4. Izzy
4
IZZY
A loud beep rings in my ear from the phone. The call went straight to voicemail.
She’s probably still sleeping.
Leave it to Laina to never charge her phone.
“Hey. It’s me. I stopped by your apartment this morning, but you didn’t answer. Give me a call when you get this. Love you!” I hang up the phone and stare at the police station.
It’s Monday and no part of me wants to step foot in that building.
I grab my work bag, sliding the strap over my shoulder and shuffle out of the car in a pair of my nice dark jeans and blue button down. While walking up to the entrance, I throw my hair up into a messy bun. It’s not like there’s anyone at the station to impress.
I scan my badge at the door and head straight to my desk. I just need to get through the day then I can go home and relax. Maybe read a book or something. Anything to keep myself occupied.
“Morning, Sandy!” I greet the sweet older woman who runs the front desk. She smiles waving me through after unlocking the second set of doors.
“You have a nice weekend, Izzy?” she asks.
“Uh. Yeah. I guess so.”
She gives me a smaller smile that time and returns her attention to the pile of paperwork before her. I pace down the hall, keeping my head down and call the elevator.
Just need to survive today, I repeat. It’ll become my mantra. Maybe I’ll be lucky and Reynolds will be too busy with the case to come in today. That would be a miracle.
When I reach my desk, I set my camera down and sink into the chair with a sigh. I spin back and forth for a moment and absentmindedly check my phone for a text from Laina - still nothing.
I power on my computer and begin sifting through emails.
“Hey, Izzy,” a deep voice behind me calls out. I spin around in my chair. There’s Logan. He’s leaning against the wall staring at me. His shirt’s half tucked and his thinning hair is slicked back. He plucks his glasses off and wipes them off the corner of the untucked shirt before making his approach.
“Hey, Logan,” I say, returning my focus to my computer screen. He leans on the edge of the cubicle. He’s waiting for me to ask him how he’s doing, what he wants or how his weekend was. None of these questions are something I care about asking or want the answers to.
“Everyone’s been talking about the Puppeteer’s return. Did you see the pics Bill got of the crime scene?”
That gets my attention. My eyes snap up to meet his.
“No. He got some?” I ask in a weak voice. Logon nods.
“There’s this one of the marionettes that’s so damn freaky. I hate it. It’s nightmare material. Maxwell thinks they’re haunted. Check this out. He won’t even go into the evidence room by himself with it in there. He made Sandy go in with him.”
What are they saying?” I ask in a tight voice.
“Everything. How she was found two nights ago around 10 p.m. with that creepy ass doll. The usual MO except this time, he left her body. Usually, he takes some kind of trophy.”
“Nothing new though?” I ask.
“Nope. Still a dead end on leads.”
“Really?”
He nods. “This killer’s good. Like they’re always ten steps ahead of us. No matter what. My theory is that we’re not looking in the right places. He could be some guy that lives out of state. Maybe he returned to relive his fantasy and couldn’t take the victim with him this time.”
“I doubt it. Doesn’t match the profile,” I mutter, returning back to my computer screen. Does he not know about the Hellfire Riders being there, or do they think that isn’t a good lead?
“What profile? Every detective has their own theory.”
I wonder if talking about the bikers at all would be worthwhile. No, Logan would shut down the idea unless it came from him. Hadn’t the others seen them that night, waiting outside the victim’s apartment building or was it just Laina and I?
I shift awkwardly in my seat.
Logan sighs, rocking back and forth on his heels. I hope he takes the cue to leave, but he doesn’t. Instead, he bends down near my ear. The bitter stench of his coffee breath wafts up my nose.
“Anyways, Reynold’s wants to see you,” he whispers.
“He does?” I ask, hoping the spike in my nerves doesn’t reveal itself. I’m sure he wants to know what the hell I was doing at the crime scene that night.
“He said to let you know as soon as you came in, so I waited. Though, I didn’t think you’d be so late,” he stifles a laugh.
“I don’t consider five minutes to be so late,” I mutter, slamming my laptop close.
