Ilse's boat maneuvered through the rain, speeding beneath dark clouds casting a wide net across the morning horizon. It was as if the night had followed her, through the hours, through the crisp morning, refusing to stop hounding her heels.
Her windshield wipers whipped back and forth, cutting the moisture dappled across the glass. Her heart quickened with each rapid fall of the blades.
Ahead, also veering through traffic, heading towards the city, she spotted the angry red glare of Sawyer's taillights.
It seemed strange to take two separate cars to the same crime scene. And yet something about the distance felt appropriate. She was fond of Agent Sawyer, but how much did she really even know about him?
This morning was the perfect example. He'd come along with her on the case to help out—to forestall boredom. And yet, now, somehow, he was behaving grimly all of a sudden, like a bloodhound following a lead.
Somewhere, along the way, the case was no longer Ilse's. It was theirs.
The only problem: she couldn't figure out why.
This was important to a therapist. The why. The reason people ticked. Why was Sawyer so involved and interested in this case all of a sudden. Not just the interest of a professional investigator, but something else.
As she continued to move through traffic, her phone suddenly began to ring.
She frowned, flicking her gaze down.
Very few people had her personal number.
The name on the small, miniature white screen read: Tom.
She swallowed, then, staying in her lane, reached out and snagged the device, lifting it. “Sawyer?” she said, her voice rasping.
Perhaps it was due to the weather, or simply due to Ilse's terrible phone, but Sawyer's voice came crackling and faint on the other end. She had to strain to hear.
“There wasn't a struggle,” he said, his voice choppy. “No struggle.”
“I—yes, I saw the report too,” she said, staring through the windshield now as Sawyer's own car zipped past a large truck. He wasn't going as fast as he had before, almost as if he'd slowed to allow her to keep up.
His words, though, were firm, unrelenting. He'd proposed a problem and it now needed a solution. This was how Sawyer thought, wasn't it? Problem and solution. The world was the problem.
Tom Sawyer was the solution.
And yet things were rarely so simple.
“I don't know how he got them without a struggle,” she said, shouting over the speaker. “Maybe they trusted him. Maybe he surprised them. It would make sense if he's also from this group.”
Sawyer's tires spun as he dipped onto the shoulder of the road, passing a slow-moving truck in the left lane. The driver leaned on their horn and Ilse waited for the truck to merge before following.
“This might be nothing, Ilse,” Sawyer cautioned. “Monroe's alibi was clear. The mother didn't know of any other aggressor. No struggle. No defensive wounds...,” he was rattling off the sentences almost as if he were presenting evidence, or perhaps trying to convince himself of something.
Ilse wasn't sure if she was expected to participate in this or simply listen.
“It doesn't make sense,” he murmured. “None of it...”
“Do... do you want to go back to the office?” Ilse said, hesitantly. “I can go to this meeting on my own. I'm used to those sorts of things.”
“The meeting... right.”
Ilse frowned, briefly, for a moment wondering if this was about the case or their current destination. But no. Why would Sawyer want to avoid a trauma meeting? He was used to dealing with death, used to dealing with victims...
Surely that wasn't it—was it?
“I... I... No. I'll go with,” Sawyer said simply. “Just, you know—don't get your hopes up.”
Ilse felt a jolt of gratitude. She wouldn't have to go alone. Sawyer was still acting strangely though.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
“Mhmm.”
Then he hung up.
Ilse's frown deepened and she picked up the pace, cutting rapidly through traffic and speeding towards the Green Leaf community center, following Sawyer's lead.
***
They waited for the rain to clear. Traffic caught them, draining another quarter hour following the half-hour drive. Now, sitting in the parking lot, under the rain for what felt like an hour, Ilse found her thoughts to focus.
As the rain lifted, and people began to stream in and out of the community center, Ilse could feel her thoughts clearing, like fog lifting from the horizon. As the rain faded, though the skies remained dark, Ilse slipped from her car. Sawyer, noting this, also exited his vehicle.
