Clouds held back the sun in the northern outskirts of the city. Ilse stepped from her Avalon, turning towards where Agent Tom Sawyer was already reclining against the hood of his sedan, facing a small two-story house against the backdrop of the forest. An incessant halo of green and brown, spindly branches and protruding leaves held the horizon in a cradle. The house itself possessed a double lot. The grass had overgrown, and weeds filled the space beneath the windows. Ilse glanced towards her phone at the address Sawyer had provided, then looked back up at the old, poorly maintained house. For a moment she stood still and felt Sawyer watching her while chewing on what looked like a strip of beef jerky.
She needed a moment to focus. Needed a moment to think clearly. Normally, she didn't visit the family members of her clients. Now, the fresh, playful expression of Evelyn stood out in her mind's eye; this would be the second mother she would speak with. The second mother grieving the loss of a child. Ilse was still reeling from the realization that two of her past clients had died. She massaged the back of her hands, feeling the soothing sensation of the circular motion. She closed her eyes for a minute, picturing Claudia naked beneath that sheet on the coroner's table. She pictured the crime scene photos of Eve. Her wrists slit, blood spilling in the bathtub.
Ilse had to focus. She had to think. Sometimes, skeletons from someone's closet could resurrect. Sometimes, the best buried secrets only needed time to unearth.
And so Ilse began to pick up her pace, moving towards Sawyer, who pushed off the hood of the sedan
"Did you have coffee?" he asked as she neared.
"Yes. You?"
He tapped his pocket which rattled with the sound of pills.
"You know those are bad for you, right?"
Sawyer grunted. "Same as coffee, without the horrible taste."
"You have the palette of a child."
"Touchy," he said, hiding a grin. He glanced at her from beneath his cap. "I saw movement inside earlier. She's awake."
Ilse swallowed, steeling herself, and she approached the house, walking across a poorly kept driveway and stray chips of concrete where grass was now poking out.
Before she reached the door, though, it swung open with a creak. An older woman, pretending to be in her twenties, stood there. A combination of plastic surgery, too-tight clothing and more makeup than Ilse had ever worn, stood framed in the door. Ilse hesitated, staring up at Mrs. Gardner, Evelyn's mother. She recognized her from her driver's license photo. "Are you cops?" the woman called out. Sawyer grunted. Ilse said, "FBI."
The woman in the door crossed her arms. "You don't look like cops."
"I'm sorry ma'am, I only have a couple of questions," Ilse replied. Sawyer held up his ID, and the woman shot a long glance at it, her eyes trailed down, taking Sawyer in as well, lingering on his face, then down towards his chest and then to his long legs.
"Not sure what else I can tell you folks," she said, looking up again.
"We just wanted to talk about your daughter," Ilse said, gently, coming to a halt at the bottom step, facing up the stairs. "We don't mean to drag you through this again."
At these words, though, instead of annoyed, the mother looked pleased. She bobbed her head once. "Good. FBI looking into it? Good," she repeated, saying the single syllable word as if it were two. "I did tell those cops my Evie... Well, Lauren now, I suppose. That's the name we call her now... But I told them she would never do such a thing."
Ilse detected a faint southern accent pretending to hide beneath a northern articulation.
"You don't think your daughter killed herself?” Sawyer said, blunt as ever.
Ilse winced but then felt a jolt of anticipation as Mrs. Gardner shook her head.
Sawyer continued. "She didn't tell you anything alarming? Nothing stood out?”"
"Nothing. She was happier than I've ever seen her."
"So you were surprised when you found out what happened?"
The woman glared at Sawyer. "That's what I'm saying. Just folks like you don't seem to want to listen."
Ilse, hoping to redirect some of the ire, cleared her throat, raised her voice and said, "Your daughter, did she have any enemies? Anyone who'd been causing her trouble?" Just another routine question. And yet, this time, the net caught a fish.
"She did in fact," said Mrs. Gardner quickly. She tapped her head, uncrossing her arms to point a finger towards Ilse as if to emphasize the point. "I told the cops about it too. They said it was irrelevant. That's a big word. Irrelevant. Especially to say about my daughter."
Ilse kept her tone gentle. "Who was bothering your daughter?"
"My little Evie," said Mrs. Gardner with an impatient huff, "caught a creep sneaking around her place. The creep followed her from one of those classes."
"Classes?” Ilse said.
"At the community center. The one for trauma survivors. My daughter was more than a survivor. She was victorious. That's why I know she didn't... didn't... well, you know.” Mrs. Gardner's plastic features didn't quite rearrange, but she glanced off with a distant look in her eyes.
Sawyer leaned back, waiting for Ilse to continue. Tom never seemed to like to take the lead in interviews when he could avoid it. Ilse, her nerves still rattled, pressed on, "This man who followed her from her class, did he have a name?"
