2. 1
In for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four.
Since we got into the car to go to the police station where Beckett is interrogating Remy, I’ve been trying to keep my cool. I’m driving there on muscle memory and before I know it, I’m parking the car and we’re making our way up. Chester is stuck in his head too. It’s like the balance of the universe is out of sorts or some shit like that. We don’t know how to act around each other.
I’m lost. In the metaphorical sense anyway. One minute, I’m falling for Remington Ashburn, with his vibrant blue eyes, strong jawline and hair, which always seems to fall in a perfect way. Then the next minute, he’s being arrested for killing women. A lot of women. My head still isn’t able to match the images to each other.
Walking through the police station isn’t registering. I’m meekly following Chester’s lead, and if there’s ever a sign that I’m not myself, it’s that I’m meekly following anyone. Letting Remy lead me through our dances is one thing, but not being in charge in life is very unlike me.
“Hey, glad you could make it,” Winny says. She’s leaning against the wall between two closed doors when she looks at me with her kind, dark eyes. Her long black hair hangs over her shoulder in a braid that seems to be her signature style. I force myself to acknowledge her and pull up one of the corners of my mouth. She opens the door to her left, and lets us in.
“I’d offer you coffee, but it sucks and I figured you’d want to be right in here.” ‘Here’ is a small room with a table and a big window. It’s the adjoining room to the interrogation room, with a two-way mirror. Inside, Remy and Beckett are sitting on opposite sides of a table. Remy’s still wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday. His hair is disheveled, and he looks dead tired. His look is defiant, while his body language looks defeated. That’s weird, right? Beckett is sitting back in his chair, feigning boredom, but I see the vein on the side of his neck, letting me know he’s at least worked up.
“Where did you leave the bodies of Elaine Borgouis and Felicia Lanster?” Beckett asks Remy. My heart starts skipping faster when I hear Elaine’s name being mentioned. Fuck, I don’t think the sting of that death will ever get less hard. And now we believe Remy is the one that did that? My throat feels tight and my eyes burn.
“I didn’t leave their bodies anywhere. I’m not the man you’re looking for.” Remy’s voice is soft and he sounds tired, his eyes meeting Beckett’s while he speaks to him.
“Are you saying you didn’t leave the bodies because you’re keeping the bodies somewhere?” Beckett asks, his head cocked. He’s feeding him lines, seeing if Remy will bite or tell more than he’s supposed to know. I know how interrogation works, but it’s not something I usually have to deal with. We hand them over to the cops before we get to that part.
“Are you hearing yourself?” Remy all but yells. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is that I’ve never in my life killed anyone!”
Beckett sits back and rubs his neck.
“Okay, so let’s go over your lack of alibis again…”
I’m biting the nail of my thumb as I observe what’s going on in the interrogation room. For whatever reason, I’m stressed out. It’s not even a dangerous situation, yet every brain cell I have tells me to run for the hills and hide. And my usual instinct is to run towards danger. The only thing I run away from is feelings, but I think we’re a little bit too late for that in this situation. I’m in so deep I wish I’d never gotten myself into this mess.
“They can’t hear us?” Chester checks as he takes back a step from the window and breaks the focus I had.
“Not unless we want them to,” Winny says as she observes both of us rather than watching what’s going on inside the other room.
“Has he given anything?”
Winny shakes her head. There’s this nagging little voice in my head, telling me they’ve got it all wrong, that Remy really is the man I know. It’s just that there’s no evidence whatsoever to prove that statement. I’ve had Chester look extensively, but he couldn’t find anything.
“Do you think he’ll get anything?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
Winny scrunches her face. “I think that if you leave Beckett alone with anybody in interrogation long enough, you’ll eventually get something. He’s not a bad agent, the opposite actually, but he tends to fight tooth and nail when he’s convinced he’s right. But that’s what I’m here for. I’m his moral compass, I make sure we don’t convict people on false testimonies.” She sighs while she grabs a stack of files.
“Now, do I believe Remington Ashburn killed all these women?” She waves the stack in my face. “I’m not as convinced as Beckett is. I see how he could possibly, maybe, fit the profile. What I see is a lack of evidence proving it wasn’t him.”
“So why are we here?” It’s hurting to get the words out.
Winny shifts and stands in front of the window frame, looking into the interrogation room, not looking me in the eye. “I want to see how he reacts to you.”
Failing to see how that’ll help, I ask, “What will that tell you?”
“If he wants nothing to do with you, acts betrayed, enraged, he’s confirming my suspicion that he’s innocent. If he suddenly gets interested in you again, chances are he is the serial killer after all. I’ll have to see for myself. If it’s the former, Beckett needs to see as well.”
“So you’re pushing me into the lion’s den?” My mind keeps chanting a mantra of ‘I don’t want to, I really don’t want to’ over and over again.
