Ilse stood outside the interrogation room. Sawyer waited next to her, eyeing her beneath the brim of his cap. "You okay?" he said, pausing long enough to study her. He seemed to have calmed somewhat since leaving the hotel. Every so often, he frowned at the bruise on her chin, but even this was now lessening in degree.
She glanced through the window in the door, studying the two figures sitting at the metal desk. The same location where they had interviewed Mr. Whitney, but these folks had come voluntarily.
“Are the locals heading out?” she murmured.
Sawyer nodded
"They were okay meeting us here?" Ilse said in nearly a whisper.
Sawyer shrugged. "Looks like it.”
"Did you tell them we could meet at their house?"
"They were eager to help."
If anything, this only rattled Ilse's nerves further. That, plus the second cup of coffee she still held in her right hand. The Styrofoam wobbled a bit as she took a step back to allow Sawyer entrance into the room first. As he pressed through the metal door, and greeted Abigail Rubin's parents, Ilse followed behind, momentarily lost in thought.
The parents had come voluntarily. On one hand, Ilse supposed this meant they would provide whatever help they could. But also, expectations were attached. Now, more than ever, Ilse needed to make sure she solved this.
As she was following Sawyer into the room, a voice suddenly called from down the hall.
"Dr. Beck!"
Ilse turned sharply, staring in the direction of the approaching figure. Agent Rawley cut an intimidating pose as he stalked up the long hall, a faint frown on his normally inexpressive face. Like Sawyer, Rawley didn't display emotions. But Ilse had discerned this was for different reasons. Sawyer pretended he didn't have emotions. Rawley liked to control his. One of them saw emotions as a threat. Others as a tool. Rawley would be happy to use anger, or disappointment, or fury. He saw them as vehicles.
And now, frowning, nearing, Ilse realized he wanted something.
She paused in the door, allowing it to swing shut, glimpsing a confused glance from Sawyer as she did.
"Sir?" she said.
Rawley came to a halt in front of her, crossing his arms and providing the only wrinkles in his perfectly maintained suit. "Do you really think you should be here?"
She stared. "Excuse me?"
"You just survived an attack," he insisted. "You don't have to come in. You're still on vacation after all."
Ilse met his gaze. Something about the disapproval, the concern, irritated her.
It was also not lost on her that he always called her doctor. Not agent. Doctor. While he had agreed to let her train and join the agency, he didn't see her as one of theirs. She didn't feel like one of them either. But now, staring at him, she could feel frustration mounting.
"I have to help," she said.
"Have you spoken to one of our counselors yet?"
"I am a counselor."
"Not for the agency. We have our own people for that. You just survived an attack involving a bureau case. Policy is that you speak with someone."
Ilse crossed her arms now, matching Rawley's posture. "I thought you said I was on vacation.”
"I thought you were. What are you doing here?"
She gestured towards the door. "Mr. and Mrs. Rubin came in to give an interview."
"I know who's in there. I know who comes into my building, Ilse. I'm not asking about what activity you're here for. I'm asking why you're here. Rest. You look awful."
“I'm perfectly functional, sir,” Ilse sighed, shaking her head and adjusting her sleeves with a nervous twitch of her fingers. "I know what I'm doing. I have to help.”
Agent Rawley rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked ready to protest further. But Ilse quickly interjected, "I'll be careful. I'll tell you if anything's going on. Please."
Rawley studied her for a moment. Everything suggested the supervisor was by the book. He didn't like to stray outside the painted lines. A Boy Scout—Sawyer had called him this once with far more contempt in his tone than he'd shown before. Funny, given that Sawyer was actually a Boy Scout, with a collection of merit badges to match.
"Please," Ilse insisted. "Let me just talk to them."
Rawley blinked once but didn't glance off. Then, in an even tone, he said, "No. We have to follow protocol. Once you've interviewed with a counselor, then you can come back and participate on the case, as long as they give you clearance. For now, we're going to keep you protected, and keep you safe. That's my job. Whether you like it or not."
She wanted to protest, feeling a sinking sensation in her stomach. But Rawley didn't move now, arms still crossed, standing in the hallway like a barrier.
She glanced towards the interrogation room door, but Rawley insisted, "Please, doctor, don't make this difficult. I understand when you were running your own practice, things were different. But here, we have to follow the rules. It's part of teamwork."
Ilse shook her head. She wanted to react further. She would have, except she knew she wasn't going to listen. She just needed him to think so. "All right,” she murmured as demurely as she could manage. “Thank you for your honesty."
Without a farewell, she turned and began moving down the hall. She entered the elevator. After a moment, the doors began to close, and only then, as she glimpsed Rawley begin to move back towards his office, did Ilse catch the closing doors, wait a second longer, then stroll promptly back down the hall towards the interrogation room. She pushed in to the small space just in time to hear the words, "Not sure where she is.... Well, I'm Agent Sawyer; good to meetcha."
As she stepped in, Sawyer glanced up in surprise. Mr. and Mrs. Rubin also looked at her. They were older than she had expected. Probably in their eighties, with pure white, snowy hair. Mr. Rubin had black sunglasses on. She noticed he had a walking cane as well. His arm was looped through his wife's, and she was patting him. He didn't quite look in Ilse's direction as she entered.
They looked like a sweet, old couple, and so it pained Ilse's heart when she glimpsed evidence of tears in Mrs. Rubin's eyes.
"You good?" Sawyer said curtly.
Ilse nodded, breathlessly joining him at the table and slipping into a metal chair. "Sorry for the delay. Just a misunderstanding."
She would just have to hope Rawley would be willing to forgive her later. There was no way she was going to miss the interview.
Sawyer didn't care either way it seemed. The moment she sat, he returned his attention to the third victim's parents.