"'Course he did. The weirdo was in the class with her. Just like these sickos to go to grief seminars and prey on the victims. I looked him up."
"Pardon?"
"Justin Monroe. Canadian. Lives here, though. Half hour from my daughter's place. No excuse to be around there, snooping around. He said he wanted to ask her out. But she told him to leave, and he wouldn't. If you want to stop wasting my time, you should go talk to this Justin."
Ilse shared a look with Sawyer and nodded once. "Thank you for your time. Is there anything else you might add?"
"Yes. Kick him in the nuts." Then, Mrs. Gardner slammed her door.
Ilse blinked, glancing at Sawyer, who shrugged back at her.
"Justin Monroe?" Ilse murmured.
Sawyer had already fished out his phone and was cycling through the device. A few seconds passed in quiet, and Ilse glanced towards the overgrown, lonely house, wondering what the two floors would be used for now that the prospect of grandkids was gone. She shivered at the thought.
“So,” Sawyer murmured as he scanned his phone. He cleared his throat and his face remained inexpressive. His tone was noncommittal, almost dismissive, but his words caught her attention. “Heard you were on vacation. What was that about?”
Ilse looked up sharply. She stared at the side of Sawyer's face. “W-what do you mean?”
He shrugged again. “Nothing, just asking. Bahamas? Hawaii? Staycation?”
“I—umm, no...”
“Right, right,” he said in that same tone. It would've worked too, but Ilse had heard him employ that very same tone with suspects in the past, when trying to get them to lower their guard. She frowned now, feeling a flicker of annoyance.
“I was in Europe,” she said stiffly. “It's whatever.”
“Oh... right, right... Europe,” he murmured. “Nice.” He looked at her now, watching. His green eyes were bright even when cast in shadow, staring at her. In that same cool, carefree tone, as if what he was asking didn't matter to him one way or the other, he said, “You go alone? Or, you know, take your boyfriend or something?”
She blinked stunned. “I...,” she trailed off. She'd thought he'd been prying about her location... But... was he... She frowned, stunned... Surely not. Was Sawyer trying to figure out if she had a boyfriend while outside the home of the mom to a possible murder victim?
She stood stunned, watching his silhouette, the easy way he stood to attention, head angled to study his phone but still keeping her in line of sight. Even from here, she could detect the small particles of sawdust along his flannel shirt, caught in the creases. She knew he liked woodworking, whittling. Knew that he preferred jeans to slacks and caps to suits. She'd never seen him in a suit.
His eyes really were quite green.
She bit her lip, glancing sharply off to the side... Don't be silly! She thought to herself, feeling a jolt of embarrassment. She brushed anxiously at her dark hair, pushing it past her ear. Of course Sawyer wasn't interested in her... what a ridiculous idea. She'd never dated—not once. She didn't even want to tell Sawyer where she'd been the previous day. How on earth could she ever imagine letting anyone share the rest of the things buried in her closet?
No, no—she was being silly anyway. Sawyer would never be interested in her. What a silly thought.
Sawyer interrupted this train by redirecting once more. "Forget it. Look, there he is. Lives about twenty miles from here."
"That was fast,” Ilse said, grateful for the change of subject. “Justin Monroe?”
"Mhmm. On a hunch I checked arrest reports. Guy has a record. Complaints too."
Ilse's relief turned to a prickle along her neck, and she pressed her hands against each other as she looked over. "What sort of record?"
"Stalking. Drunk and disorderly. An assault. I'll try to get details on that last one."
Ilse scowled now. "So we're saying that some creep followed a traumatized woman and used the opportunity to prey on her?"
As she said it, Sawyer also went still; his expression darkened.
For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, staring off. She'd seen the same sort of vacant look in his eyes before. Once, also at a community center, he'd tackled a man trying to attack her. For a moment, he'd nearly lost himself.
When he caught her watching him, though, Agent Sawyer just shrugged once, and muttered, "Let's go check it out. Worth a shot."
"If he was in the same class," Ilse said, heading back towards the car and calling over her shoulder, "then that means Justin knew both the victims."
Sawyer looked back at her, the gray clouds above hiding the sun as he stared over the edge of his sedan. Ilse gave him a long look and shrugged one shoulder.
For another moment he looked lost, frozen, standing there against his car as if he'd drifted off to sleep, though his eyes were open. Yet, still, it was as if he couldn't see anything. And then, as Ilse slid into her vehicle and shut the door, the sound of the metal striking the frame seemed to rouse him. Sawyer slipped into his own car, gunned the engine, and ripped away from the curb, already breaking the speed limit as he raced back towards the highway.