Winny turns around, making sure I look her in the eye when she speaks again. “Whatever kind of relationship you had with Remington Ashburn, Abby, it will never be the same. This,” she says as she points her hand in the direction where Beckett and Remy are sitting, “changes everything. I’d love to lie to you that I’m sure he’s innocent and you can go back to how things were, but that’s not how the human psyche works. If he turns out to be innocent, which I very, very, much hope so, the dynamics between the two of you will have changed. Maybe working hard enough can fix what was broken, but there’s not enough glue in this world to make the cracks disappear completely.”
I breathe for four.
Hold for four.
Breathe out for four.
Hold for four.
Then I nod and make my way to the door. “Let him know I’m coming in,” I say to Winny.
“I will, I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
When I walk past Chester, he wraps one of his arms around me and presses a kiss to my hair. I don’t even feel any of the comfort he’s trying to give me. Once he lets me go, I make my way into the hallway and hear Chester tell Winny that’s one hell of a way to break somebody’s spirit. It should make me feel better that he’s sticking up for me, but I’m trying not to break down completely. Yes, I’m a strong woman. I’m a fucking strong woman. But I’m only human.
It takes everything I’ve got to open the door to the interrogation room, and walk in. Forcing myself to look Remy in the eye, I step inside. My heart is beating so fast that I could have been in some kind of high-speed chase rather than walking into a room.
When his green eyes look at the door and find me, something seems to burn in them. He pushes his chair back and stands up. “What the hell is she doing here?”
Beckett doesn’t seem impressed and pulls the chair next to him back, motioning for me to sit down. My eyes are glued to Remy, who looks at me as if water has gone up in flames in front of him.
“Why are you here? Is this a set-up? Did you both work together to set me up?”
“Sit down,” Beckett commands.
I just keep quiet, not sure if I should speak up at all.
“I’m not sitting down with her here.” Another piece inside of me breaks. I didn’t know it was possible, but it is and it fucking hurts. But my face is stoic. I don’t let him see any of my inner turmoil.
“You will,” Beckett says with an icy stare. Did Winny get what she wanted with that reaction? Am I good to walk out again? I plant myself in the seat next to Beckett while Remy does the same on the opposite side of the table.
“We didn’t set you up. You’re here because you killed those women.”
Remy slams his fist on the table. “I did not! I keep telling you this! Show me the evidence that I did it! You can’t, because I haven’t done it!”
“So, why don’t you tell me about how you’re adopted,” Beckett goads him.
All it gets him is a confused look. “I’m not.”
“When you were three, you were adopted by your parents, who you believe are your biological parents.”
“No,” Remy repeats, his eyes hardening. “I’m not.”
“We think your parents didn’t tell you about it.”
“Because there’s nothing to tell!” he yells, throwing his hands up in frustration. “There’s photo albums full of pictures of me since the day I was born. I’m as much adopted as I’m an alien. I. Am. Not.”
For the umpteenth time in the last couple of days, I wonder whether he’s innocent or just a really good actor.
“We didn’t find any photo books in your house,” Beckett deadpans, casually letting slip that officers have been going through his home, trying to find anything. They haven’t found any actual proof yet, but it’s not like I’m being kept in the loop. I do believe that if there was any hard proof, Winny would’ve told me.
“They’re in the attic, in a box beneath the window on the left side of the house. The box is labeled ‘Happy Childhood’. Not my handwriting, all my mother’s. This was when she still believed I would be a lawyer when I grew up, and when she still accepted me. Hence the ‘Happy’ on the box.”
Beckett leans forward over the table. “Must’ve been a letdown for them, that after adopting you, giving you everything, you didn’t want to be like them.”
“It would’ve been the other way around if I was adopted. If they weren’t able to have kids, wouldn’t they be happy with who I am and what I wanted to be no matter what?” Remy spits. If he could, his eyes would have been shooting fire right now.
Hearing them makes me shift in my chair uncomfortably, making me wish I wasn’t here. They’re both wrong. Their argument doesn’t hold. No matter if a kid is adopted or not, parents will always have expectations that the kid doesn’t meet. If they’re going to have a falling out over something, they’re going to have a falling out. It’s as simple as that. It could’ve happened to me and my parents, the same way it happened to me and Aunt Viv.
Remy still doesn’t look at me, I still hold my trap shut. What the hell am I doing here? I should be running for the hills, getting as far away from this mess as is humanly possible.
“So, where does the obsession with the clocks come from?” Beckett continues his drill.
“Obsession with clocks?”
“There’s four grandfather clocks in your house.”
Remy sighs. “I like clocks. I like the sound they make. I’ve also got more than five sound installations, because I like the sound they make too. Might also have three jukeboxes. Have you found those as well? Because I like the sound they make too.” The more he talks, the more irritated he sounds.