“See anything?” he murmured, eyes on the stairs.
During their brief wait in the parking lot, they'd both kept an eye for anything untoward. Anyone that stood out.
But people came and went rapidly... They were just...
People.
Some carrying swim caps, others carrying chess sets. A few had been in ballerina outfits, and others looked ready for a workout.
“Nothing,” Ilse murmured. “You?”
“Nada. Right. Well. Meeting starts in fifteen.”
Sawyer lingered by the hood of his car, though, as if reluctant to step towards the community center. She'd seen him break into serial killers' lairs before, seen him move off on his own in the dark woods, hunting monsters...
And yet, approaching the white glass building, he seemed hesitant, reluctant. She thought she actually heard him swallow.
Without making a big deal of it, nor looking back at him, Ilse took the lead, marching up the marble stairs, through the spinning, glass doors.
Sawyer reluctantly followed, sheepish, hesitant, almost... almost as if he were nervous.
Ilse glanced back now, waiting as he caught up with her by the front information desk. A small sign next to the desk had room numbers, class titles, and arrows.
She glanced through and found a label that read Grief Processing.
She pointed it out and Sawyer hung back allowing her to take the lead again. The thin-framed agent examined a trophy case as if it were the most interesting thing in the world, but then fell into step once Ilse was too far ahead of him.
“You alright?” she shot back over her shoulder.
Sawyer shook his head. “Fine. Fine. You?”
“Me? Yes.”
“Good.”
She frowned. “Good.”
They marched down a long hall towards the indicated door which was propped open in front of a row of floor-to-ceiling blue gym mats.
A janitor was whistling cheerfully, mopping at the ground and chatting with a middle-aged woman trying to enter the class but not wanting to seem rude. She kept smiling and nodding without volunteering anything to the conversation before the janitor would break into another long one-sided monologue and whistle occasionally as he mopped the floor.
The flustered woman tried to say, “So sorry, but I should help set up.”
“That reminds me,” the janitor exclaimed. “I once worked for a mayor's assistant, you know. Cleaned his house, I did. Bet you can't guess who.”
“No, no I can't. Sorry. Sorry. Have a good day.”
The janitor didn't seem to hear, still prattling on cheerfully and occasionally whistling.
Feeling a pang of sympathy for the woman in the door, Ilse thought to herself, assertiveness training. Still, she knew what it was to be at the mercy of someone else's emotional radar. And so she swooped forward, smiling as she did and exclaiming. “Donna! Donna! So nice to see you. Come on in. Come on. Let's hurry.”
The middle-aged woman blinked in surprise as Ilse caught her arm and guided her into the classroom in one giant swoop.
The janitor didn't even seem to notice. As Sawyer passed, the cleaning man tried to break into conversation again, but Sawyer just grunted, ignored him and entered the room after Ilse and her new companion.
“My name's not Donna,” the woman said hesitantly.
“I know,” Ilse whispered, releasing the forearm of the woman. “Just trying to help.”
It took not-Donna a second, but then her eyes brightened, and she grinned. “Oh—oh thank you so much! Yes, yes. He's sweet, but he talks so much.”
Ilse smiled, glancing back towards where the janitor continued to mop, moving off down the hall now in search of better conversation partners no doubt.
“Do—do I know you? Sorry, I'm Cindy. And you?”
Ilse glanced towards the woman. “Ilse,” she said. “This is Tom.”
Cindy nodded to both in turn, smiling brightly, her silver curls bouncing, but—Ilse noticed—she didn't extend a hand. Aversion to physical contact.
Out of respect, Ilse took a half step back, giving Cindy more space.
Behind them, further in the room, a circle of chairs had already been set up, half of them now occupied. By the looks of things, the meeting was already in full swing.
Cindy winced, glancing at her watch then cursed beneath her breath, whispering now. “I knew it... I knew I should have paid attention to the email.”
“What is it?” Ilse whispered back.
