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‘It’s not exactly something I’m going to throw out there …’
‘True. Anyway, there it is, my sorry tale.’
‘It doesn’t change a thing as far as I’m concerned,’ said Janine. ‘But, yes, I’m glad you told me.’
‘Well, now that we’re working together …’
Janine frowned. ‘Now that we’re working together?’ She paused. ‘Are you trying to tell me I can’t rely on you?’ She was half-smiling. ‘That if we were in a gun battle you might be across the room dancing to “Happy”?’
Ren laughed. I love you, Janine Hooks. ‘Thanks.’
‘All I will say is please talk to me if you’re struggling … or if there’s anything on your mind.’
‘Of course,’ said Ren. ‘And you can talk to me too.’
Now, have you anything you’d like to tell me? Like about your possible eating disorder?
There was a sparkle of the onset of tears in Janine’s eyes. She blinked and they were gone, swallowed up.
Just like that.Talk to me. Or do you think I’m just not the right kind of friend?
‘Gary makes me go to these bullshit support groups every two weeks,’ said Ren. ‘In that shit-ass Henderson Hotel. It’s enough to make you blow your brains out. Shit – I was supposed to be at one last night.’
‘Don’t the meetings help at all?’ said Janine.
Not right now. At all.Ooh. You, troubled lady, need to know support groups help. ‘They do help,’ said Ren. ‘Just sometimes they remind me that there’s something wrong with me. And, like, I feel great. I could go there in the best humor ever, and someone’s up at the lectern talking about killing themselves or getting injected in the ass with clozapine and I’m like “that is not my life”.’
‘Of course that’s not your life,’ said Janine. ‘I mean, look at you.’
Yes. Seconds from a clozapine shot at all times. Ooh: that’s a great idea. Shots called Clozapine. I’ll have a round of Clozapines. Like Mind Erasers. Mind Numbers. With a silent ‘b’. The pharmaceutical company probably wouldn’t allow a brand name to be used. Obviously.
She let out a breath.
‘And, Ren, I want you to know I can’t be your friend in half-measures. Like, I don’t half-care about people. I’m all in. Which I hope explains why I was the way I was last night. So if that doesn’t sit well with you …’
‘It’s just …’
‘What?’ said Janine.
I hate my behavior being scrutinized. I hate being watched. I hate being stopped. I hate my fun being curtailed. I shouldn’t have told her. Now I have another person in my life with a worried look on their face. Fuck that.
‘Just … thanks,’ said Ren.
Ren started the drive back to her apartment. She kept thinking of Hope Coulson’s party pictures.
I am missing something. I need to talk to Jonathan Briar.
Fuck his lawyer.
You really don’t want to do that.
Gary will go—
La la la la la …
Ren rang the buzzer outside Jonathan Briar’s apartment building, waiting patiently for him to pick up.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Jonathan, it’s Ren Bryce here from Safe Streets …’
Silence.
‘I was looking at Hope’s Facebook page and there’s something I need to ask you.’
‘I have a lawyer now,’ said Jonathan.
‘This will take five minutes,’ said Ren. ‘Please. You want to find out who did this to Hope, don’t you? You’re not a suspect. I just have a couple of questions.’
‘What about her Facebook page?’ said Jonathan.
‘Something doesn’t add up,’ said Ren. ‘Please – can I come up? I’ll show you.’
Silence.
Then the buzzer.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
9 (#ulink_005708df-daa6-58f7-84a1-af0993a75738)
The apartment was a mess. Ren pushed aside cushions, a hoodie and two dirty plates to sit on the sofa. Jonathan went into the kitchen to make coffee. Ren could see him through the doorway, leaning against the countertop, gripping it, his head bowed. She got up and went in after him. There were fast-food wrappers, Styrofoam boxes, empty soda cans, empty chip packages, all across the countertops. The bin was overflowing.
‘Why don’t you sit down on the sofa,’ said Ren, putting a hand on Jonathan’s back. ‘I’ll take care of this.’
He looked up, tears welling in his eyes. ‘You don’t have to.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Ren.
