Ilse heard Sawyer's low whistle as they pulled up the long driveway twenty minutes north of Seattle. The house wasn't so much a house as a mansion. Tall, pale walls, with two turrets framed the main building—walls covered in glass overlooked a lake.
"Didn't say she came from money," Sawyer muttered, as his tires ground to a halt against the newly finished blacktop driveway.
There were other, more expensive cars outside the house.
And near the cars, Ilse spotted the older woman from the wake. The woman was near one of the BMWs, talking to a driver. Ilse winced, stepping out of the car, and moving in a trajectory that would block the old woman's view of her. Sawyer, without question, fell into step.
"So who are we looking for?" he murmured, a note of excitement to his tone, like a school kid in the back of class passing notes.
Ilse hesitated, her eyes scanning a couple of other familiar faces, all wearing black, some of them by the cars, others by the lake in a gazebo, others near a row of tables covered with food.
"I think we're crashing the family potluck," Ilse murmured. As she said it, her eyes settled on a single, solitary figure sitting on a rope swing beneath a large oak by the lake.
"There," Ilse said, pointing.
At the same time, the older woman, the matriarch, glanced in their direction. Mrs. Rice frowned and muttered something to the driver she was standing with. Together, the two of them began moving in Ilse's direction.
"Dammit," she said.
"What?"
"See them? She stopped me from speaking with the sister at the wake."
Sawyer frowned but didn't hesitate. Seamlessly, he stepped past her, his hand pulling his credentials from his pocket. His other hand fluttered behind his back, making shooing motions towards Ilse, as if sweeping her in the direction of the sister.
Grateful for the backup and the distraction, Ilse doubled her pace, moving towards the lake, around a row of tables laden with potato salad and deviled eggs. Sawyer blocked the path of the old woman and her driver to engage them in conversation while Ilse marched across the grass, towards the rope swing
As she neared, the same woman from the wake who had given her tearful speech, stared across the water, humming softly beneath her breath.
"Excuse me," Ilse murmured.
The sister looked up. "Hello," she said, her voice hollow. She returned her attention to the lake.
"I don't mean to bother you. But... umm, my name is Dr. Beck.” No response. Ilse swallowed and added, “I'm working with the FBI."
The woman wrinkled her nose. She glanced back. "Claire," she said simply. "I saw you at the wake."
Her voice was eerie, light, almost as if she were speaking on a sort of delay. There was no more emotion to her tone. Her gaze was vacant. Her head bowed. She wore the same black dress from the wake. She seemed exhausted. A thin stain of potato salad smeared across her sleeve. Ilse didn't look at it. "I don't mean to bother you. Do you have a moment?"
The shadow of grief loomed heavy over all, even on this beautiful estate. Ilse could hear the sound of Sawyer still speaking with the matriarch and her driver.
"What does the FBI want? I already gave a statement to the police." The words came monotone, delayed.
Ilse felt a jolt of sympathy. Gently, she said, "We're just covering our bases.”
The woman on the swing turned now, her hands gripping the rope tightly. "Claudia loved this spot. She would often come here with the radio, listening to Wagner or Bach."
"I'm very sorry for your loss."
"Claudia was doing so well. That's what makes it all so horrible. She seemed happy for the first time in years."
Ilse felt another jolt of paint and guilt. She swallowed. "Everyone seems to be saying that. Did your sister have any enemies? Any debts you know of?"
Claire shook her head. "We were close. She would've told me."
"You can't think of anything?"
"All I've really been doing is thinking. I'm tired of it. I don't know what happened. I don't know why she didn't tell me. Like I said, we were close. All those years ago, it could've been me that was taken. I was lucky. And even then, Claudia survived. It was all so horrible. I'm sure you know about it. If you're FBI." Her hand twisted on the rope, tight, almost as if trying to hurt her fingers. She looked away from the lake, glancing back towards the house. "I know a few days ago she was upset. She'd been happy for months. But something did upset her. I just didn't realize it was such a big deal."
Ilse frowned. "A few days ago? What happened?"
Claire gave an airy wave of her hand. "I don't think it's anything. Although, I suppose it is a bit of a coincidence. My sister used to go to a trauma and abuse survivors meeting. It was in the city. They would meet every month or so. I don't know if my sister had gone in a while. But she did mention last week that one of the women at the meeting had killed herself. She seemed surprised by it."
Ilse stared at the side of Claire's face. "Someone else killed themselves?"
The sister looked up. "Is that important? I don't mean to be insensitive, but in group like that, it's not that rare."
Ilse swallowed back a retort, feeling the same anger she'd felt in the coroner's office. Ilse calmed a moment, determined not to take it out on a grieving sister. Instead of responding to the comment, Ilse said, “You don't happen to know the name of the woman who killed herself, do you?”
"They were barely even friends from what I understood. It was surprising. Sad. I should've paid closer attention. Do you think that's why Claudia killed herself? Was it grief? I've read in the past that suicide can be contagious. It's like something in the water. Maybe a spiritual attack."
Ilse just hesitated. "Perhaps... so about her name?”
Claire calmed again, disappearing once more into her own thoughts. She stared off, hesitated, then said, "Lauren. Her name was Lauren Michaels. I remember it because my sister showed me the article. Only a paragraph online. That was how she found out about the death. Like I said, she hadn't been to the group in a couple of months."
Ilse and Claire both let out long sighs at the same time. But Ilse guessed they were for vastly different reasons.
Another suicide victim. Within the same week. In the same trauma group. Sometimes, suicide could prompt a wave of similar actions. The idea of presenting a solution that others might not have considered. The normalization of taking one's own life could prompt others to do the same. Was that what had happened here?
Lauren Michaels. An online article. It was worth checking out.
"Excuse me!" a voice was calling now. "Excuse me!"
Ilse glanced back and winced. Sawyer was strolling along next to the old matriarch who had shouldered her way past and was marching towards the lakeshore.
"Thank you for your time," Ilse murmured beneath her breath. She resisted the urge to pat the woman on the shoulder. And instead turned, moving back along the lake, towards where Sawyer was wincing apologetically.
"You shouldn't be here," the old woman was saying.
Ilse breezed past her, muttering, "Sorry for your loss."
She followed the trail back towards the parking lot, with quick steps. She didn't look back. Though she could feel the eyes of the old woman and her driver on her.
Sawyer fell into step next to her. The sound of their footsteps was muffled by the grass. It gave way to the blacktop, and then, once they were far enough away, in the shadow of the mansion, heading towards their car, Ilse said, "I think I have a lead."
"Good. That old woman was a steel trap. I didn't get anything."
"She looked ready to push me into the lake," Ilse glanced back now. Mrs. Rice was standing like a dark silhouette against the water. Claire was still swinging on the rope swing, facing the lake.
Sawyer slid into the driver's seat, and Ilse followed into the car.
"Where to?” Sawyer asked.
Evening was quickly approaching. The sky was darker than when they'd first arrived. They still had a few options left. Beneath the fading sun, though, Ilse could think of only one fruitful course of action. "There was another suicide earlier in the week," she said. "Someone that Claudia knew."
Sawyer frowned. "Another suicide?"
"You need to use your smart phone. Look up Lauren Michaels. We need an address."