She scoffs.
“I'm several hundred miles away from you. What is it you expect me to do? All the good I would be for is pinpointing the moment you were killed. That's not helpful.”
“It depends on how you look at it,” I say.
“Well, how I look at it is I'd much rather my best friend get back here alive. That means proving this LaRoche guy kidnapped and killed those people, siccing the FBI on him, and getting the hell out of there before you end up another notch on his belt.”
“I don't think he actually adds notches to his belt for every person he kills,” I muse. “That wouldn't make for a very subtle approach.”
I'm trying to calm her down, to make her feel better. It doesn't work.
“I'm serious, Emma. You agreed to go undercover to investigate and do what the local police force weren’t doing. Not to hunt this guy down yourself. You need to get your job done and come home.”
“As soon as I know I have enough, I'll call the team in. Until then, I promise I'll be as careful as I can.”
“I guess that's the best I'm going to get,” she sighs. “Just make sure you really are careful.”
I get off the phone and head to the bathroom to take a shower. The feeling the scrutinizing eyes watching me hasn't completely left my skin, and I make sure the shade is pulled down tightly over the window above before undressing. I'm not used to feeling vulnerable in a space that supposed to belong to me, even temporarily. I'm the type to shower with the door open because it means one less obstacle between getting out and getting on with my day. But I've also never been in quite this position. I've always had the comfort of knowing the rest of my team is close by. Even when I'm the only one in the building, or it seems to others watching that I'm alone, I know I'm not. There are always agents close enough to get to me within a matter of seconds. Not tonight. After six months out of the field, I'm truly by myself, and for the first time in my adult life, I lock the bathroom door before taking my shower.
The thought of being watched in the woods and the locked door makes me angry as I stand under the stream of water so hot it stings my skin. I hate the thought of anyone having that power over me. He shouldn't have the power to make me afraid.
I step out of the shower and unlock the door. When I'm done, I get into my pajamas. Not wanting to leave the warm steam of the bathroom and enter the cold cabin with wet hair, I blast it with my hairdryer. Finally, as close to warm as I think I'm going to get until I'm totally dry, I head into the living room and curl up on the couch.
I stay there for most of the night, going through the pictures and all the notes I've taken. I need to piece this together. I take out the picture of Cristela Jordan, thinking again about just how similar she looks to the blonde woman draped over Chief LaRoche at the hotel. It could be a coincidence. Or it could be a pattern.
When I can't keep my eyes open anymore, I bury myself in a pile of blankets on the bed and fall into an almost instant sleep. My father always used to tell me that dreams are our brain’s way of entertaining ourselves during the long hours of sleep. While our bodies go about the work of repairing themselves and preparing for the next day, all our thoughts and impulses come together to create little stories to tell us.
That's not what these dreams are. This isn't entertainment or even a sequential story. I dream in flashes of thought, memory, and sensation. It's real enough to taste the damp earth of the woods on the back of my tongue when I take a deep breath and feel the cold claw with stinging precision along my skin.
The same things repeat in my mind over and over again. I see Cristela's face in the slightly blurry image published in newspapers. An instant later, it melts away into the battered, mangled remnants left at the side of the train track. From there, my mind wanders over to Andrea Layne. They look so similar. Not in any way that's unique or special. In fact, their similarity is in their normalcy. Both tall and thin. Both well-endowed beneath tight clothing. Both old enough to have started the experience of life. Both young enough for it to hurt a little more to think about their deaths.
I snap awake as the image of red-tipped fingers stroking along LaRoche's skin turn to droplets of blood. I know what I have to do.
I get dressed as quickly as I can and grab a bagel to bring with me on the way. The morning air is crisp and chilly, but I don’t mind. I get into my car and drive off.
Three cars parked at different strategic points in the lot make the hotel look almost busy in comparison to the way it was when I visited yesterday. There are no signs of the shooting. Not that there would be. There were only two shots, and they didn't hit anything. That's something I never quite get over. After my years in the Bureau and knowing what my father experienced during his own service, crime is rarely a truly shocking thing to me. It's just a part of my everyday life. I have learned over time to live alongside it.
Some agents are able to completely push thoughts of the horrific people they encounter out of their minds. It's like they have strong metal safes inside their head and when it's time to go home after work, they're able to just stuff everything inside and close the door. That's not me. Every case I've worked, every person I've encountered has affected me in some way. Not that it's broken me down or made me question that I chose the right career path. More so, it just makes me look at people and things a little differently. That's why I am always a little surprised when I visit a crime scene again and realize it has gone right back to what it was before that moment in time.
It's the opposite of crime scenes left bloody or strewn with lingering remnants of police investigations. Instead of the shock of seeing the pieces of the horror left behind, there is the eerie feeling of seeing no reminder at all. There should be something. Crime makes an impact. It leaves a scar on the atmosphere of the place where it happened. People should be able to feel it. When there's nothing, it's like life has layered on top of that scar, glossing it over.
But there's only one reason I'm back at this hotel, and it has nothing to do with the two bullets that came flying at me. Cristela is still on my mind, and I need to answer a question burning in my thoughts.
Rather than going right through the doors into the lobby, I walk past and glance to the side through the glass. If Mirna is in her place behind the counter, I don't want to just walk inside. She's not there, but I quickly remember the security camera directed at the door. If I just walk inside, it will record me, and I don't want that to happen. Continuing around the side of the hotel, I walk past the door that must be connected to the alcove where I saw Andrea and LaRoche. I go around the corner to the back and through an empty parking lot. This many spaces seems extremely optimistic for a hotel this far away from everything.
A middle-aged man in a housekeeping uniform leans against the brick back wall smoking a cigarette and staring out into the distance. He's wearing short sleeves, but the temperature doesn't seem to bother him. I go back around the corner to prevent him from seeing me and listen. A few moments later, I hear a chastising voice, and when I peek back around the corner, the man is gone. Making my way quickly along the back wall, I look for the door I hope is at the end of the long hallway to the side of the counter. It's there, but it's locked, a card reader positioned at the side to allow guests to let themselves in.
I could go back around to the front of the hotel, but I can't risk Mirna seeing me and wondering why I'm here. Instead, I take my chances. If anyone is nearby, my knock will probably startle the hell out of them. With any luck, the man guilted back inside from his smoke break is still nearby.
I tap lightly on the glass. The door opens, and he peers out at me. I force a smile that I hope looks apologetic and believable.