I rehearse how I plan to play dumb if he asks me what I was doing. I’ll suggest I thought he needed help with a case that large. I am their best photographer. But I didn’t take any pictures, Laina did. My stomach tightens as I knock on the office door.
“Come in.”
I inhale a deep breath and enter his office. Detective Reynold’s is standing near the tall window of his office, staring out over Eureka, California. He doesn’t look at my direction, instead, he continues to face the window.
“Shut the door behind you, Isabella.”
I hesitate for a moment. I want nothing more to run right out of here, out of the station and straight into my car. Icy drafts trickle down my spine when the door clicks shut behind me. This could be it. He could know everything.
"You wanted to see me, sir?"
“Sit,” he offers, gesturing to the leather chair in front of his mahogany desk. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” He turns and gives me a genuine smile. The sunlight catches in his glasses, and I can’t read his eyes because of the glare. He walks over to his desk and stands across from me.
“That’s good to hear. It’s been a bust forty-eight hours for everyone.” He slides a coffee cup over to me. “I figure you’d be running late, so I had Sandy make an extra in case you hadn’t had any yet.” I take the warm styrofoam cup in hand, staring down at my own reflection.
“Thank you.”
“Well, I wish I could tell you that you are not in trouble.”
Shit. My stomach tightens more.
“Sir-“
He holds up a hand, cutting me off immediately. I choke on my words, sinking back into the leather chair. I’m like a teenager being reprimanded by a parent for sneaking out past their curfew. No matter how hard I work, how much I advance in my career, and even though I’m twenty-three years old, Reynolds makes me feel like a child.”
“Four years ago, your dad decided to put you under my wing. He thought it would be good for the both of us,” he reminisces about my dearly departed father. “You’ve proven to be a wonderful forensic photographer, but-“he sighs, taking a seat across from me. “But you completely broke code.”
I keep my eyes glued to the coffee cup.
I have no idea what he’s going to do, but I only assume the worst. I better start packing my bags now and save us both the trouble of this embarrassing conversation.
“Why did you bring Laina Mitchell with you?” he asks slowly.
“She’s a photojournalist.” It’s a weak answer and the only one I have. He fixes his cufflinks on his suit jacket, shaking his head in disbelief...
“Jesus fucking Christ, Isabella.”
My face reddens. Damn my nerves.
“I don’t even know what to charge you with. Let’s see. There’s trespassing, obstruction of justice, endangerment, impeding an investigation, tampering with evidence. I mean the list goes on and on!”
“Sir, please - she just wanted photos for her work.”
“So, you were willing to risk this high-profile case? Risk your job?” He stands, pacing the room. I don’t say anything. I only sink deeper into the leather chair, hoping I might disappear from this place. “Answer me!” he demands.
“I-I don’t know what to say, sir. It was stupid of me, I don’t know why I even- “
He slams his hands on his desk, taking a deep breath. Tension hangs in the room and it’s stifling. My heart thuds heavy and loud, mixing with the rushing in my ears. God, I wish he’d just break the silence already, but I am trapped in his office with him. My fate lingers on his decision.
He smooths back several strands of hair that have fallen out of place and inhales sharply.
“From what I understand no one else noticed. Which is lucky for you.”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” My voice sounds distant and weak.
“No. It won’t happen again, Izzy. I’m not going to fire you for the sake of your father and the work he did here on the force. But I am suspending you without pay for two months.”
I deflate. Relief rushes through me, since I wasn’t terminated. Well, at least he didn’t, but still - no pay for two months was going to ruin me. I grind my teeth together. What the hell am I supposed to do? I can barely swing rent currently. I’m a month behind after paying off all my dad’s medical bills.
“Do you understand? I don’t want to have to do this, but you’re not leaving me with any room,” he continues.
“I understand. I promise. No more photojournalism.”
“Ever.”
We stare at one another.
“You’re dismissed,” he says, motioning for the exit.
I stand, wearily and shuffle to the door.
“Thank you,” I mutter. What a stupid thing to say. I bite my tongue, refusing to look back at him.
