Ilse stood among a sea of people clad in dark colors, facing a stage, where the final mourner leaned on a podium to support herself, speaking through tears as she recited from a sheet of damp paper.
Ilse's hands were trembling, and so she clasped them in front, fidgeting uncomfortably in her black sweater.
She hadn't wanted to wear a dress or a suit. Claudia had understood at the time. She would understand now.
Ilse glanced towards Mitchell, who stood at her side, his eyes closed, his head bowed as if in silent prayer, one of his fingers on his good hand tracing a metal socket on his prosthetic arm. Around and around the finger went, circling and circling.
Her mentor's motions mimicked Ilse's thoughts. Around and around. Her nerves had been frayed ever since meeting her father. Since the plane ride. Since the gray figure in her memory who she couldn't quite place. And now in a sea of black-clad people, listening to Claudia's sister weep, Ilse could feel her anxiety rising. She began to murmur beneath her breath, “Brown hair. Brown eyes. Forty-two. Bundy. Thirty victims. Forty-six. November twenty-fourth.”
She closed her own eyes, trying to inhale, then exhale. She felt a warm hand on her shoulder and didn't need to open her eyes to know Mitchell was there for her. He always had been. It was his way. It was the reason he had given her Claudia as a client. Not just for Ilse's sake, but for Claudia's. He had introduced her on Ilse's first full day as a practicing therapist. Ilse could still remember the young, blond woman. The way she had glanced nervously about. The way she had shied away from Mitchell and stepped closer to Ilse.
Dr. Mitchell had thought it was better for Claudia to work with a female therapist. And he'd been right. They had made so much progress.
Ilse listened, her eyes still closed, the warmth of Mitchell's hand still on her shoulder as Claudia's sister said, "...a kind woman. The best a sister could ask for. Strong too. She was my hero. None of us know what it is to go through what she did. Nearly twenty years ago, she survived. I can still remember," the woman on the stage said, sobbing between words, "the night the police knocked on our family's door. I can still remember them bringing Claudia home. She didn't leave her room for weeks. She barely survived."
Ilse knew the story well. She'd heard it throughout their sessions. A serial killer had kidnapped Claudia when she'd been only fifteen—she'd barely escaped. It had taken ten years to get therapy. By then, a lot of the habits, hiding, staying sheltered, refusing to leave her home, had already developed. They'd had their work cut out for them. But over time, as the sessions went by, and the years had passed...
"Everything got better," the sister on the stage was saying, "it took her time, but she got help. She was a hero. I don't know why, or what God means through this, but I know she's in a better place. I can't wait to see you again, Didi."
A couple of older women were now sobbing in the front row. Men at their sides stared stoically ahead, tears bright like crystals on their cheeks.
Ilse listened halfheartedly to the words. She opened her eyes fully now, and Mitchell lowered his hand. He flashed her a quick, reassuring smile. She returned it with a nod of gratitude.
Everything the sister was saying seemed true. Claudia had improved. The suicide was a surprise. Even after everything, after surviving a serial killer, after ten years of closing in, hiding from the world, even after changing her name to represent a whole new life, just like Ilse had done...
The sister's words rang true. Ilse couldn't remember any suicidal tendencies.
As the speech ended, a quiet, solemn silence met the words. A couple of people in the back began to clap but cut it off when no one joined them.
Claudia's sister hurried down from the stage and flung herself in the arms of an older women standing in the front row.
The crowd began to disperse. People were heading back towards refreshments on rectangular tables against the far wall. Many of them seemed interested to simply hurry away from the front of the stage. To get as far from the tears as possible.
Ilse stood still in the second row on the far side of the room.
She stared towards where the family was still gathered in the front, all of them crying. Heavy crying. The tears of someone taken by surprise. Their daughter and sister and friend had only died yesterday, meaning they hadn't seen any warning signs either. Had everyone missed it?
Ilse shifted uncomfortably, frowning. Hesitantly, she began to move along the chairs, slipping behind the man wearing a suit two sizes too small.
She waited for the man to extricate himself from the row and head toward some cucumber sandwiches, before she stepped towards the front. She wasn't sure what drew her there. Wasn't even sure what she was going to say. As she neared the grieving family members, a hand caught her wrist.
