20. 20
I’m busy making myself a cup of coffee when Beckett walks in and walks straight to Miranda’s desk to let me know he’s here. Turns out he is able to act like a normal human being and capable of being trained.
“Over here,” I yell to him, saving both him and Miranda the trouble of calling me. Beckett walks over to me after a look of approval from Miranda. He doesn’t have the usual spring in his step as he makes his way over to me. His shoulders are slumped.
It’s been a few days since Winny and Beckett gave us the profile. The second of the month came and went without apprehending anyone. Right now, it’s the fourth, and we’re kind of waiting on missing persons reports to come in to see who has been taken on the second of the month and looks like me. It’s a sickening thought, and I can’t imagine being the one responsible for it. Beckett looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he might as well be.
“Can we talk for a moment?” he asks me as soon as he comes over. “I’d appreciate it if Chester would be there as well.”
“Can it be over coffee?” I’m just finishing up my own drink and about to get started on Chester’s. If we’re going to have to talk about whatever it is he wants to talk about, we’re going to do it caffeinated. And with something in our hands, so that when one of the boys says something stupid, which is inevitable, they’ll have something to keep them occupied.
“Yes, I don’t see why not.”
“I actually don’t know how you drink your coffee,” I admit. It’s Miranda who makes all the drinks and memorizes them like it’s not some sort of superpower.
“Black.”
“What a surprise…” I add as I look at him from beneath my lashes. He squints at me.
“How’s that?”
“You seem like a guy who gets in and gets out, loses himself in the task at hand. Your coffee order is the same. It gets the job done, but there’s absolutely no room for some fun.”
He smirks at me. “You ever considered going into profiling?”
“Based on coffee orders? No, it’s a gimmick, not a science.” I give him my best smile and hand him his drink. Our hands touch and something happens between us, making me look up in his bright green eyes.
“It’s more that you’re good at reading people,” he says as our eyes stay locked.
“I did actually get an education you know, I’m not just some girl waving around her gun trying to be the big bad boss and catching bad guys.”
“Never thought that you were,” Beckett says as we make our way to the work floor. The vibe is… weird. He’s nicer than he usually is.
“Office?” I ask him.
“No, let’s do this at Chester’s desk.”
Something feels hinky. I don’t like where this is going. We make our way to Chester’s desk, who sees us coming over and takes off his headphones. Beckett sits on the couch by Chester’s workplace, and I sit my ass on the edge of his desk. The Special Agent’s eyes fall on Chester’s screens, and he squints his eyes.
“The fuck is that?” he asks.
Chester looks up, surprised by the question. “It’s a chat room for pedophiles, sharing tips and tricks on how to get the best material. Sometimes they mention stuff online, like a meeting place or a drop-off spot, that gets me a lead to where girls are currently being held. Being in this chat room, pretending to be one of them, helps me save kids.”
“Can you trace all of them? Why aren’t we taking in all these people?” he says in disbelief.
Chester glares at him. “We don’t have the manpower to do something like that. I’ve long since given up on sending authorities lists of names. You don’t act. Other than that, if word gets out people on this part of the dark web get arrested, they disappear. The kids will still be taken and harmed, and the perpetrators find another place to hang out. By not taking them in, I can get to the source, we can save the kids.”
Beckett grunts, but then gives a curt nod.
“So, what are you here for?” I ask him as I take a sip of my cappuccino. It’s good to see him, but somehow I feel like it’s a bad omen.
He stills and takes in a breath. The Beckett I know either says things or keeps things from us, but he does not hesitate. I put my coffee down as the sinking feeling in my stomach makes it all the way to my toes.
“How well do you know Remington Ashburn?” he asks, letting his eyes shift from me to Chester and back again.
“Fairly well, I’d say.” I’ve spent enough time with him to think I’ve gotten a feel as to who Remy is, but why the fuck does Beckett want to know that? “Why?”
Chesters shoots me a look that mirrors exactly how I’m feeling. Something’s off.
“There’s no good way to say this, so I’ll just be blunt about it. I think he might be the person we’ve been looking for. I think he is the killer.”
It’s like he hits me in my stomach with a sledgehammer. What? Has he gone nuts? He’s kidding right? When I look at him, his eyes are apologetic, like he’s sorry for me, and I realize that either he is the best actor I’ve ever seen with an epically cruel sense of humor, or that he really means this. I’m biting the inside of my cheek, trying to figure out how to respond to this. Beckett just stays quiet, giving us time to adjust to this thought.
