<meta content="urn:uuid:ccac7218-4474-4d14-ad38-c379d058334a" name="Adept.expected.resource"/> </head> <body> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1"> </p> <h1 class="h10"><a id="ncx369"/><a id="a39"/>CHAPTER FIVE</h1> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1">Ilse pulled The Boat into the driveway of the quaint, beige suburban home. A nice neighborhood, bordering Seattle, a few people peering through the windows to watch the arrival of the Toyota Avalon. Ilse brushed her hair past her ear, rolling her fingers on the steering wheel for a moment as she peered up at the house.</p> <p class="p1">No crime scene tape. No policeman posted. A suicide meant no further investigation.</p> <p class="p1">At least the house wasn't gray.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse glanced towards her flip phone which rested on top of a stack of papers. Donovan had dropped her back off at her apartment so she could print the police report Rawley had forwarded.</p> <p class="p1">The car ride from the wake with Donovan had passed in quiet. Both of them grieving in their own ways. Both of them, as therapists, feeling the weight of obligation to the victim.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse pulled the paper printout from beneath her dumb phone, and frowned, glancing through it.</p> <p class="p1">Suicide by twin lacerations. Claudia had cut her wrists in the small house's bathtub. The door had been locked. Her roommate had discovered her.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse pushed out of the vehicle, stepping onto the driveway and feeling the way stray pieces of gravel crunched under her shoes. Her sweater guarded against the rising wind. A man walking a dog across the street spared her a glance, but then seemed to decide she wasn't much of a threat.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse moved towards the house, clutching the police report in her hand.</p> <p class="p1">She stepped onto the patio and knocked.</p> <p class="p1">No answer.</p> <p class="p1">She glanced at the sky and then back at the door, wondering if the roommates had all been at the wake. She hadn't thought it through. Hopefully, she wouldn't have to wait.</p> <p class="p1">She smoothed the sleeves of her sweater and knocked again louder and more insistent. Two taps, and then a pause, and then another two taps.</p> <p class="p1">"Coming," called a voice from inside the house.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse checked her watch. It was 3:04 in the afternoon.</p> <p class="p1">She heard the sound of footsteps against stairs, the creek of a wooden floorboard, a quiet, huffing breath, and then the click of a lock. The door swung in.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse found herself face to face with a young, petite woman. The woman in question had olive skin and vibrant, brown eyes. She looked Hispanic and held a violin case in one hand. She also wore all black, suggesting she'd been at the wake, but Ilse hadn't seen her. Perhaps she'd been one of the people to skip the food and head directly to the parking lot. The small woman acknowledged Ilse, tilting her head to the side.</p> <p class="p1">"Hello," she said, hesitantly.</p> <p class="p1">"Pardon the intrusion," said Ilse. "My name is Dr. Beck. I'm with the FBI."</p> <p class="p1">The words slipped from her tongue like rough stones. She winced even as she spoke and pulled out her identification a couple of seconds too late.</p> <p class="p1">When she did, she held it up backwards and muttered darkly before turning it around so the woman in the door could get a better look.</p> <p class="p1">She didn't even glance at it. "Oh, alright. You're looking for the room upstairs on the right," she said, quickly. "I'm running late for a lesson." She hefted her violin. </p> <p class="p1">It took Ilse a moment to realize the woman couldn't have been much past her twenties.</p> <p class="p1">"I won't be long."</p> <p class="p1">"I'm Savannah," the woman said, suddenly, pushing out her free hand and causing the violin case to shift.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse swallowed, glancing at the hand, then smiling and nodding once as she recalled the roommate’s name from the report. "Pleasure. You're the one who found Claudia?”</p> <p class="p1">The young violinist hesitated, her cheerful countenance darkening all of a sudden; she leaned back on her heels, lowering the case and scratching at one of her wrists.</p> <p class="p1">"I hate to say it but yes. Like I said, the bathroom is upstairs—second door."</p> <p class="p1">Ilse tried to read the woman's expression. Discomfited, tired, sad.</p> <p class="p1">"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"</p> <p class="p1">The young woman hesitated. She glanced towards her instrument and then towards the open door behind the FBI agent. With a sigh, she seemed to settle on a choice, puffed a long breath, and then nodded. "Alright, that's fine. Yes. What questions?"</p> <p class="p1">The roommate was already moving towards the stairs.</p> <p class="p1">Slowly, with the young woman in the lead, the two of them made their way up the stairs. More creaking steps, then the soft padding of footsteps against carpet. And then they paused in front of the second door.</p> <p class="p1">"Here it is," the roommate said.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse paused, and said, "Thank you. Was there any," she paused, trailing off. She cleared her throat, adjusted her sleeves, and tried again. “Was there any indication?"</p> <p class="p1">"That Claudia was going to kill herself ?" the roommate said bluntly. She shook her head once. "I was shocked. I'd only known her for a few months. Ever since I moved in.”</p> <p class="p1">"I see.”