Ilse stood by the window on the second floor, murmuring answers beneath her breath as she looked out the window, watching the police and FBI comb through the trees in the park across the street. Other CSI agents were picking through the carpet, and still others had accessed her apartment, sorting through the rooms, looking for any sign of the attacker.
Ilse simply felt numb.
It was nearly one in the morning, and below, she spotted Supervising Agent Rawley talking to two agents, his motions calm, muted as ever. He glanced up, his hand standing out in the beam of light from the parking lot fixtures. He watched her for a moment, through the window. She stared back, motionless.
Part of her felt a jolt of gratitude Rawley himself had shown up.
Perhaps Sawyer was right.
Tough but fair.
Rawley nodded once, dipping his head in greeting, then returned to his conversation with the surrounding agents.
“Did you recognize him?” the officer interviewing her was saying. He had a small notebook out and a pencil in one hand.
She continued looking out the window, watching her breath blossom then fade against the glass. “No. I didn't see his face.”
“But you say he was wearing gloves?”
She nodded numbly. “He... he had a dog with him. I think... I heard bells.” She shook her head, glancing back towards the officer, her eyes then slipping to scan the long hall where CSI was bagging the broken syringe.
This at least confirmed it was the same killer who had targeted the other women.
“Nothing will show up,” she murmured.
“Excuse me?”
“The syringe. He was wearing gloves.”
The officer nodded. “Just being thorough Ma'am.”
“Doctor Beck,” she murmured.
“Excuse me.”
But Ilse barely heard him. The killer had stuck to the shadows. She hadn't been paying attention. Part of her wanted to turn, to march outside and begin searching the woods herself for this guy. Why was she standing up here while the monster slunk away, hiding in the shadows?
She scowled, her hand bunching and slowly, she pushed away from the window, slipping deftly past the cop with the pad and pen; then she began moving along the hall, towards the stairs.
“Excuse me, Ma'am,” the officer protested.
“No,” she said simply.
She took the stairs, marching down towards the front door. She would search the park herself if she had to. What if he'd had a car parked nearby? She could check for traffic cameras, for anything. He thought he could come here to her apartment! She wasn't a victim. No. She was a survivor. And in a contest between her and this man... this monster... she would outlast.
She gritted her teeth, hands at her side as she marched towards the front door.
It suddenly swung open before she reached it, though, and she pulled up short.
Agent Rawley was standing there in his peacoat, gloves off and gripped in one hand. His silver hair framed his handsome features as his normally docile expression flickered into a frown.
“Going somewhere?”
“Out,” she said sheepishly.
“I don't think that's a good idea,” he said. “You were attacked, Dr. Beck.”
She studied the man, standing still at the bottom of the steps. He didn't seem to be intentionally blocking her exit, but the effect was the same.
“I need to find him.”
“We will,” Rawley said simply. “But you need to get some rest. We have agents and locals looking everywhere as we speak. We'll find him.”
“I need to help.”
Rawley studied her as if weighing the claim. Then he shook his head. “No, Ilse. We have it handled. We're already sending officers to look out for survivors of serial killers. It's not a very large list, but we'll have extra officers patrolling their streets. As for you, I booked a hotel.”
She blinked. Already? He moved fast.
“Oh?”
“You can't stay here; you won't catch a wink with CSI stomping everywhere. I can have a unit watch you as well.”
Ilse blanched. “No!” she protested. “I don't need a babysitter. All the available officers need to focus on catching this guy. We stopped him mid-attack, there's no telling how he'll react. He might already be targeting someone else.”
“I'll take it under advisement,” Rawley said with a sigh. “Come. I'll drive you.”
Ilse blinked at the direct nature of his comment. “Is that a command?”
“It's an offer.”
Ilse stared at Rawley, and he began to turn as if it hadn't even occurred to him that she might protest this decision. After a moment, though, as the FBI agent stood by the door, holding it open, she relented with a sigh and moved towards the threshold. Perhaps a hotel would be nice.
She could get some sleep. Her eyes were laden, heavy.
Maybe Sawyer was right—maybe she'd be able to focus better in the morning.
Plus, some peace and quiet would give her a chance to go over Abigail Rubin's full report without getting the stink-eye from Rawley or one of the other officers.
So, with a sigh, she followed her supervising agent out into the parking lot, under the bright safety light, moving towards his parked Mercedes.
***
Ilse sat on the edge of the bed in the hotel room. A ceiling fan spun above her, one of the chains rattling with each swiping motion. She didn't move to turn it off. The soft gust of breeze was pleasant against her face. She didn't know why she couldn't fall asleep. Everything seemed heightened. Her skin prickling, her heart pounding. Twice, she had tried to lay down. But even now, the lights off in the spacious hotel room of the two-star hotel, she could feel her stomach turn. On the floor in front of her, splayed across the carpet and illuminated by the faint light from her dumb phone, case files were scattered haphazardly.