“How’d you reach that conclusion?” Chester asks, pushing away his full cup of espresso.I have to admit I’d like to trade my cappuccino for a shot of whiskey right about now too.
“It’s all a little too coincidental timing wise. He meets you right after the bodies are discovered? He’s there when you receive evidence? He’s there when you save those kids? He’s just around the corner when you need him, even if he doesn’t have any reason to be in this part of town? I don’t believe in coincidences.”
I don’t believe in coincidences either, but this is all just plain rubbish, right?
“He was in Chester’s life before we found the bodies,” I counter. “And he’s been around for all those moments because he’s been there for a lot of my life lately. And since the serial killer doesn’t leave me alone, Remy’s there too.”
Beckett sighs. “Meeting Chester before then might have been a coincidence. Once he saw you when the bodies were discovered, he looked into you and found a connection to you through Chester. He went to the mayor’s ball, while he hasn’t been to any of the other events before or after meeting you. That seems a little too coincidental.”
I throw my hands up in the air. “You just said something is a coincidence in the same speech as you said that you don’t believe in coincidences! Which is it, Beckett? Make up your goddamn mind!”
Becket doesn’t answer me, and it infuriates me. He’s here, implying Remy murdered twelve girls, and then he comes up with a theory that doesn’t add up. I can’t handle injustice. I hate it. Beckett just calmly starts speaking again, explaining why he thinks he’s right and I’m wrong.
“He doesn’t have an alibi for any of the dates the girls were taken,” Beckett continues, still being this patient version of him. I hate this version of him. I’d rather see him angry, or grumpy. That I know how to handle. This? This is uncharted territory.
“That can’t be right,” Chester says as a wrinkle appears between his eyes.
“Check our data, go over it.” Ah, I suddenly realize why he wanted us to meet at Chester’s desk. He meant to end up here anyway. “We went by phone location. But that his phone is somewhere, doesn’t mean he’s there with it. On the dates and times the victims got taken, it was either at home or in his dance studio. He had no dancing lessons at those times. What would he be doing in his studio for hours on end without leaving?”
“Practicing,” I say with distrust. If this is all he’s got, he’s got nothing.
“That long?”
“Have you ever met a professional dancer?”
Beckett looks like he wants to grunt at me. Chester is tapping away at his keyboard in the meantime, checking the statements and seeing if the data adds up. I can’t wrap my head around this. We’re investigating if the man I’m dating could possibly be a serial killer who, by the way, is also obsessed with me. This is surreal, yet here we are.
“You got to our files yet?” the agent asks.
“Not getting your files, tracing his phone myself. Also doing a check with facial recognition on the cameras in the vicinity of the abduction sites to see if I can find him somewhere there. I trust my own data more than yours.”
No matter how dire the situation is, that manages to make me pull up one of the corners of my mouth. Beckett is giving him the regular ‘I can’t believe this guy’ look.
“It also fits the timeline,” Beckett says. “The killings started a year ago, a little after Remington moved back from New York. It might even be related, like coming back to Portland set him off.”
I’m not buying this.
“Remy isn’t adopted though,” I bring in as I let Chester finish his work.
“Do we really know that though? They moved to the house he now lives in when he was three. His direct family lived in Wyoming. They could’ve started their lives over here. Adopted a kid. Told nobody about it. Hired someone to falsify his birth records.”
I’m still not buying it. Why would two lawyers adopt a kid and then lie to everyone about it? The answer comes to me as soon as I have the thought, because I’ve seen stuff like this happen before. People who are desperate enough will do anything. Not being able to have kids of your own is still seen as failure by society. So perhaps two upstanding citizens would rather make up a story that society is willing to accept.
“He’s told me about his grandparents,” I suddenly remember. “He saw them often enough to learn how to speak French.”
“His grandparents lived in Wyoming. According to our records they came over a lot. But they could’ve been in on the secret. Perhaps they tried to give Remy as normal a life as possible, perhaps they felt the same shame that their daughter wasn’t able to carry their own grandchild or something like that.”
Everything he’s saying is starting to dazzle me.
“His grandfather was Irish, wasn’t he?” Beckett tells me while making it a question. He’s probably already seen it in some file.
“Yes, what the fuck has that got to do with it?” I’m getting more and more uncomfortable, and I can’t yet put my finger on why that is.
