Ilse noted it was getting late as Sawyer maneuvered his unmarked, dark sedan through the city streets towards the apartment building. The structure of glass and steel and yellow paint jutted from the sidewalk like a sore thumb in the heart of Seattle. As they neared it, and Sawyer pulled into an emergency vehicle parking spot on the side of the curb, Ilse could feel the oppressive weight of night descending around them. She glanced at the digital clock on Sawyer's dash. Nearly 6:30. In Seattle, nights often came quick. It tempted the horizon with strands of gray and ash before rushing in all of a sudden and carpeting the sky with black. The light pollution from the city held at bay any starlight. The curling wisps of clouds above distracted the horizon from holding any shape beyond the blotchy and the black.
As they exited the car, stepping over the crisscrossing yellow painted lines of the emergency spot, Ilse tucked her hands inside her sleeves, moving hunched against the wind towards the door of the yellow apartment complex.
"Fourth floor," Sawyer muttered, checking his phone. "Lauren Michaels," he said. "Her name's not showing up in records more than five years ago.”
Ilse glanced at Sawyer, shrugging once. "Maybe she moved here recently."
Ilse's own mind was churning. Another victim. So close to Claudia's own death. It couldn't be a coincidence. There was no way. As if sensing her sense of vindication, Sawyer fell into step alongside her. The giant yellow structure clashed horribly with the pink building behind it. "Don't get ahead of yourself," Sawyer muttered beneath his breath.
She shot a look at him, frowning.
They reached the buzzer doors and waited patiently. After a few moments, studying the bells, Sawyer reached out and swiped his finger along all of them.
Ilse rolled her eyes. But instead of commenting, she said, "What do you mean? How am I getting ahead of myself."
"Trauma victims have a higher likelihood of suicide," Sawyer said, matter-of-factly. His throat seemed to tighten for a moment, and he gave her a long look. "I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm just saying let's take it a step at a time."
Before she could reply, the door buzzed, and suddenly they were inside, Sawyer pushing ahead.
"All I'm saying is," he continued, as if sensing she needed more explanation, "one suicide could've pushed the other over the edge. You never know what someone's going through."
"I knew," Ilse murmured beneath her breath. "I knew. She was better. Fourth floor you said?"
They took the elevator up in silence. Sawyer was his usual calm, collected self. Ilse's foot kept fidgeting in her shoe, but inwardly she was rehearsing the names and victim counts of serial killers throughout the years. The morbid memory exercise helped her stay calm. Two bodies in four days. What were the odds? Claudia had died the previous day. Lauren had died two days before that.
They reached the fourth-floor landing and approached a hunched woman standing with a walking cane by the door. She glared at them through beady eyes behind round spectacles. She wore a pink nightgown, despite the early hour, and had a key in one trembling hand.
"I got the call. You don't look like FBI," she barked.
"Are you the landlord?" Sawyer said.
"Landlady," she snapped back. "I'd like to see some ID."
Ilse didn't blame her. Agent Sawyer wore flannel and jeans. He also had a baseball cap. Ilse wore a sweater, and slacks with tennis shoes. They looked like they'd come out from a stroll in the park rather than a field office. Still, both of them displayed their identifications. For Ilse, the motion took longer and was far less smooth. But by the end of it, the old landlady they'd called ahead for muttered beneath her breath, inserted the key into the lock, and pushed open the door.
"You keep coming in and out for a week," she snapped. "I'm losing rent."
"We'll be quick," Ilse said.
The two of them stepped into the dark apartment. Just like the previous scene, everything was clean. No caution tape. No sign of a commotion. No sign of conflict at all. A single couch in one corner of the room. A loveseat in the other. A television set across from the chairs. A kitchen off to the right. A long hall led towards an open door.
"Same as the last one," Sawyer murmured, checking his phone. "She killed herself in the bathroom."
"Allegedly," Ilse said. She strode down the hall, paused by one door, then moved to the next.
The bathroom was like the rest of the apartment. Like Claudia's place. Clean.
No toothpaste marks. No grime around the tub. A pure, pristine porcelain bathtub. Ilse considered this and decided CSI must've cleaned up as Lauren didn't have roommates.
She stood in the doorway, surveying the bathroom. Sawyer was behind her, peering over her shoulder. "No note," he said, still glancing at his phone occasionally.
Ilse turned, frowning towards the electronic police report. Perhaps she would have to reconsider her policy on smart phones.
For now, she leaned in, standing next to Sawyer and staring at the device in his hand. The crime scene photos flipped by as he scrolled down. A woman naked, bleeding, in a bathtub splashed with red. Nearly unrecognizable from where they now stood.
"Horrible," Ilse murmured beneath her breath.
Sawyer didn't disagree.
She scanned the rest of the document. Only a single family member had provided an interview. No note. No sign of depression. They said they hadn't suspected anything.
“Doesn't look like much, doc," Sawyer said softly. He didn't normally use a gentle tone. But as he watched her out of the corner of his eye, Ilse felt a flicker of regret. If Sawyer was willing to drop the case, then that must've meant there really wasn't anything to go on. If anyone was willing to chase things to the end it was Tom.
She watched numbly as he continued to scroll through the phone. He flicked past a photo of the victim and Ilse suddenly froze.
"Go back," she said sharply.
Sawyer hesitated, glancing up at her. He took a step back.
"No, on your phone. Scroll back to that picture. Show me her face."
Sawyer sensed the urgency in her voice. Slowly, he scrolled back up.
And for a moment, Ilse's jaw unhinged. Prickles erupted across her skin. She was glad she was pressed to the frame of the bathroom door, otherwise she wasn't sure she would've remained standing.
"Her name's not Lauren," Ilse said, struggling to inhale.
Sawyer frowned. "Excuse me?"
"She changed her name. Her name is not Lauren. At least, it wasn't five years ago."
"How would you know?"
Her skin still prickling, her cheeks feeling suddenly warm, Ilse looked up, staring Tom dead in the eye. "Because," she snapped, "she was one of my clients too. Five years ago. Her name is Eve Gardner. Evelyn. She went by Eve."
Tom had gone very still as well. His hand was rigid like a statue's, holding his phone extended, his fingers white around the frame of the metallic device. Ilse stared at the glass. Stared at the pixie cut hair cut she remembered. At the nose ring, and the hesitant smile in the driver’s license photo. Eve had always been photogenic, even for the DMV. A beautiful, friendly young woman. And also a client of Ilse's who had survived a serial killer.
"Tom," Ilse said beneath her breath, "they weren't just my clients. Eve and Claudia; I had them five years apart. But that's not the only thing that's strange."
He grunted, waiting, poised. It wasn't obvious in his posture, or even in anything he said. But his eyes were alight once more. He was tensed, as if ready for sudden action.
The adrenaline was still racing through Ilse as she stared at the familiar face of her old client. "It was the same killer, Tom. They both survived the same killer. He was never caught."
"Holy shit.”
Ilse just looked up, eyes wide, fixated on her partner's face. She swallowed and in a trembling voice said, "You believe me now? This wasn't suicide."
"It still might've been, Ilse. But no, yeah, I believe you. We should look into this."
"We need to get back to the office. We need to go through all the files they have on the Ice-Road killer. He was never caught, Tom. Never. Only two of his victims ever escaped. And now they're dead.”