Cindy shook her head, gesturing towards the seven or so seated figures. “Normally we meet at one. But the brochure last week said two. Mr. Brand sent out an email saying we were meeting at the normal time... Stupid me—I just forgot and went with the brochure... Looks like they're finishing up...”
Ilse frowned, glancing towards the small gathering.
A young woman, with a buzzed head and two nose rings was sobbing, standing next to her chair and speaking between emotional pauses. Her voice warbled as she opened her mouth and stammered, “I-I never thought...” She composed herself, and an older man with glasses sitting next to her patted the chair next to the woman in a comforting gesture, not making physical contact, but providing support where the woman could see out of the corner of her eye.
She smiled down at the older man, who was wearing a name tag which read, Bobby.
As if drawing on some shared strength, the woman sniffed once, inhaled deeply and then said, “I... I've really appreciated coming here. B-before all this...,” she swallowed again, but then continued, her voice steadying, “I wasn't sure I was going to make it. I spent so long... so long thinking about... Well, about that night. Wondering if I'd taken a different route home. If I'd stayed later at the bar. If I hadn't broken up the week before...”
She sniffed, shaking her head. “But here, thanks to all of you, and thanks to Bobby,” she glanced towards the older man and smiled again, “I really feel like I'm on the right path. You know? I felt so, so lost.” She sniffed again. “And still, sometimes, especially at night, it can be scary. The nightmares keep coming, but... but I know they don't control me.”
Ilse just watched as the woman continued, finding the words turning to an echo as she listened. She tried to focus, tried not to impose as she stood in the back of the room with Tom and Cindy, but another part of her almost seemed to tear away, flitting up and drifting over the room.
Ilse shivered... She knew nightmares well. Knew what it was to engage in an endless series of what-ifs. Not just from her clients. But her own life. The woman's tears were familiar. The straightening of her spine, standing tall despite the weight of the world—this was also familiar.
Suddenly, Ilse refocused to the sound of quiet applause.
She glanced around, noticing the others were all clapping politely. The woman beamed as they did but remained standing. As the applause died, the others began to rise from their seats as well.
The kind-eyed man with the glasses and the name-tag reading Bobby also got to his feet, cleared his throat and called out, “I'm so sorry for the confusion about the time ladies and gentlemen. We'll reconvene at the same time next week. We're going back to three-a-weeks for anyone interested.”
Ilse watched as a few of the students approached Bobby and shared a whispered conversation with him. He nodded sympathetically or smiled and exclaimed in congratulations. Slowly, the students grabbed personal belongings and jackets from hooks on the back wall and began to move towards the door.
Cindy sighed in frustration, shaking her head. “Drat. I missed it.”
Ilse winced apologetically, but before she could say anything, another one of the students hurried over, exclaiming, “Cindy! Oh, there you are. Did you hear about Claudia?”
The two women broke off, moving towards the door in tandem now.
Slowly, as the room drained, Ilse shared a look with Sawyer and began to approach the kind-eyed, older man.
He brushed silver hair behind an ear and whistled softly as he began folding a series of what looked like paper questionnaires and slipped them into a briefcase which rested behind his chair.
“Excuse me,” Ilse called.
The man turned, glancing at her. Instantly, he winced and said, “I'm so, so sorry. There was a mix-up with scheduling. We'll be meeting again next week and would love to have you both. Look at me, where are my manners. I'm Bobby but you can call me whatever you like. What are your names?”
Sawyer raised an eyebrow and didn't volunteer anything. Ilse shook her head. “Oh, umm, no. We're not here for the group.”
“Hmm?” Bobby absentmindedly hefted his briefcase, rummaging in it for a second and then turned to face them. “Sorry. Distracted. What was that?”
“I said we're not here for the group,” Ilse murmured.
The gregarious fellow frowned now. His eyes slipped towards where the final one of his students was filing out of door. “Right. Well. How can I help you?”
“My name is Ilse,” she said. “This is Tom.”
