The infamous Seattle rains began to pour before Ilse reached her destination. It started as droplets on the highway, but now, as they pulled into a dirtier, more worn part of the city, amidst discarded debris that looked as if it hadn't been picked up for weeks, it reached a hum of downpour. Ilse spotted Sawyer pulling his own car into the driveway of a shared townhouse. Her hands gripped the steering wheel of her separate vehicle tightly, and she grit her teeth, glaring over the hood towards where Tom was already pushing out of the front seat.
Sawyer wasn't even waiting now. She watched as, beneath the drizzle, and the rising rain, he marched to the indicated townhouse door. Something had shifted in her partner. She wasn't sure what. He stalked forward with long strides. His head angled low. The weapon on his hip was now visible past the hem of his shirt. His hands were tensed. If anything, he seemed ready for action. As he neared the front door, she glimpsed the same, vacant look in his eyes.
Ilse slipped out of her own car, parking half on the street and half in the final remnants of the gray driveway. She hurried up the path as Sawyer's fist slammed against the wooden door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The knocks retorted like gunshots.
The rain continued to stain the gray ground into darker colors. Ilse flicked droplets from her eyes, her head ducked. She wished she'd brought an umbrella, but that hadn't been in the agency manual.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
More loud retorts. Sawyer raised his hand a third time, but then the door suddenly swung in.
"Christ," snapped a voice. "Suck my—shit. Who are you?"
Sawyer lowered his hand. A large fellow, with dark eyes, and short stubbly hair was glaring out at them.
"Are you Justin Monroe?" Sawyer said, his voice dispassionate.
The heavyset man in the door wasn't quite fat, but he wasn't fit either. He was shaped a bit like a barrel, with no waist or hips. The man glanced past Sawyer towards where Ilse was taking the sidewalk.
The sneer on his face turned and his lips formed into a pursing motion, and he gave a little whistle. "If you're selling, I'm buying"
"So you are Justin Monroe?" Sawyer said patiently.
The man seemed reluctant to look away from Ilse but glanced back towards Sawyer. "Are you a cop? You're acting like a cop. You look like a soccer dad but you're acting like one."
"FBI," Sawyer said. This time, he didn't show his badge. Ilse frowned, wondering if this was intentional. Was he trying to rile up Monroe?
The suspect braced himself in his doorway, tensed. "I didn't do anything. What do you want from me?"
"I'm here about women you knew at the community center," Sawyer said, still matter-of-factly, almost robotic. No one else would've noticed, but Ilse had spent enough time with Sawyer to spot the tells. He was tense. His shoulders squared. His left hand twitching ever so slightly. Though he sounded calm, Sawyer was agitated, and Ilse couldn't blame him.
Whoever this man was, he preyed on the defenseless. What sort of creep stalked a victim home just to traumatize them a second time?
Ilse could feel her own anger mounting as she joined Sawyer on the porch, facing the heavyset, dark-eyed fellow in the doorway.
"Who?" he retorted.
"You know who," Ilse snapped. But Sawyer said, at the same time, "Lauren Michaels. Claudia Rice. Did you know them?"
The man in the door grunted. He didn't invite them in, preferring to watch the rain fall as they tried to crowd under the faint cover above.
"I know them. I heard they were dead."
Sawyer's twitching hand went still. "You heard?"
"We had group yesterday. They had a pact suicide. Tragic."
"You don't sound broken up about it," Ilse retorted.
He glanced at her again and sneered, "I didn't know them. What? Am I supposed to care if a couple of broads want to slit their wrists? Good riddance."
Ilse's temper flared. Her hand bunched up, and she stepped past Sawyer. But the lanky FBI agent caught her, holding in her in place like an anchor.
"Where were you Sunday night?" Sawyer said seamlessly.
The man glanced nervously towards the expression on Ilse's face and his eyes flicked to Sawyer's hand gripping her wrist. He took a half step back into his own home. "Damn. Chill. Like I said, at the community center. Bunch of people were there with me. You can ask any of them."
Ilse flinched. "What time were you there?" she snapped.
"We went late. Had a crying session afterwards." He leered at her. "We got to share our emotions. There's nothing quite like the trembling breasts of a sobbing woman to really get the juices flowing. You know what I mean?"
Ilse snapped, surging forward and pointing a finger at Monroe's chin. "Watch it," she snapped. "I'm warning you. Watch it."
His eyes narrowed and he sneered, "Or what? I didn't do anything. Those groups are open to anyone."
Sawyer kept his hand extended, gently tugging Ilse back. "That's all you remember? That you were there late?"
The man pointed a finger up and wiggled his digits. "See that? That's a camera. So if you try to attack me, I'm gonna sue your ass. And also, it'll show what time I got home. So, yes. That's all I've got. I was there late. I got home something like 11:30."
Ilse felt her stomach sink. If he was telling the truth, then he couldn't possibly have been on the other side of town five minutes later to kill Claudia.
"Do you have proof?” Sawyer said, still even toned. His hand was twitching again, though.
"Get lost. I don't gotta show you shit."
He began to close his door, but Sawyer jutted his foot in the jam. And he held it there. For a moment, a change seemed to come over Tom. His eyes darkened, raindrops slipping from his bangs down his cheeks. He stared through the door, and in a voice that was deeper, he growled, "You're going to want to prove it to me. You're gonna want to do that now."