She went still, glancing sharply to the side. An old woman, with pale white hair that stood out like snow was standing near the front of the stage. A small, thin framed women. Little more substantive than smoke.
"I'm sorry, do I know you?" the woman asked.
Ilse hesitated. "My name is Dr. Beck."
"I see. And you knew my daughter?"
Ilse winced. She glanced towards the crying sister and the huddled group, but then returned her attention towards the woman. "I did. I'm very sorry for your loss. I just wanted to extend my condolences."
The wispy-framed woman removed her hand and nodded. "Very sad." She sniffed once, swallowed, and then her jaw set in a sort of defiant gesture, as if refusing to cry in front of a stranger.
"I knew Claudia for a few years," Ilse murmured. "I never thought, never imagined she would do something like...," Ilse trailed off, uncertain what else to say. Was she here to apologize? To mourn?
She could feel Dr. Mitchell's eyes on her. She refused to look in his direction.
"It was a surprise to all of us," the older woman said, patting Ilse on the hand. "None of us saw this coming. Thank you for coming, dear. I'm sorry about my family. But we're not in the right place to talk just yet. So sorry."
Then, firmly, she guided Ilse back towards the second row, and released her, like someone sending a boat gliding out onto a lake.
Ilse didn't resist, moving away, and nodding farewell towards the older, white-haired woman.
Instead of approaching Dr. Mitchell, though, she moved further down the rows of chairs, towards a side exit which led out into a hall.
She caught Mitchell's eyes and held up a finger. One second.
She stepped into the hall, her frown deeper than before.
No tears. Just frustration. Anger.
The mother said the same thing. The sister said the same thing. Dr. Mitchell said the same thing. And Ilse said the same thing.
No one saw the signs. She was doing so much better. The suicide caught them all by surprise.
And what did that mean?
Ilse leaned against the wall in the quiet corridor, save an old man trying to figure out how the bathroom door worked at the far end of the hall. She ignored the fellow trying to push instead of pull.
Her hand moved to her pocket, pulling out her old, dumb flip phone.
She lifted the device, paused for a second, wondering if she was just letting her emotions cloud her judgment.
She needed to do something, though.
It didn't add up. Besides, the worries in Germany had to wait until she had more information.
This had been her first client. She refused to let everything from her past get poisoned.
None of them had seen it coming.
What if that meant it wasn't a suicide?
Perhaps she was letting her emotions get the best of her.
Perhaps she was overthinking it.
Then again, she hadn't gone through all that damn training for nothing.
Sometimes a badge came with some privileges.
Ilse nodded to herself, scrolled to the number in her device, pressed the call button and lifted the phone.
After the second beep, she considered hanging up. What was she doing? Did she really want to—
"Beck?" the voice came crisp and clear. A professional, no-nonsense voice.
"Agent Rawley?"
"Can I help you, Dr. Beck?"
Ilse hesitated. The moment she said it there would be no going back. Supervising Agent Rawley seemed like a fair man, but a stern one. There were no cutting corners, and no nonsense with him. Still, she could feel something off. What would it hurt just to ask for a little latitude?
"I don't know if you heard, but a woman in Seattle committed suicide yesterday.”
"Alright."
Just one word. No inflection. Was that good?
Don't overthink it.
"I would like permission to look at the scene."
Rawley cleared his throat. "Thought you were in Germany."
"I was. But I'm back. I just need a quick look at the scene."
"Any particular reason?"
"I knew the victim."
"Victim. Are you hinting at what I think you are?"
"Sir, if you would just let me get a look at the—"
"Are you still on vacation days?”
Ilse swallowed. “Yes sir. I took the week off.”
“Well, it's your time, Dr. Beck. I still expect you to report on Monday. But in the meantime...”
“Yes, of course. Thank you.”
“Just so long as you write up a full report. I'll go over it myself. You're new, but that doesn't mean the standards are any lower. Understand?”
"Of course, thank you. Umm, I actually have to go. Thanks!" Ilse said, hurriedly, hanging up before she could get anymore pushback.
She lowered her phone, standing in the hallway, glancing towards the man still trying to wrangle the bathroom door. She wondered how much he had drunk before coming.
Now that she had permission, she wasn't sure she wanted it. Did she really want to see where Claudia had killed herself?
What if it really was just a suicide?
Then again, what if something else was going on here?