“The Celtic knots, I’m thinking he got them from his grandfather’s Irish roots.” I see Chester’s face contort at Beckett’s words, as he keeps clicking on his mouse. I’d love to know what he’s thinking right now. Usually I feel like I know what’s going on in his head, but right now I absolutely don’t.
“This is all speculation,” I conclude.
“All the data adds up,” Beckett says as if he’s presenting me with scientific proof.
“Then why are you here alone, why isn’t Winny with you?”
He rubs his neck. “She thinks there might be some truth to my suspicions, but she isn’t as convinced as I am.”
“What exactly is it that makes you so convinced?”
His green eyes fall on me, and his face is as sincere as it’s ever going to be. “My guts. It’s telling me something is up. I’ve learned to trust it long ago.”
A sigh leaves my mouth. I know about gut feelings. Mine haven’t been off so far. But then again, I missed what was happening with Chester’s feelings for me. So maybe my gut isn’t as foolproof as I thought it was. I’m willing to accept that my gut isn’t always foolproof, but I can’t imagine running into the killer after he ran into the woods and not recognizing him when I met him at the mayor’s ball. But it did feel like I knew him. I was comfortable with him, while I’m usually not with strangers, no matter what my gut feeling tells me. I just figured it was the fact that Chester knew him and my attraction to him.
“He’s right,” Chester finally says, as he spins his desk chair so that he’s facing me. He puts the strands of his loose hair behind his ears, using both hands, letting his head fall back on the chair and then rubbing his eyes.
“I can’t find any evidence that would give him an alibi. Now, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have an alibi. There could be someone out there who was with him and could vouch for his whereabouts, but we’d have to ask him instead of going off on what I can conjure up on my computer. There’s no digital or physical alibi at this point. At the same time, I can’t find him through facial recognition anywhere near where the women were taken, so there’s that. It’s not fail proof though, he could’ve worn a cap or something to disguise his face.”
My stomach sinks. Surely they’re wrong. We’re not really thinking along these lines, right?
“Does he have any connection to a clock?” Beckett asks both of us. The silence that follows is deafening.
Chester throws his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose. His voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks.
“There were at least three grandfather clocks in his house.”
I look up in surprise. Is he really starting to believe there might be some truth to what Beckett is saying? That’s insane, right? Then I remember the grandfather clock I saw when I visited. I didn’t think anything about it. It seemed to fit into the interior of that room. Special Agent Sanders looks at me expectedly.
“I only saw one,” I say reluctantly. “Never made it upstairs or further than the living room.” Come to think of it, I only saw the kitchen, a part of the hallway and the living room.
Beckett turns to Chester. “Was there some place he could’ve taken the women or could’ve had a workplace for crafting the necklaces?”
Chester starts spinning his thumb ring with his middle finger, as he chews the inside of his cheek. “He said there was a basement, but I never got to see it. Wasn’t interested in it either.”
I remember walking past the house and thinking that the windows were very high up. Is that because of the basement? Was I in the house where women were murdered? Was I in the house where murders were planned? Did he have Elaine in there?
I smell limes, and my lunch wants to come back up. I’m starting to believe this theory, and I don’t want to. Then, it’s like my brain pulls on the emergency brake. It’s like a last lifeline is being thrown to me, and I grab it with both hands, hanging on for dear life.
“Wait,” I interrupt them, “that can’t be true. Didn’t the profile say he didn’t feel fulfilled by other sexual encounters, if he even had any? Because I know for a fact that isn’t true.” My cheeks heat a little as I add: “Can’t keep going like that if you’re not getting anything from it.”
Beckett wrinkles his nose. “We’re under the impression he actually enjoys sexual encounters with you because you symbolize his mother to him.”
My head is not willing to accept that. That’s just… If that’s true, that’s wrong in so many ways. What we do when we make love feels more real than anything has ever felt. If that’s all a lie… Well, I don’t know what that would do to me, but I know that Robin’s bill would be skyrocketing.
“But he’s been with Chester too,” I argue.
He’s trying to hide behind his hair, in an attempt not to be a part of this conversation.
“Was he sexually active with you?” Beckett interrogates him.
It stays quiet for the longest while ever. “I’m a top,” he answers after what feels like forever as he purposely looks away. And I get it, he shouldn’t have to talk about this. It’s private. But what if it manages to make Beckett see that he’s being insane and Remy is innocent? “Never really gave him any choice. I don’t know what he was picturing or thinking of when he got off, I just know he did.”