Her eyes were heavy, exhaustion thick, but she scanned the files. Her eyes flitted towards the door. Back to her files. The door again.
Shit.
She got to her feet, stalked over, checked the locks, unlocked—locked again. She scowled, feeling her nerves rise. She opened the door. Closed it. Opened. Closed again. Another lock. Grit her teeth—unlock. A final lock.
She let out a long sigh, feeling some of her nerves ease away.
She turned back, marching over to the bed again and sitting on the edge.
"Where are you?" she murmured beneath her breath, her fingers buzzing from where they'd turned the lock. Had she really locked the door? Damn it yes! She swallowed and scanned the case file displaying Claudia Rice. Her eyes moved to a picture of Lauren Michaels. And then at last, her gaze settled on the newest victim. Abigail Rubin. From one woman to the next, one survivor to the next, her eyes darted quickly. Her fingers tapped out a rhythm against the blankets beneath her.
What was the link?
What was she missing?
Ilse flung herself back, planting herself on the blankets and staring up at the swishing ceiling fan, barely visible in the dark room, save the low, blue glow from her phone screen.
"Where are you?" she repeated, her lips barely lifting from each other, as even the energy for this had left.
She closed her eyes, picturing the shadow appearing out of the corner of her gaze. Picturing as the attacker surged towards her, a syringe in one hand and a knife in the other.
She'd been complacent. She hadn't been paying attention.
Again and again the images flashed through her consciousness.
Sleep refused to come at first. She watched the scene play out. Felt his hands on her throat. Felt the terror as the knife descended.
Again and again and again.
CSI hadn't managed to find any DNA on her keys. And yet, she knew she had struck him.
Laying there, in the dark, in a nearly trance-like state, she wasn't sure when sleep arrived. Her whole attention, both waking, and in dream, was watching the same image of the dark shadow appear, charge, and attack.
Someone was hunting survivors.
And now they were hunting her.
Ilse wished she'd turned. Wished she could have looked at the face of the aggressor.
There, in the hotel room, somewhere between consciousness and sleep, she tried to swivel. Not physically, but in her memory. She tried to glance in the direction of the charging man. His face had been in shadow. She'd been downcast, staring at the ground, lost in thought.
If only she had a glimpse. If only she'd looked closer.
In the dream, the shadow charged. She finally turned, yelling as she did. The lights turned on, and the gray figure emerged.
But it wasn't the attacker. Once more, little Hilda Mueller was sitting back in that truck in the Black Forest, Germany.
Once more she could hear her father's voice.
And now, she saw the gray figure in her memories.
Her stepmother. Though her father had never actually married again. His girlfriend. How had she forgotten he had a girlfriend?
Ilse stared at the woman charging towards her, taking the form of her most recent attacker. The shadowy figure came with memories. Vague, sharp memories, contrasting with fuzzy visuals.
Most of all, Ilse remembered the cold, cruel woman.
She had never wanted to come into the basement. She had used Gerald as her puppet.
The children had never been safe.
"Find Hilda," the woman's voice echoed in Ilse's mind, though the figure's lips didn't move.
She'd had silver hair, and beautiful features. She wore a black sweater, nearly identical to Ilse's.
"Find Hilda," those full lips formed the words. Manicured fingernails rolled in the air as they reached towards Ilse to grab her.
Ilse wasn't sure when the dream ended or started again. Or again. And again. And again.
Always being chased, always the attacker being revealed as her stepmother. The second person upstairs. The one Ilse had forgotten.
Her father was a horrible man. And yet she'd remembered him. What made this woman so terrible, so much more awful, that Ilse's subconscious hadn't even dared to recollect?
Again. "Find Hilda."
And again.
Time bled together, as it often did when one's consciousness went on sabbatical.
Loud retorts suddenly echoed in Ilse's dream. Was this the hundredth time she'd seen it? The thousandth? Part of her was aware, but another, more exhausted part couldn't tell.
Fear jolted through her, the sharp bite of indiscernible emotion.
Three more knocks.
Ilse jolted upright. Gasping, she looked around. The room was well lit. Sunlight was streaming through the window over the radiator. Someone was knocking on the hotel door.
"Hello?" she called out, still breathing heavily.
She felt like she'd just run a marathon. She supposed, in a way, she had.
How long had she been out? She was stunned to realize she'd even gotten any sleep at all.
"Ilse?" came a voice through the door. "Doc, open up."
She blinked, hesitant. "Sawyer?"
"Dammit doc, are you okay? Rawley told me—shit, why didn't you call? Ilse—open the damn door. Come on!”
She blinked, trying to focus.
Ilse shivered, trying to allow her thoughts to catch up with her brain. She kicked off the edge of her bed, staring towards the scattered files on the ground next to her old phone, and she let out a soft little groan. Morning. It had come so quickly.
She stared at the pictures on the floor. Stared at Abigail. She'd seen the woman's body. Seen the way she'd bled in that bathtub.