</p> <p class="p1">“But I quite liked her. She went out of her way to interact with us. We have another roommate. She's not here right now. At work."</p> <p class="p1">"What does this other roommate do for a living?"</p> <p class="p1">"A musician too, actually. Plays piano. In one of those church choirs."</p> <p class="p1">Ilse nodded. "I see."</p> <p class="p1">"Claudia liked musicians. She brightened during the roommate interview when I told her I was a violinist. Or, at least, I'm studying to be one."</p> <p class="p1">Ilse paused for second, remembering how much, during their therapy sessions, Claudia had liked music. Especially instrumentals. Whenever a cello, or piano, or some other stringed instrument came over the radio, she would relax. For the first year, midway through their sessions, they had paused for five minutes just to listen to music.</p> <p class="p1">As the memory faded, Ilse remained in the doorway of the scene, but still hadn't stepped into the bathroom. Part of her didn't want to see. Didn't want to know.</p> <p class="p1">At last, though, she sighed and slowly began to turn. She had come here for a reason. She needed to see it through.</p> <p class="p1">She glanced around the bathroom, listening to the faint sound of Savannah breathing next to her in the hallway. Everything was so quiet in the house. The bathtub was sparkling clean, as were the floors. Suggesting CSI or one of the roommates had gone through with the scrub brush and soap.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse stepped into the room, the tiled floor hard against her feet. A slow shiver trembled up her spine despite her sweater.</p> <p class="p1">She winced, glancing around, as if the walls themselves were speaking.</p> <p class="p1">The sink was clean. No toothpaste marks on the mirror. The walls had a bit of grime, but nothing unusual. No sign of a weapon. </p> <p class="p1">The body had long since been taken. A single window sat above the bathtub, with opaque glass and a black curtain drawn over it. Ilse glanced at the window. Latched.</p> <p class="p1">The bathtub drain had a plug dangling over it on a chain. Ilse brushed a shower curtain aside and glanced back towards the roommate.</p> <p class="p1">"Did she leave a note?"</p> <p class="p1">It took the young woman a second to realize she was being addressed once more. She had been humming beneath her breath and tapping her foot against the carpet. At the words, though, she glanced up, startled, and said, "Hey, what? Note?"</p> <p class="p1">"A suicide letter?"</p> <p class="p1">The look of confusion melted to realization. "Oh, that. No. Not that any of us found at least."</p> <p class="p1">Ilse looked back down at her printed police report. No recent psychiatric visitations to a hospital, no records of illness or medication. No suicide note. No sign of suicidal tendencies.</p> <p class="p1">Alone, these things weren't rare... but all together?</p> <p class="p1">Ilse gave the bathroom another once over. She checked the medicine cabinet behind the mirror, but it was empty. She smiled towards the roommate, if only to keep her at ease, and approached the younger woman.</p> <p class="p1">"Thank you for your time. I'll let you get to that lesson of yours."</p> <p class="p1">They began to move back down the stairs with Ilse feeling a weight of defeat. Nothing. Nothing that stood out. But perhaps that was the issue... <span class="t13">nothing</span> stood out.</p> <p class="p1">"Excuse me," the woman said suddenly, pausing next to her violin case and glancing back towards Ilse. "I don't mean to pry, and I know I'm not supposed to ask questions. But, I thought this was all settled. Should we be expecting more agents coming through?"</p> <p class="p1">"I don't think so. I was just curious. I actually knew Claudia.”</p> <p class="p1">"Oh. Well.” The woman had her violin case in her hands now, and held it in front of her like a shield. “I'm sorry for your loss."</p> <p class="p1">Ilse waved a hand. "It's been a long time since we've spoken. Thank you though."</p> <p class="p1">"It's really strange," said the woman, absentmindedly "I don't mean to do your job for you. But, well, Claudia just didn't seem the type, you know? She had it all together. She was the one we would go to with our problems." For the first time, a note of emotion warbled in the younger woman's throat. She looked to the side, swallowing and steadying herself. She glanced back. "She was promoted at work three months ago. In fact, she was planning to take me and Jamie, our other roommate, on a small vacation over the weekend. We were going to watch the orchestra in the city. Seems so strange that...," she paused, sighed and trailed off.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse just watched the younger woman once she'd gone quiet. She wanted to say something to comfort her, to help... But Savannah's words had their intended effect. Ilse had her own considerations to ponder. So instead, politely, she simply said, "Thank you for your time." She pushed through the door, stepping back out onto the patio. She paused in the doorway and said, "You're right. It <span class="t13">is</span> a bit strange."</p> <p class="p1">Ilse gave what she hoped was a reassuring look, and then moved back down the stairs towards her parked car. As she picked up her pace, a cold certainty fell over her shoulders.</p> <p class="p1">Nothing stood out. That was the problem. A promotion, a planned weekend vacation, her sister, her mother, everyone saying she was doing well. Why would she have killed herself?</p> <p class="p1">No suicide note. No signs at all. No. Ilse refused to believe it.</p> <p class="p1">Now she would just have to convince Supervising Agent Rawley she wasn't off chasing ghosts.</p> <p class="p1">She marched towards her car, slipping into the driver's seat and hitting the gas before her buckle even <span class="t13">clicked. </span></p> </body> </html>