The man glanced up at the camera above his door, his eyes widening for a moment. Sawyer didn't seem to care about the camera. He kept his foot in the door, glaring directly at Mr. Monroe.
"I didn't give you permission to come in—you're trespassing!" the man squeaked.
"Is that how you want to play it?” Sawyer murmured softly. His hand twitched next to his gun.
Monroe seemed to notice this. He swallowed. Like every coward, when he was called on his act, he crumpled.
"Shit, fine. Look. No, don't touch it. Your hands are wet.” He extended his phone with shaking fingers. “See, right there. No, wait, yeah, there we go. That car? Mine. And look, there, see. Me. And, what do you know? Look at the time." He jutted his phone defiantly towards Sawyer, tapping a thick finger against the screen. Sawyer grudgingly glanced at the device, watched, and then watched further. Ilse drew nearer, frowning, peering over Sawyer's shoulder.
The agent murmured, "11:30."
He was right. Ilse stared at the time stamp, heart hammering.
"Like I said. Now get the hell out of my house. Go drown for all I care."
“Not so fast,” Ilse cut in. “You followed one of our victims home—why? Not exactly the behavior of an innocent man.”
The scowl swiveled to her. “Never happened,” he snapped.
“Her mother seemed certain.”
“Old bird is making stuff up. Never happened. Besides, I never hurt nobody. Was there a report? Hmm? An arrest? No. Just a misunderstanding. I'm sure.”
“Yes. Sure.”
Ilse glanced towards Sawyer, but the agent just looked from the security camera to the driveway, then sighed. “There wasn't an arrest. No restraining order either,” he murmured. “No one filed.” He glanced back towards the phone in the suspect's hand. This seemed to cinch it for him. “Alright, Mr. Monroe. We appreciate your—”
The door slammed shut. Ilse stood shivering, damp but not soaked thanks to the awning. Sawyer pulled his own phone from his pocket, still pressed under the cover of the second floor jutting above the door.
"If you're looking for creeps," a voice suddenly shouted from inside. "You're wasting your time!" The door almost seemed to vibrate with the shrill noise. Now that he was spooked, Mr. Monroe seemed to want to give a peace offering to save his own neck.
"There's a lot of creeps at those groups!" the voice continued, still yelling. "I never hurt nobody." And then they heard the sound of a lock.
Ilse listened to retreating footsteps and vaguely wondered if Monroe was going to call the police or fetch a weapon. Sawyer didn't seem perturbed at all. If anything, he seemed like he would've looked forward to Monroe returning armed. He stood with his phone out, staring at the screen.
"Maybe it is him after all," Ilse murmured.
"Alibi's good," Sawyer said with a grunt.
Ilse's heart hammered. She'd been worried he would say that. Still, she couldn't shake her hatred. Who preyed on vulnerable women? There was something sick, twisted about it. Especially as a therapist who worked with these people. The amount of damage a betrayal of trust like that could do... It was almost as bad as murder.
She gritted her teeth, glaring at the door. "Bunch of creeps," Sawyer said.
She looked over. "Excuse me?"
"Heard what he said? He's not the only creep at those groups."
She's studied Sawyer. "You mean at the community group?"
Sawyer scrolled on his phone, then clicked his tongue. "There you go. There's a meeting in two hours."
"Hang on, you mean the trauma class?"
Sawyer nodded. "It's the only place the two victims would've spent time together, yes?"
Ilse had to lean in to hear him over the sound of the rain. Sawyer looked calmer now, but his hand was still twitching next to his gun.
Ilse hissed in frustration. "So you think even if it's not Monroe it could be one of the other people there?"
"You heard him. All sorts of creeps there."
“Do you have the meeting director's name?"
"Both mothers said it was the same meeting. At the Green Leaf community center."
Water splashed now as Sawyer took back to the sidewalk, and Ilse hurried towards her car again. They would drive separately once more. This time, if they had two hours, she refused to follow his speed.
Still, by the sound of things, Sawyer was taking this more seriously than she'd thought. He'd already looked up the location of the survivor group. She watched as the lanky man slipped back into the car and felt a jolt of admiration. Somehow, he communicated an airy sense of indifference, and yet he was still paying attention. Even more than she was. She hadn't noted that connection about the same community center. Of course it made sense. She could've looked it up. There were still things she needed to learn.
As he pulled away from the curb, tires squealing and flicking up spurts of water, some of her gratitude faded to nerves. The tires screeched, squealing as he tore down the street, heading away once more.
At a much more reasonable pace, Ilse followed.
She shot a vengeful glanced towards the townhouse and the small blinking camera above the door. Trust the creep to have a security system. No one knew the intentions of man's heart nearly so much as a pervert like Monroe.
Perhaps he had an alibi for one of the murders. That didn't mean he was innocent. She would make sure to keep his name near the top of the list.
To stalk a woman trying to recover from abuse? To follow them home...
It took a special sort of twisted.
She found herself picking up speed now as well, moving through the rain-slicked ground and tearing after Sawyer, her engine now as hot as her temper.
Part of her wished she'd punched Monroe. Another part of her wished people like that didn't exist at all.
What had Evelyn been thinking during her last minutes? Claudia?
All the happiness they had managed to rebuild. All the health they had regained. Only for it to be stripped away.
It wasn't fair.
However small a gesture it was, Ilse could only hope to bring some sort of justice.
She wouldn't rest until she did.