“Agent Beck. Agent Sawyer,” Tom corrected in a dull tone.
Instantly, Bobby's expression shifted from one of confusion to one of pain. He lowered his briefcase, his hand shaking, and he shook his head. “So, so horrible. You're here about our friends, Lauren and Claudia?”
“I'm afraid so,” said Ilse. “We are here because we heard from Evel—I mean, Lauren's mother she'd been having trouble with someone in the group. Someone followed her home, harassing her.”
Bobby's eyes widened in horror. “They did? Are you serious?” He stared at them, crossing his arms and shaking his head urgently. “That's... I don't... Who?”
“The person in question isn't currently a suspect,” Ilse replied carefully, though she had to grit her teeth to get the words out.
“Hang on, suspect? What do you mean suspect?”
“I just mean we aren't looking to question them right now. However, we are looking into this group in particular. We have reason to believe there might be others who are regularly in attendance who might have known Claudia and Lauren. It's the one connection point between them.”
Bobby was shaking his head though. “I—truly, I can't think of anyone here who could have done something like... that.” He swallowed, glancing off with a look of mild disgust. Just as quickly, he corrected his expression. “No. No one here would even think of doing something so horrible. If you mean suspect... then these weren't suicides?”
“You're sure no one here is—”
“Positive. Absolutely certain. The people here... they're hurting. They're here for help. But that doesn't make them dangerous!”
“I know that,” Ilse replied. “But you don't see everything, do you?”
“I—well, no.”
“So there could be something you're not aware of?”
“There could be, yes.”
“Any idea where we might look to find out what?”
Bobby sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. He slowly lowered into his chair, accidentally sitting on his briefcase, but he didn't seem to notice at first. “I—I can't even begin to think where...,” he trailed off and his expression flickered.
“What?” Ilse said, pouncing on the nonverbal. “What is it?”
“I—well, I'm sure it's nothing... Just...,” Bobby crossed his arms, and looked Ilse in the eyes. “It wouldn't be one of the students. But a few months back we had a bad time with an unlicensed trauma counselor.”
“A bad time? In what way?”
“Well, we found him online. Got our hopes up because of the resume, but it turned out to be bogus. After just a couple of sessions, I was getting reports that some of the students were being overcharged. Claudia, actually, mentioned he'd hit on her.”
“Did it get physical?” Ilse said, staring.
“Not that I heard, but he was manipulative. I didn't get specifics, but after a few complaints I fired him. Though it wasn't easy, I'll tell you that. He kept contacting some of the students, using the sign-up roster. He tried to sell them on his own personal course.” The man shook his head in frustration. “I reported him, and eventually he went away. But... if someone might have had something to do with this horrible business...,” he shook his head. “It would be Matt Whitney. I still have his contact information, if you'd like it.”
“Great. Yes,” Sawyer said. As he pulled out his phone, though, Sawyer looked up, and said, “How did you find out about Claudia and Lauren?”
Bobby shook his head sadly and shrugged. “I don't remember who told me. We were discussing it at the start of the meeting though. Word gets around.”
“Right. Gets around,” said Sawyer. He wiggled his phone. “Matt Whitney?”
“Yes—yes, of course. Here, let me grab my phone.”
Ilse watched as the class teacher began rummaging through his briefcase again, extricating it awkwardly from where he'd accidentally sat on it.
A counselor who'd actually hit on one of his clients. In some circles Ilse ran in, such a thing was completely taboo. The stigma alone would've cost said counselor any future job.
But could it have led to something darker still?
Ilse felt her temper rising again and tried to swallow back her sense of righteous indignation. They would just talk to Mr. Whitney. Just talk...
Nothing further.
Still, even as she thought it and even as Bobby handed over a business card to Sawyer, Ilse could feel her temper burning bright, her sheer indignation rising to meet a sense of injustice. Hopefully, this time, she wouldn't need Sawyer's help to keep her temper in check.