grieving parents of their second victim.
Mrs. Stevens had streaks of mascara along her cheeks. Beyond, in the direction of what looked like a kitchen, Ilse spotted a box of tissues sitting on a table.
“May we come in?” Ilse said.
The question went ignored. The two parents remained standing in the door. Mr. Steven said, “You mentioned on the phone it was urgent.”
Sawyer crossed his arms, keeping his silence. He often did this when interviewing relatives, preferring to allow Ilse to do the talking. While sometimes she appreciated this, other times she wished he would contribute something in the arena of commiseration.
“We're very sorry for intruding Mr. and Mrs. Stevens,” she said, “I'm sure you know why we're here.”
Mr. Stevens just watched her, his expression haggard. His wife reached up, wiping some of her streaked mascara over a wrinkled cheek.
“I suppose you two should come on in,” Mr. Stevens said at last, taking a movement back and making a gap for the two agents to join them in the entry room.
Ilse nodded in appreciation. She and Sawyer followed Mr. Stevens down a hall, towards the previously noted kitchen table.
Mrs. Stevens remained behind to shut and lock the door. Ilse heard a faint sniffle and the sound of creaking footsteps against old floors as the wife made her way slowly after them.
An old-fashioned teapot sat on the gas stove, whining and shooting a jet of steam. Mr. Stevens ignored this, pushing a foot against the wooden leg of the nearest chair and indicating it with a grunt.
Ilse sat first. Sawyer preferred to stand, leaning against the fridge, and watching all of them like a hawk. Mrs. Stevens slipped past him and sat at the chair nearest the box of tissues. The trashcan behind her was already overflowing, more than one tissue crumpled on the ground. A sleek, black cat was sitting on the counter, having shredded one of the tissues with its claws. The cat stared at Ilse with its yellow eyes, and she returned the glare.
Cats, like people, often came in two sorts. She didn't like the way this one was eyeing her. The cat leapt from the counter, nimbly landing on the ground, and stalked forward, investigating the newcomers. Ilse tensed as it brushed against her legs where she now sat in the indicated wooden chair.
“Don't worry, he's friendly,” said Mr. Stevens, noticing Ilse's discomfort. “I don't know what else we can tell you. We spoke to that officer last night for nearly three hours.” He gave a shaky little sigh and massaged his head in his hands.
The teapot behind him continued to whistle.
Sawyer leaned over, turning the stove off. Neither of the homeowners seemed to notice.
“Tea?” Mrs. Stevens asked, glancing at both of them.
“Thank you, yes,” Ilse replied. Sawyer just shook his head.
Mrs. Stevens nodded, sniffed, but then her eyes grew vacant, and she stared off at the fridge for a moment. When she refocused, it was as if she'd completely forgotten what she'd asked to begin with.
“Your daughter,” Ilse said slowly, “Adelaide... She still lived with you?”
Mrs. Stevens sighed, nodding. “She was going to move in the next few months.” She sniffed, her fingers nudging the tissue box. “To New York, of all places.”
Mr. Stevens shook his head in disapproval. “Too far away. It's not a safe city for girls like Adelaide. But she simply won't listen to reason.”
Ilse fidgeted uncomfortably, noting the present tense way in which the father spoke. She didn't point this out, though, but instead said, “So she was moving to New York? Did she have a job?”
“Her modeling agency,” Mrs. Stevens said, sounding proud all of a sudden. Her eyes brightened somewhat. “She was really, really good, too. A lot of people wanted to work with her. The contracts were starting to pile up, you know. She bought me my new car... A green one,” Mrs. Stevens said, her eyes brimming again. “I love the color green...”
Ilse averted her gaze out of respect, glancing towards the husband now. “I'm obviously very sorry for your loss. I can't begin to imagine. Is there anyone you know who might have wanted to harm your daughter?” Mrs. Stevens winced. Ilse quickly added, “I know it's a hard thing to consider, but we have to look at all angles.”
