<meta content="urn:uuid:6ab7c8ca-fa8a-4e41-ba4a-5a4beed4fa51" name="Adept.expected.resource"/> </head> <body> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1"> </p> <h1 class="h10"><a id="ncx1721"/><a id="a51"/>CHAPTER NINETEEN</h1> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1">Ilse stepped back into the room in the hotel where Mr. Clement was speaking animatedly with his lawyer. The moment she entered the room, though, the woman frowned, holding up a shushing finger until Clement went silent, and then pointing that same finger towards Ilse's face. “You can't be in here,” she snapped angrily.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse didn't retreat, however, remaining standing in the doorway. She didn't step forward, either, however, preferring not to confront the woman by trespassing a perceived physical boundary. Instead, in as docile a tone as she could manage, she said, “I'd like to speak with your client.”</p> <p class="p1">“You've already been speaking with him,” the woman snapped back. “Don't think we won't be filing a complaint.”</p> <p class="p1">Ilse ignored the lawyer now, looking towards Clement. “It doesn't look good for you. I know you know that.”</p> <p class="p1">He just glared at her, like a child hiding behind the legs of a mother. The lawyer began to speak again, but Ilse now stepped fully into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind her. She kept her tone even, calm, “I'm not disgusted by you,” she said, pointing towards the man.</p> <p class="p1">This, only in part, was true. She could find the disgust if she looked close enough. But also, Ilse knew how to <span class="t13">choose </span>her emotions. She didn't get this far with her clients by picking them apart for the revolting thoughts or acts they performed due to their own pain. Pain beget pain. Sawyer had his own way of handling things. She was grateful for protectors like him who put men like this behind bars.</p> <p class="p1">But that wasn't her role. She'd always known how to find mercy for even the most depraved sorts.</p> <p class="p1">Then again... could she say the same for her father? Her stepmother... She suppressed this unnerving though, her stomach twisting.</p> <p class="p1">The man looked stunned at her words, staring at her.</p> <p class="p1">“My disgust won't help you,” Ilse said simply. “It won't help anyone now. You're here, you're going to go to prison most likely. I am sorry that you will suffer because of your choices.” She chose her words carefully, calmly. She didn't want to lie, but she also knew that sometimes one caught more bees with honey. And also... she knew her own heart and mind too much to live in constant judgment, even of depravity and perversion.</p> <p class="p1">She had her own demons, her own fears, her own irrational and intrusive thoughts. Sometimes, she wondered if she was the one, like her sister Heidi, who deserved to be behind bars. Heidi, though, was dead now. Ilse lived.</p> <p class="p1">Life was hardly fair.</p> <p class="p1">“My disgust won't help,” she said, “But I will try to. I need your cooperation to do that,” she said simply.</p> <p class="p1">The man stared at her. The lawyer was scowling. “It's a trick,” the woman snapped. “Don't listen—”</p> <p class="p1">Ilse kept going. “I'm not going to tell you off. I'm not going to try and leverage your clear sense of shame. You need help, sir. I know that and you know that. I'm willing to help you.”</p> <p class="p1">Clement just watched her now, breathing slow, shallow puffs. He blinked and swallowed, then murmured, “Help me? You can speak to the DA, yes? You can set me free...”</p> <p class="p1">Ilse shook her head. “That's not how I can help. But I'm a clinical therapist. I know people who work in the prison systems. Good people. People who don't judge. Merciful people. You have a choice before you now, sir. Life may or may not have been hard on you. But if you are willing to try, you don't have to waste the next few years of your life. The bars on your cell might very well be the best thing to ever happen to you.” She shrugged. “If you do the work, if you allow others in, if you're willing to try, you can get the help you need. You can come out the other side of this experience whole rather than broken. Do you understand me?”</p> <p class="p1">The lawyer was just staring at her now as if Ilse were loony tunes. She didn't want to think what Sawyer might have said at this gentler approach. To Sawyer, this man was nothing more than a scumbag. A man who feasted his eyes on the abuse of defenseless, young children.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse herself had suffered as a child. Her sisters, her brothers. She knew firsthand what it was to be subjected to predators without intervention.</p> <p class="p1">But she also knew that in every human there was the potential for healing.</p> <p class="p1">She never would have become a trauma counselor if that wasn't the case. She lived her life on this very hope. More often than not, she'd been disappointed. But the times when she wasn't were worth the risk of hoping.</p> <p class="p1">Besides... another part of her was just sick of it. She'd seen a man behind prison bars back in Germany. He hadn't seemed the same at first, but then the same monster from before had emerged in her gaze.</p> <p class="p1">She traced her fingers along the looping tattoo over her wrist. <span class="t13">Take captive every thought...</span></p> <p class="p1">For one strange moment, standing in that office room on the second floor of the hotel, Ilse felt tears coming to her eyes. She thought of all the pain her father had caused. Of all the pain men like Clement fed on. Who did that? Who enjoyed the suffering of children?</p> <p class="p1">But she also knew suffering only beget suffering. Revenge led to revenge. Mercy... mercy was the harder road. The more dangerous choice. Ilse wasn't Sawyer, wasn't the law, wasn't the many nagging, incessant voices that might excoriate a broken man like Clement. Like any of the others they'd tracked and caught.