“So perhaps he isn’t able to have sex with anyone except Abby,” Beckett concludes. Somehow it seems a little far-fetched, like he only hears what he wants to hear, but at the same time the same thing could be said about me.
“This is all just theory, right?” I ask with an uncertainty in my voice.
“Kind of,” Beckett reluctantly admits. He sits back, throws both his arms over the back of the couch, and manages to take up most of the three-seater.
“But you’re not going to drop this?” Chester starts clicking on his screens again.
“No, I’m fairly certain about this.”
“Fuck,” Chester curses.
“What?”
“Well, either Remy’s phone learned how to walk itself over here, or Remy is coming.”
Fuck indeed.
Remy makes his way to Miranda’s desk as he enters the room. He doesn’t even notice the three of us staring at him. Miranda eyes us as her hand reaches for her phone to call me. I could just signal him over, but I’m too stunned to do so. Am I really looking at the killer we’ve been searching for? Have I really been that wrong? Chester at least has the clarity of mind to stick his hand up in the air, signaling him to come over, while I’m stuck in some state of stupor.
Beckett shifts in his chair, eyeing Remy with straight up suspicion. I hadn’t noticed it until he spoke up about his suspicions. Remy is unaware of everything going on and makes his way over to us with a beaming smile.
He kisses my cheek once he’s near me, but I just stare into nothingness. This isn’t true, right? How the fuck did Remy go from completely innocent to Beckett planting an actual seed of doubt in my mind?
“What’s going on?” Remy asks us. He’s not getting the warm welcome he has come used to. I just don’t have it in me to keep up appearances. Maybe I should. Should I? I don’t know anymore. Turns out I can’t trust my own beliefs anymore. So I turn to the only other person I know I can trust. I push myself off of the edge of Chester’s desk, still completely ignoring Remy. With my hands on the arms of his desk chair, I make him face me.
My forehead lands against his, and our eyes connect. It’s just us then, just Chester and Abby. Like it’s been since the day we met, us against the world. The rest of the room disappears.
“Tell me he’s wrong,” I plead with my friend.
He releases a breath as the corners of his mouth pull down. “I think so. But I can’t say for certain.”
Crap.
“What happened, guys?” Remy asks again hesitantly.
“But what are the odds?” I ask Chester, zoning everyone and everything out.
“You want me to do the math on it?” he answers with a side smirk. “Because I don’t think you’ll want to listen to me do that.”
“Can you skip to the conclusion?”
He nods. “It’s… Not definitive, but not impossible either.”
Double crap.
“Guys,” Remy says with a slight hint of panic in his voice. “Who died? What happened?”
Beckett’s phone pings as I try to find a way to answer Remy’s question. Saying it out loud will change everything. This thing we have going, this budding relationship that is totally carefree at this moment, is about to change. But destiny, or the universe, or some kind of a deity with a sick sense of humor takes everything out of my hands.
“Felicia Lanster,” Beckett says. “Felicia Lanster was taken on the second of the month. She fits the physical description and was taken from the right place on the map. Missing person’s report just came in.”
The words ‘Who’s Felicia Lanster?’ tumble out of my mouth at the same time Remy’s eyes go wide. “Lizzy?”
“You knew her?” Beckett asks while he gets up from the couch he was sitting on, making his way over to Remy. I cringe at his past tense use.
“We’ve danced together, in New York. She’s an amazing dancer,” Remy answers, horror-stricken over his face. Is he really upset, or is he just that good of an actor?
“Where were you two days ago?” Beckett asks.
Remy looks up in confusion, trying to figure out who Beckett is talking to until he realizes it’s him. “What? You suspect me?”
Then he turns and looks at us, trying to look for backup. Only he doesn’t get it. Because right now, I don’t know who to believe. The evidence I guess. When I look away and avoid making eye contact, I feel like a coward. Chester does the same. Fucking hell, this is so messed up.
“You suspect me?” he repeats, only there’s an iciness to his voice now.
“Where were you two nights ago?” Beckett repeats.
“At home. I chopped wood. Then I watched a movie.”
“Is there anybody who can verify that story?”
“No,” Remy says through clenched teeth.
Chester pries himself away from me, and turns back to his computer. When he starts working up on one of the screens, Remy watches him.