“Mighty coincidental though,” Beckett stares at Remy, and I observe them. The air seems to crackle between them.
“Are you questioning all the men with a certain number of clocks? Because this buddy of mine collects antiques and has way more clocks than I do. Maybe see if he murdered some women as well?”
I get why he’s lashing out. I really do. Then, he finally focusses on me. There’s anger everywhere; his mouth is a tight line, his shoulders are tense, and his eyebrows are pulled together.
“Come to sell me out some more?”
“I didn’t sell you out,” I answer. It’s a miracle I even manage to make sound leave my mouth, let alone make it sound so even.
“You didn’t exactly say you believe I’m innocent.”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore, Remy.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “So, now you join forces and keep asking me the same questions too?” I’m torn between feeling guilty and feeling doubt. At the same time, he’s not worth those thoughts if he’s really done it.
Beckett interrupts our short conversation. “Now tell us about Felicia Lanster. I get why you went after Elaine Borgouis. It was personal for Abby, and you wanted to hurt her in that way. But why take Felicia?”
“I didn’t take Felicia!” Remy yells. Then he points his finger at Beckett. “Or Elaine for that matter. Lizzy was a friend. Even if I didn’t hear from her for a long time, we were still friends. It’s how it is among dancers, and I would never take her, hurt her, or murder her.”
I feel tears burning in my eyes. Without waiting for the rest of this conversation, I push my chair back and leave the room, refusing to look back and let them see the tears in my eyes. I rush to the adjoining room, throwing myself in Chester’s arms. I’m a strong woman. A fucking strong woman. But right then, I’m just a girl who’s hurt. I cry for Elaine, Lizzy, and humanity itself. All Chester does is pat my back and make shushing sounds. I don’t even notice when Winny quietly leaves the room and leaves me standing there in his embrace until after God knows how long my tears finally run dry.
For some stupid reason I can’t quite put my finger on it. I look at some news sites on the car ride home. Chester insisted on driving after my little meltdown, and it leaves me with all the time in the world to scroll through the wonderful world of the interweb. He doesn’t need observing anymore while he’s driving anyway.
There’s a headline from a local newspaper saying police have finally caught The Time. There’s another from a national newspaper saying they doubt the killer has been caught. Then there’s one that actually grabs my attention, focusing on Felicia Lanster and Elaine Borgouis, wondering where they are and if their bodies will ever be found. The article goes on and on about what kind of a man Remington Ashburn must be, and that he won’t even tell where their bodies are now. Thinking about it makes me sick to my stomach, so I put my phone away while Chester parks the car next to our home and we make our way inside.
I let myself fall down onto the couch. Part of me wants to slide down to the floor, but I feel too drained to even do that. Chester walks in with a bottle of whiskey in his hand and makes his way over to me. He looks as empty as I feel.
My mind still can’t wrap around the fact that Remy really is the serial killer. He doesn’t look like a serial killer; he doesn’t feel like it either. But then again, I know better than to go off on how people appear. Evil doesn’t always show. I wish there was a big red marker above the heads of all the evil people in the world. It just leaves me wondering if I would get away without a red marker. Or have I done stuff in my past that I considered okay, but they actually weren’t?
Chester lets himself fall down next to me, unscrews the bottle cap, takes a swig and hands it to me.
“How are we handling this?” I ask as I take a swig myself. “Are we getting really drunk or black-out drunk?”
“Yes.”
I snort. “Not a yes or no question.”
He shrugs and pulls his knees up. He’s wearing farting unicorn socks and the look of it grounds me. Some things, no matter how fucked up everything else gets, don’t change. I let my head fall on his shoulder and he wraps his arm around me, grabbing my side while he leans his cheek on the top of my head.
“Making you go in there wasn’t okay,” he says.
“I know.” Making me be a part of that interrogation was in no way okay. I didn’t have to be there. I’m not a part of this. I should be allowed to get over my heartbreak in peace, drowning myself in a pool of alcohol. Maybe I shouldn’t get too drunk, maybe I could cook something. Life always seems better on a full stomach, and cooking always calms me down.
“Want to talk about it?” he asks, and I can feel his cheek move as he talks.
“Not really.”
“Okay,” is all he says before bringing the bottle to his lips and then handing it back to me. He grabs his phone and taps on the screen until Disturbed’s version of The Sound of Silence comes blaring out of the home speakers. He presses his lips against the top of my head, and I nestle myself into his armpit a little more. For a moment, I marvel at the comfort I find there. Never knew all I had to do to find comfort was nuzzle myself beneath my best friend’s arm. It’s better than having those vibrant blue eyes bore into me.
“Thanks,” I whisper. While we may not agree on what’s good music and what’s not most of the time, sometimes it’s best to let the music do the talking anyway. ‘No one dared, disturb the sound of silence.’