"And you are?" said Mrs. Rubin, her voice creaking with age.
"Dr. Beck," Ilse said. "I don't mean to interrupt. Please, continue."
"We were just starting," Sawyer cut in. "I was about to ask them if they had anything to tell me about their daughter. Obviously, things are still fresh."
Ilse winced. "We are both very sorry for your loss."
At this, Mrs. Rubin dabbed at her eyes, sniffing. Mr. Rubin, glanced around the room with his sunglasses, not quite determining the source of the noise. "Our daughter was cursed," he said. Though he seemed blind, his voice was unusually strong for his age. A deep, sure tone. A radio voice.
"Cursed?" Sawyer said.
Both of the older folks nodded simultaneously, with the synchronicity born of a lifetime spent together.
"Abbie survived an attempt on her life when she was a teenager," said Mrs. Rubin, sniffing again. She lowered her handkerchief which she was using to dab at her eyes and rested her hand on her husband's once more. "She was God's child. She loved Him. We both know that."
Mr. Rubin also nodded adamantly. "She wasn't walking with the Lord, though," he said slowly. "Not that I could blame her. After what she'd been through."
"What do you mean?" Sawyer said.
Mr. Rubin shook his head. "The drinking. A lot of drinking."
"Because of the trauma," Mrs. Rubin quickly interjected. She squeezed her husband's hand. "It wasn't her fault. She suffered terribly. The drinking was just a symptom. Neither of us knew, to the full extent." She sobbed, shaking her head. "If we had known she was suffering. If we had known..."
Ilse paused and then realized Abigail's parents still thought she had committed suicide.
"Was your daughter attending classes for her issues? Was she getting counseling?"
"No," Mr. Rubin said. He reached up, removed his sunglasses, and rubbed where the marks from the metal had pressed into the skin. His eyes were closed. He returned the glasses a second later.
"She was," Mrs. Rubin corrected.
"She wasn't," said the father. "I would've known."
A guilty look crossed Mrs. Rubin's face. She swallowed, glanced off to the side, but then said, softly, "She didn't want you to know Carl. She knew how you could get."
The man jerked his arm from his wife's hand. "You didn't tell me? What sort of classes?"
"Carl, calm down."
"I will not Charlotte. You were keeping secrets? This is just like Ohio all over again."
"Don't be dramatic."
"You said you wouldn't keep secrets! You promised."
"And you said you'd work on your temper. But you don't. And now Abbie is dead."
"You're crazy!"
"See. Right there. That temper. That's why I didn't tell you."
Ilse shared a look with Sawyer, awkward, uncomfortable. Sawyer, though, didn't seem to care. He tapped a hand on the table as if trying to get the attention of unruly schoolchildren. The age difference, the family spat, didn't seem to deter him. "Hang on," he said, "what classes was your daughter taking?"
The Rubins glanced back at him. Mrs. Rubin cleared her throat. She hesitated, then said, "She was attending AA meetings at the community center."
Mr. Rubin scoffed, shaking his head miserably.
But Ilse leaned in, excited. "What center?"
"Green Leaf community center," said Mrs. Rubin primly. She refused to look in her husband's direction. But Ilse noticed, after another few seconds of silence, Mr. Rubin slipped his hand back into his wife's, and they held each once more.
Ilse found a lump forming in her throat. But at the same time, a prickle spread across her spine.
"Green Leaf?" Sawyer murmured.
"That's the same one as Claudia and Lauren," Ilse said beneath her breath.
Mr. and Mrs. Rubin were once again holding a whispered conversation, not quite listening to the agents anymore.
Ilse allowed them their momentary conference and turned to Sawyer. "Think we should head back to the center?"
Sawyer hesitated, then gave a quick nod. "It's the connection," he said. "AA would be a different room than trauma survivors. But the killer might be getting their names from the center."
Ilse nodded quickly.
They allowed Mr. and Mrs. Rubin to continue a whispered discussion for a few moments longer. Then, slowly, Sawyer excused himself, rising from the table and saying, "We have what we need. I'll send in another agent to get a written statement if that's alright with you."
"We're sorry for your loss," Ilse called out.
But the old couple wasn't paying attention anymore, still bickering about secrets and tempers. And yet, throughout it, they were still holding each other's hands. Again, Ilse felt the lump in her throat, but she couldn't quite say why.
Sawyer and Ilse moved out of the interrogation room back into the hall. Ilse felt a flicker of relief there was no sign of Rawley. Another agent, a younger woman was approaching. The woman had a paper and pen and nodded politely to Sawyer. "Am I good to go?"
Sawyer grunted, "Anything they say. Try to keep them on track, though."
The woman nodded.
Then, together, Sawyer and Ilse began to move down the hall. Back towards the elevator.
"Someone knew all three victims," Ilse was saying firmly. "Someone who knew them from the community center."
"Obviously," Sawyer said. "But how did they know you?"
They both stood still by the elevator doors, waiting for it to ding open. Ilse replied, "I don't know that yet."
"You should find out."
“I plan to."
Sawyer shook his head, stepping into the elevator. "Are you sure this is safe for you?"
Ilse just rolled her eyes, ignored the question, and stepped into the elevator as well. To his credit, Sawyer didn't protest further.
They had to speak with Bobby. The teacher at the community center. They had to find a list of students and instructors. Someone working at Green Leaf had access to class rosters. Someone was picking off survivors one at a time—survivors who were students at the center.
The elevator doors slid shut, the compartment rattled and began to descend slowly.
Down. Down. Down.
As they descended, Ilse felt a pit forming in her stomach. How many names would have been on a community center roster? How many targets? How many potential victims?
And when would the killer strike again?