Mr. Stevens just shook his head. “No one. Adelaide wouldn't have hurt a fly. People loved her. Especially now after... well...,” he glanced uncertainly at his wife who'd gone still. “It just... just wasn't like it used to be,” he finished with a helpless little shake of his head.
“What does that mean?” Sawyer interjected. “How did it use to be?”
In answer, Mrs. Stevens got to her feet, moved past the fridge towards a drawer. “She hated it when I hung the old pictures up. Wanted me to burn them, but I couldn't. I loved her just as much then as I do now... But life can be hard on little girls. Especially if... well... if they're not a certain way.”
“Martha,” Mr. Stevens admonished. “I'm sure the agents aren't interested in old family photos.”
“Actually, sir,” Ilse cut in, “anything you think is relevant we'd be happy to take a look at.”
Mr. Stevens shrugged, settling back in his chair while Martha returned, holding a wooden frame. She set the photo on the table in front of Ilse. In it, there were three figures. The husband-and-wife couple looked the same as they did now, though perhaps with a few less gray hairs.
The girl in the picture, though, didn't look anything like Adelaide had in her more recent driver's license photo.
The fashion model had been beautiful, sculpted, with perfect features. The girl in the photo was... quite plain. Ilse tried not to look surprised, studying the photo. The young teenager had braces, acne, and carried twenty or so pounds extra. She had a big, hooked nose, like her father, and round, bulging cheeks that hinted at baby fat which should have melted years ago.
“You have a lovely family,” Ilse murmured.
“Had,” Mr. Stevens corrected. “She had her whole life ahead of her. We thought things were changing, improving for her... But... but...,” he sobbed, shaking his head. “That's what you get for hoping, I suppose.”
Martha patted her husband on the hand, nudging the tissues towards him. In a quavering voice, she said, “Growing up, Addy thought she was ugly—which wasn't true at all. Not at all. But she was a bit ungainly and... and kids can be so cruel.” Martha closed her eyes, letting out a faint sigh. “I know I could have done more. I—I wanted to be a great mother. Wanted to give her everything I could. But... but I know I didn't. And now I can't take it back.”
“Dear, you can't blame yourself.”
Martha sighed. “I know. I don't. I... but if I'd just been a bit more encouraging. Maybe if I'd home-schooled her instead of sending her to that horrible, horrible place with all those bullies.”
“How long ago was this?” Ilse asked.
“Ten years?”
Ilse nodded. “So she had surgery?”
“Yes... Multiple. She wanted to... to fix herself,” Mr. Stevens scowled. “I hated when she said that. She didn't need fixing. She was my princess. But... parents can't protect their children from the world. You want to try, though. You always want to try...,” he drifted off, closing his eyes as if against a sudden jolt.
“Surgeries like that,” Ilse murmured, “they would have been expensive, no? Did she take out loans? Borrow money from anyone?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Martha insisted. “We were more than happy to help her. Our jobs allow us some of the nicer things in life... We thought... we hoped that if we helped her, she might grow a little more confident. Might see herself as we did. But now...,” she trailed off again, her eyes once more filled with guilt.
Ilse again was filled with an urge to reach out and just hug the woman but decided this probably would be too grave a breach of protocol. Still, her heart went out to the grieving parents.
“How much?” Sawyer cut in, raising an eyebrow.
“Excuse me?” Mr. Stevens asked.
“How much did all the surgeries cost?”
“I... I don't have a number off the top of my head.”
“Ballpark it.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“Where there's money, there's often motive,” Sawyer said with a shrug.
Mr. Stevens hesitated, frowning, but then muttered, “Tens of thousands. Don't know exactly how much.”
Ilse blinked in surprise. Sawyer just nodded grimly.
“Anything else you can think of?” Sawyer asked now, pushing away from the fridge and standing behind Ilse's chair. “Anyone your daughter might recently have mentioned in conversation. Was there a boyfriend involved?”