The doorbell rings. We’re still glued to each other on the couch, somewhere between kind of buzzed and oblivious. A string of quiet music kept coming out of the boxes while we kept drinking and sitting in silence. I think that someone should go answer the door or something.
“Did you order food without me noticing?” I ask Chester. I didn’t see him ordering anything, but it would’ve been a good idea. My plan to cook something long forgotten.
“Nope,” he says while he gets off and pushes the half empty bottle of whiskey into my hands as he looks at his phone screen. “Did you order anything?”
I shake my head. Fuck. Every time the doorbell has rung unexpectedly the last few months, it’s been bad news. Very bad news. Serial killer bad. But it can’t be serial-killer-bad, because the serial killer is in custody. My mind is kind of fuzzy, and I think it’s a defense mechanism to escape reality. Or I might be slightly drunk. My heart is beating harder than the music at an illegal rave party, my muscles tensing all over.
I don’t know what I’m more scared of: for this not to be over, meaning the killer is still out there or for this to be over, and have Remy be the serial killer.
Fuck.
I take another swig from the whiskey when Chester walks back in with another beige envelope in his hand. Knowing exactly what that means, I let out a pained groan, immediately sobering up, my buzz suddenly forgotten. It’s marvelous how the human brain is wired. Just a tiny shift in the balance of which hormones and neurotransmitters have the upper hand, everything seems to change.
“Wanna open it, or do we call Beckett right away?” Chester asks as he holds the envelope away from his body like it’s going to bite him. I don’t want to think about Beckett. I’m about as happy with him as I am with Remy at the moment. I fucking hate that he made me sit through that interrogation. I fucking hate that I got pulled into the investigation at all. I’m dating… Fuck, no, I was dating Remy. I shouldn’t have been put in that position.
Fuck, once this is all over, we’re going on a vacation, a long one. Somewhere far away, where it’s sunny and there is absolutely no crime. I need to remember to look up where we should go tomorrow. This is happening; we’re running away from our troubles. I cringe when I have that thought. Because which kids do I leave to their faith if I do that? The responsibilities of my life become too much to bear.
“I want to throw it out of the window down the cliffs and pretend everything is fucking sunshine and daisies,” I grumble.
When Chester starts walking to the cliffside windows, I realize he’ll actually do it just to make me happy. Here goes being irresponsible and blackout drunk. I breathe in for four, hold for four, breathe out of four and hold for four again. By the time I’m through my breathing exercise, I’m up off the couch.
“Let’s just open it up and check what it is. Send Beckett a text. Don’t know if he’s going to read it if he’s still interrogating Remy.” Every time I say or think his name, my stomach drops. Damn, I want more whiskey.
Chester stops in his tracks and aborts his mission to get rid of the envelope. My bottom lip bleeds a little from where I’m biting it, but I don’t care. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, and for some reason, that’s sobering.
“I’ll open it up, you text Beckett,” Chester says. For once I’m eternally grateful for him being the grown-up, so I can keep pretending this isn’t happening a little longer. What if it’s new photos? What if it’s photos of Elaine? I can’t handle that shit. Grabbing my phone, I open Beckett’s contact.
Me: Got mail. Beige envelope kind of mail. Serial killer vibes. Chester is opening it now, can you come?
He reads the message immediately and starts typing.
Beckett: Send me a picture of what it is and I’ll see if it’s worth getting out of this interrogation.
“He’ll only come if it’s worth the hassle,” I summarize for Chester.
He’s paler than he should be, even considering he spends almost all of his time inside, not getting any sunlight. His eyes are big, and he starts spinning his thumb ring with his middle finger.
“What is it?” I ask. There are butterflies in my stomach, but I think it’s just drunken nerves. Or general nerves. Now is obviously not the time to analyze what it exactly is that I’m feeling, but I guess it’s a good way to deflect what’s happening right in front of me.
“I don’t think it’s nothing. It’s a map…”
He holds it up and shows it to me. It’s a map of Portland, and if I’m seeing correctly, there are some little markers over certain places.
“There’s a mark on the burial site. I think these other markers might be other burial sites. There’s a note. It says ‘tick, tock’.” Chester’s voice is soft, but I can hear the fear in it too. For a second I’m back in that basement, smelling limes, and I feel bile rising up in my throat.
“How many?” The words barely manage to leave my mouth.
“Six, besides the one we found.”
My head is trying to do the math. Six times twelve. I know the answer, but I’m trying to push the thought away as far as possible. No. Nope. Don’t want to go there. I don’t want to think about the number that goes along with that sum. I don’t want to think about the nameless faces that could accompany that number. Before I feel the whiskey coming back up, I take out my phone and text Beckett.
Me: Better get over here. Now.