‘Thank you,’ said Jonathan. ‘Thanks.’
Ren opened the cupboard under the sink, took out a garbage bag and started to fill it up. Then she loaded the dishwasher, washed down the countertops and put the kettle on. As she waited for it to boil, she looked around the kitchen. The side of the refrigerator still had notes signed by Hope, and a calendar that had been turned to the new month. Ren went over and flipped it up. Every Monday from the beginning to the end of the year, read: Good Shepherd, 6 p.m.
Eerie. A schedule that would never be followed through on …
Ren took out her cell phone and photographed all the months of the calendar.
Just in case …
The kettle boiled, Ren made coffee and went back in to sit with Jonathan Briar. He had made a half-assed attempt to tidy the living room, but he appeared to have stalled.
‘Thank you for cleaning up,’ he said.
‘Not a problem,’ said Ren.
‘I told everyone to stay away,’ he said. ‘People offered to help …’
‘It’s not easy having people around when you’re grieving,’ said Ren. ‘Sometimes you just want the whole world to go away.’
He nodded.
‘I lost my older brother to suicide when I was thirteen years old,’ said Ren.
‘Really?’ said Jonathan.
‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘His name was Beau. He was only seventeen.’
‘Man …’ said Jonathan. ‘Do you ever get over that?’
‘No. But it does get easier, and there’s the cliché that I know you won’t believe applies to you … until it does.’
‘I can’t imagine … getting past this.’
‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘And you don’t have to. Just take each day at a time.’
‘Each day sucks.’
‘Jonathan, I wanted to talk to you about a Friday night two weeks before Hope’s disappearance.’ Ren took her laptop out of her bag and opened it to Hope’s Facebook page.
‘Hope didn’t update Facebook for thirty-six hours,’ said Ren, ‘which is kind of unlike her, right?’
She studied Jonathan’s face. He was lost in the photos.
Shit. I should have prepared him.
He started to cry again.
Fuck.
‘I’m sorry if this is upsetting,’ said Ren, ‘but I just wanted to find out, did anything happen that night?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
Ooh. I don’t believe you.
‘Are you sure?’ said Ren. ‘Hope was drinking all afternoon … she continued when you joined her. She could well have been very drunk that night … Did you guys have an argument?’
‘No,’ said Jonathan. ‘But, yeah, she was really drunk. But she never got mean or anything, like some girls do. We didn’t have an argument.’
‘Did you come home together?’ said Ren.
‘Yes,’ said Jonathan.
‘How did you get home?’ said Ren.
‘Uh … we … got a cab.’
Once more with feeling.
Ren glanced down at the screen. ‘From this bar? The Irish Hound?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘How long did that take?’ said Ren.
‘Five or ten minutes?’
Love that guessing tone of voice.
‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Thanks.’ She paused. ‘Are you sure there isn’t anything else?’
He nodded. ‘Positive.’
Positively lie-telling.
Ren got back to her apartment, changed, and went up to her second gym of choice – the top-floor glamor gym of her apartment building. Its glass windows looked out over the twinkling lights of Denver and made her feel like she was in a hotel. It was blessedly empty.
Woo-hoo. No stranger sweat.
Proud to be here: drank only coffee earlier. Albeit the ninth mug of the day. But not alcohol. That makes me a winner.
She pushed in her EarPods, hit buttons and set the treadmill speed to low. She started with a one-minute walk, then cranked it up.
Run, run, run.
Music pounded in her ears, loud and piercing, and hammering. She cranked it up again.
I am alive. I am alive. I am alive. My mind is a wide-open space. Everything is possible.
She thought of Hope Coulson. The face of Stephanie Wingerter quickly slid in beside her.
I know you are connected. You look so … alike. You were both brutalized, discarded. Just … I know you’re connected. I know it.
What the fuck are you lying about, Jonathan Briar? I told you I don’t think you’re a suspect.
Ren ran for forty-five minutes, finally slamming her hand on the Stop button, slowing to a walk. She was hot, but barely sweating. She breathed deep.
I will find you, killer. I will run after you. I will be fitter and better and stronger than you. I will not fail.