“Are you tracking my phone?” he almost yells. Is he angry because he can’t believe we would do such a thing, or is he angry because he feels caught? His eyes finally meet mine, and there’s a bottomless pit of hurt in there. It breaks me.
“His phone was at the house,” Chester says mostly to Beckett. I think he’s trying to avoid Remy right now. Damn, how bad must this betrayal be for Chester? The first time in years he trusted someone with his story, that he opened up to someone new, and then this?
“Doesn’t mean that he was in the house, only that his phone was,” Beckett says.
“I don’t have any camera feeds to see if he left the house,” Chester continues. His voice is flat and I recognize it from when he talks to authorities. It’s devoid of emotion, like he switched a flip and a version that’s made soundly out of reason and logic has taken his place. “The area is too secluded and he doesn’t have a home security system.”
“Abby…” Remy says, as he tries to reach out to me and grab one of my arms that I’ve crossed in front of me, but I turn away. I look up, building a ten foot wall around my heart in order to protect myself.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
“I would never,” he pleads.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
By taking a step back, I create a physical distance between us that symbolizes what’s going on inside of me. If he killed those women, if he killed my Elaine… No. My mind can’t go there, or I’ll lose it again. I breathe in for four, hold for four, breathe out for four and hold for four.
“Ches,” I beg my friend. “Anything?”
He shakes his head, looking defeated. His shoulders are slumped and he starts spinning his thumb ring with his middle finger.
I take another step back, my eyes never leaving Remy’s. I’m looking at him as if he’s the killer. The Time. Something shatters inside of him, and I can see it happen. I can feel it. It resonates within me. And it’s too much. All too much. There’s just this tiny person that’s me, and it is not fit to accommodate feelings this big.
So I flip my own switch, and I shut myself off from any feelings I have for him. Meanwhile Beckett is tapping away on his phone, looking up every two seconds to watch Remy. His face is serious, solemn even.
“Chester, I’ve sent you a phone number, can you check it, trace where it’s been and cross-reference it against Remy’s?”
The hacker just nods, as he watches his screens. I’d love an excuse to focus on work right now, but I’m just standing here, doing nothing.
“When’s the last time you saw Felicia Lanster?” Beckett asks.
Remy blinks, getting back to reality. He visibly swallows, opening his mouth a few times without sound coming out. “Uh, I think about three years ago? We danced a modern rendition of Swan’s Lake in New York. I haven’t kept up with what she did after that.”
“Do Felicia’s phone records show she’s been anywhere in the vicinity of Remy?” the FBI agent asks with a note of authority in his voice.
Chester starts clicking, and my heart pounds in my chest. My blood pressure is so high I can hear the blood pumping through my vessels. Dare I even hope that Chester will come up empty-handed? Or do I just abandon all hope and see this for the lost cause that it is?
When I see a tiny muscle in Chester’s neck tense, I know he’s found something and I just let go. Everything I thought was there between Remy and I these last few months, I let go.
“He’s been in the same street at the same time as her at least five times,” Chester says as he stands up and moves closer to me. I don’t know how he does it, but he has the courage to look Remy in the eye as he says so. Remy’s shoulders sag, his eyes pooled with tears. Couldn’t tell you for all the money in the world if it’s because of our betrayal or because of his betrayal.
“I haven’t seen her in years,” Remy says as his chest rises and falls with the quick breaths he’s taking. “It must be a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” I whisper, because at this moment I don’t anymore. I don’t believe anything anymore. I’m staring down at my shoes like I’ll find a solution for this whole problem there. Certainly not the whole messing heap of betrayal I feel on the inside.
Beckett steps forward, releasing a sigh.
“Remington Ashburn, you are under arrest for the murders committed while acting as the killer known as The Time. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”
After Beckett finishes telling Remy his Miranda Rights, he handcuffs the man I thought I was in love with. He just lets it happen, absolutely no fight left in him. His blue eyes find mine, their usual spark missing, before he is taken out of the room. There’s a mixture of anger and betrayal in his eyes. I’m ashamed to admit I look away, turn around, and let myself be held by Chester, who eagerly wraps me in his arms, hoping he can keep the pieces of me together where I seem to be failing myself.
I either gave my heart away to the wrong person, or I let the man who has my heart be taken into custody by mistake. Whatever the outcome may be, I’ve been so incredibly wrong.