"Coming," Ilse called.
Agent Rawley must've told Sawyer where Ilse had been shacked up.
It took Ilse a moment to realize why her fingers were so cold. Startled, scared awake, she glanced down now at her hand. It was gripping the gun she still had in the holster on her waist.
She stared, stunned. How on Earth had she forgotten to remove her gun before going to bed?
She blinked, shaking her head, and only now realizing her fingers were shaking.
With a great degree of effort, she uncurled her fingers, staring at how badly her hand was trembling, and then pushed out of the bed completely, bending to gather the photos, her phone, smooth her shirt, and then turned towards the door.
At least Sawyer was punctual. They still needed to speak with the Rubins. The third victim's family would be their one shot at connecting this victim with the other two. The serial killer was hunting survivors, but how was he finding them? Who was behind all of this? And how had he found Ilse?
She grabbed the door handle. It felt cold beneath her fingers too. Cool metal. Comforting. Comforting in a way she dreaded.
She hissed and yanked the door open.
Sawyer stood there, his face pale, his green eyes searching the moment he'd been given a line of sight into the room. His eyes bounced around the area, double and triple checking.
“It's fine,” she said quickly. “I'm fine.”
He didn't take her word for it though, his eyes still moving restlessly. Only once he'd determined she was alone, safe, did Sawyer return his attention to her.
He smelled of sandalwood today, the same soap he always used. But his eyes were ringed with weariness and his hair was disheveled. By the looks of things, he'd been in such a rush, he'd misbuttoned the top button of his shirt and, most stunning of all, he'd forgotten his baseball cap.
Tom ran a calloused hand through his sandy hair, his expression twitching as he scanned her. He frowned, reaching a hand out and grazing it against her chin. “That hurt?” he murmured.
She winced where he gently brushed the bruise. “It's fine,” she said. “I'm fine. Really.”
Sawyer let his hand linger for a moment, his green eyes fixated on her. Then he frowned, lowering his hand and jamming it into his pocket. He looked older, somehow, without his baseball cap. His hair, pushing every which way, while still wearing his poorly buttoned flannel shirt made him seem like some sort of woodsman or lumberjack.
Now, though, he was just scowling.
“You didn't call me? Why didn't anyone call me?”
She swallowed. “I—what?”
“You were attacked? Rawley said so.”
“Yes—I mean, yes, I was. But I'm fine...”
He stared at her, mouth pressing into a firm line. For a moment, he didn't say anything, then, he reached out, pressing his hand against her forehead. She pushed it away. “Knock it off,” she said.
“Oh, good, you're not delusional. I was checking for a fever. Because it almost feels like you're not taking this seriously! What do you mean you're fine... Ilse Beck, you were attacked! A killer followed you home!” He was breathing heavily now, his chest rising and falling rapidly. It was rare he ever spoke this long. Now, glaring, he seemed on the verge of shouting in frustration.
“I'm taking it seriously,” she said firmly. “Look.” She pointed towards the weapon on her hip.
“Did—you sleep with that?”
“Mhmm.”
He let out a little sigh. Swallowed. Then nodded once. “Good. Rawley said you refused a babysitter.”
“I wanted them looking for the guy. Rawley is sending other cops to check on survivors of serial killers in the area.”
“Damn. Good... That your call?”
Ilse hesitated but shook her head. “No. Rawley's idea. Cops are going to be patrolling outside the addresses of known survivors... so at least there's that.”
“Dammit. You should've called me. I would've watched your place—you need protection, too! Christ, Ilse, you scared me.”
She studied him a moment now, allowing herself a few seconds to process her own thoughts. Sawyer sometimes got like this, switching from cool, calm to overly concerned, scared even. Often scared on her behalf. Sometimes... though she couldn't say why, it almost felt like he was overreacting... as if perhaps he was seeing something besides what she was.
Now, he seemed downright terrified. His hand, which he'd bunched at his side, was trembling, the knuckles white in fear.
She reached out cautiously, patting his hand, and holding it for a moment until he slowly unclenched. His fingers were trembling so bad they practically vibrated against hers.
“It's okay,” she murmured. “I'm fine. Really. Thank you for the concern. I'm sorry—I didn't know you wanted me to call.”
“Christ, Ilse—we're working this case, together. Aren't we?”
She nodded, slowly releasing his hand. Of course that was why he was concerned. She felt silly. It was about the case. For a moment there, she'd almost thought, perhaps there was a chance...
She shook her head, refusing to even think it.
Sawyer was a good agent. He protected people. That was it.
“Sorry,” she repeated, smiling softly even though she didn't much feel like it. “I'm fine. Truly I am. Let's go speak with the Rubins, hmm? I'm sure they'll be able to help.”
The unspoken part she thought to herself. Because if the Rubin's couldn't help... if they didn't know anything, then the killer would be free to strike again... and again... And there was nothing they would be able to do about it.
Abigail's parents had to know something. Anything.