“No boyfriend,” Mr. Stevens said. “She was too focused on work for that.”
“She still didn't think anyone would love her,” Mrs. Stevens added, shaking her head sadly. “Even after all that work. It was horrible... We loved her before any surgery. I know someone would've seen the same things we did. But... but now...”
“She would hit the gym every day,” Mr. Stevens added. “That stupid twenty-four-hour place—Jade Fitness. She'd practically live there, hours a day. I mean I guess it was worth it to her. She was a rising star in the fashion world...”
Until now, Ilse thought to herself. She kept her expression compassionate, meeting each of the parents' gazes when they spoke.
Sawyer cleared his throat. “One last question, then we'll get out of your hair.”
All three figures looked towards him now, including Ilse. Her eyebrows twitched, threatening to rise but she quickly hid her surprise. Sawyer normally didn't like taking point in interviews. She'd never seen him talk so much to the bereaved.
“Do you guys know anyone by the name of Arthur Lehman?”
The parents looked puzzled. Martha began to shake her head, but her husband cut in. “Is that who did it? Is that the monster who killed our Addy!” he yelled.
“James, please!” Martha interjected, holding a hand against her husband's suddenly tensed fist.
Ilse quickly said, “No, no he isn't a suspect. He was...,” she glanced at Sawyer who didn't react so she continued. “He was another victim.”
“Another victim...” Mr. Stevens said, the energy rapidly depleting as he slumped in his chair. “Jesus. No—no we don't know that name.”
Sawyer flashed his phone, displaying a picture of the second victim. “Recognize him?”
But both Martha and James shook their heads, each adopting a thousand-yard stare as if looking through the phone.
Sawyer held it a moment longer as if to make sure, but then he withdrew the device, stowing it back in his pocket. “Well,” he said, “If there's anything you can think to add, I can be reached by the number I called you on. Anything at all.”
The parents didn't look much liked they'd heard.
Ilse felt Sawyer tap her shoulder and she got slowly to her feet. “I'm very sorry,” she said again, swallowing. Part of her wanted to blurt out more. To make promises that it would all be okay, if they would just remain strong, together. To tell of all the testimonies of her clients who had recovered from similar situations.
But another part of her knew it was too soon for any of that. Pain had a funny way of drowning out hope. Even the realistic type.
She could only wish that when the time was right, someone would come along who could help the Stevens family to recover, to rebuild. But they'd lost their only child, their daughter. For now, all that lay in store was pain and each other.
She sighed, murmuring a quiet farewell which fell on deaf ears and turning to follow Sawyer back up the gloomy hallway, towards the front door. Sawyer unlocked and unbolted the door and stepped out onto the porch as Ilse followed.
The cool wind beneath the gray skies picked up, ruffling Isle's hair and chilling her exposed skin. The door shut behind them. Ilse heard the sound of footsteps on old wood, then the locking and bolting of the front door. She shivered, rubbing her hands along her sweater sleeves.
“What now?” she murmured, standing on the porch, facing the street and glancing up at her lanky partner.
Tom hesitated, adjusting the brim of his cap. Then said, “Victim one, I guess...”
“Does he have family in the area, too?”
Sawyer shook his head, but then began taking the steps towards the street.
Ilse frowned, following. “So how are we going to check his background?”
“Don't need relatives,” Sawyer said. “I've got Rudiger.” He glanced at his watch. “It's almost noon. Hopefully that means Rudy has woken up already. It's honestly fifty-fifty.”
Ilse blinked remembering previous interactions with the flamboyant, Hawaiian-shirt wearing, jellybean eating FBI tech. He would make off-color jokes and seemed to live to see Sawyer blush, but he was also a whiz with computers.
“Think he'll be able to find a connection between our victims?” Ilse murmured, glancing back towards the gloomy house as they reached the street and moved towards their parked car.
Sawyer shrugged. “If anyone can, it's Rudy. Here, you drive. I'll call. He can get grumpy if someone wakes him up.”