</p> <p class="p1">“You'd do that?” Clement said softly, staring at her.</p> <p class="p1">“Look,” the lawyer began, “Don't speak, this is just—”</p> <p class="p1">But he interjected, cutting her off, “Hang on, look,” he said quickly, staring at Ilse now and completely ignoring his lawyer, “I'm not proud of what I've done. I—I know you'll find that stuff on the hard drive. I don't know how you knew what was there... but... but well...,” he stared at the table, his head hanging, tears in his eyes now.</p> <p class="p1">To her stunned surprise, Ilse found something close to pity rising in her chest.</p> <p class="p1">“The fairy tales,” she murmured, “Staying on track. We have a killer reenacting them. I'm not an expert, sir, but you are. Can you help me?”</p> <p class="p1">He looked her dead in the eyes. “If I do, will you help me?”</p> <p class="p1">She returned the look, paused, considering this. “Either way,” she said at last, “I'll help you. It's not an exchange, it's an offer followed by a request.”</p> <p class="p1">The lawyer was still glaring, shaking her head in derision at it all, but Clement massaged his knuckles, his handcuffs shifting on the table. Then, he said, carefully, “People obsessed with fairy tales, like myself are often chasing the notion of a happy ending. We never had one before. We don't often think they can be found in reality...”</p> <p class="p1">“So it's a form of wish fulfillment?”</p> <p class="p1">“I mean, yes. What isn't? Everyone dabbles in escapism. But... but some of us,” he swallowed, “we liken the villains in the stories to the villains in our own lives.” His eyes flashed with barely concealed hatred, his lips tightening. It took him a moment to move on from whatever emotion had suddenly arisen, but then, when he did, he continued, “We see ourselves as the protagonists. We believe we're suffering trials necessary to reach our own happily ever after. Do you understand? I didn't kill anyone. I swear it. But if the person you're looking for is somehow involved in our scene... They don't believe in happy endings. They're not one of us. See? If they were, they wouldn't try to ruin the lives of others. We can be vain, conceited, whatever... Like everyone,” Clement said, his sweaty brow bobbing as he moved with the motion of his own words. “But we're not killers. I...,” he trailed off, frowning. “Actually... I can think of a man. Someone who, well, who often reviewed my books.” He frowned again.</p> <p class="p1">“Someone who reviewed your books?”</p> <p class="p1">“Yes. He hated them,” Mr. Clement said. “Didn't like the horror elements. But if you read my stories closely there <span class="t13">are </span>happy endings. For the villains. Villains are people too, aren't they?” He said, a hopeful lilt to his words.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse didn't respond, instead nodding once and saying, “This reviewer, you think he might provide some insight?”</p> <p class="p1">Clement snorted, shaking his head. “He hated my books. Passionately. I looked him up once, actually. Wasn't hard. When you search my name, his results come up on the first page.” Clement sneered at this. “He runs a blog, self-publishing essays that dissect fairy tales as cautionary tales in the modern world. He's not creative. He's a critical hack. But he hated my work. Not because he doesn't like happy endings, but because he <span class="t13">hates </span>villains<span class="t13">.</span> See?”</p> <p class="p1">“I'm not sure I do.”</p> <p class="p1">Clement leaned forward now, shrugging off the hand of his lawyer pressing to his arm. “He didn't think villains deserved happy endings. He thought they should be killed. Like the dogs they are. That's the phrase he used. He called us—er, <span class="t13">them, </span>dogs. If you want someone who'd kill for fairy tales, you should find this professor.</p> <p class="p1">“Online, he goes by the handle LongshotPHD.”</p> <p class="p1">“Can you spell that for me?” Ilse said.</p> <p class="p1">As he did, she nodded slowly, cataloging the response. She'd have to borrow a laptop or one of the officers' smartphones to search for the name and the reviews. But at least it was some type of lead. One way or another, it would provide some level of insight into the psyche of such men.</p> <p class="p1">“Thank you,” Ilse said once Clement had finished. She began to turn, but he cleared his throat, raising his cuffed hands hesitantly.</p> <p class="p1">She glanced back.</p> <p class="p1">“That... that help you promised,” he said slowly. “If—if I do go away,” his voice strained with panic, his eyes wide, “You'll still help me, yes? I—I know I shouldn't have... I know I didn't... I... I just...”</p> <p class="p1">Ilse looked him dead in the eyes. “I promise to help. I'll set you up with a reputable counselor. You have to want to change sir. That's where we all start. It's where I started. It's where all my clients do. It's not a badge of shame but of courage.” She nodded once more, taking a pause to feel an odd, dawning sense of satisfaction. Somehow, this was more satisfying than any of the arrests she'd made so far. It felt like the times she spoke with her clients. Helping them. Then again, putting predators behind bars <span class="t13">did </span>help people, didn't it?</p> <p class="p1">She paused, considering this. Just because someone was arrested didn't mean they stopped being human. Perhaps that was what she was missing with her father. Perhaps she was seeing him like a monster rather than a wounded person.</p> <p class="p1">But how did that help? What, if anything, did that mean?</p> <p class="p1">She gave a brief nod towards the lawyer, then to Clement, then she turned, pushing through the door and stepping into the hall. She looked towards the nearest officer by the door and cleared her throat. “Excuse me, but I need to borrow your phone to look something up. It's important.”</p> <p class="p1"> </p> </body> </html>