“Take what you need from your desk and just head home,” he says as I open the door.
“Will do.” I ignore the stares boring into my back when I step into the office, particularly from Logan. He wants to know what happened. I’m sure I’ll be the talk of the department for the rest of the week.
At least I didn’t get fired, I remind myself, just suspended without pay for being an idiot.
I grab my bag off my desk, and only start to cry when I get to the parking lot and there’s no one around to see.
I check my phone. Still no calls or messages from Laina. There’s nothing.
“Laina, open up!” I shout, my fist slams on her apartment door.
I’ve been here for ten minutes, and I’m about to break down the door.
I try her number again, but it goes to voicemail.
“Did you go out drinking or something last night?" The idea of her partying all night while I went into work to get suspended rubs me the wrong way. Frustration overrides the concern I’m feeling. “You got me in a heap of trouble at work and I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.” I count down from ten in my head. “Okay. You’ve had enough warning, I’m coming in.”
I fumble with my key chain, looking for the spare key she gave me a while back to help water plants after she went on some photo expedition out in Europe.
A quick jimmy later, and I’m in the dim apartment where afternoon lights filter through sheer curtains. The place smells like stale Chinese food and pot - it could be worse. I flip on the light. “Laina?”
Something’s off.
She should be home, judging by her purse and keys sitting on the side table near the front door. Her shoes are kicked off.
The place is silent. A kind of silence that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and take notice, not because it's spooky, but because the type of quiet that screams something's off. I step into the apartment, my shoes the only sound against the worn hardwood floors.
I move down the hall to her bedroom. The one place she’d be, but it’s empty. Her bedsheets tossed back like she’s just risen from them. Her toothbrush sits on the edge of the bathroom sink. There’s makeup out and open, and a heap of clothes thrown on the floor.
Has she stepped out for a walk or something?
The kitchen’s a mess with dirty plates stacked in the sink, which is normal for her, but her phone is there on the table, lying next to a file that has "Hellfire Riders" scrawled across it in a hurry, like it's hot to the touch. The file’s open; its contents spread out like a deck of cards.
It is a mess of papers, grainy photos with blurry images, and notes written in a hand that's halfway between determined and desperate. Her phone usually attached to her sits there like it’s holding its breath, waiting. I touch the screen to see if it has power. It lights up, showing all my missed calls and texts.
My heart rate spikes. No, no, no, no.
“What the hell have you gotten into, Laina?”
I take a seat at the table, running my hands through my hair. Hoping beyond hope that she’s just out for a stroll, trying to walk off hangover or sleep. Something, anything. Any minute she’d see my car and barge in demanding to know what the hell I’m doing here in the middle of the day.
But the stack of papers sitting here tells me another story. One I’m not sure I want to believe.
It hits me then, standing in this too-quiet kitchen, that she's in over her head. She's out there somewhere, poking a hornet's nest with a stick.
She’s already been gathering evidence on these guys. No wonder she was so eager to get to the Puppeteers crime scene, she was hoping to catch them.
I sift through the chaos, papers sliding through my fingers like whispers of danger, hoping she left some sort of clue on where she is or what she's up to. Laina’s ignored my calls before, but she’s never been seen without her phone or wallet. She might be overly confident, but she’s not naive.
My hands shake as one photo that’d fallen under the table catches my attention. I reach down and inspect it; written at the bottom in her perfect cursive reads “I finally found their clubhouse.” The GPS coordinates are written out underneath. The Hellfire logo hangs like a banner over the entrance of the worn, shitty bar buried somewhere deep in the woods.
My blood runs cold. She found their clubhouse. Alone. Reckless, brave, foolish Laina. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. Did she go there? I chew on my bottom lip. Is that where she went out the other night without me?
My stomach flip flops.
She knew better than to go there alone. She's going to get herself killed if she hasn’t already. I rise from the table and start frantically searching for her camera.
It’s gone.
It's just like her, isn't it? Fearless to the point of recklessness, always chasing the next big scoop with the tenacity of a bulldog. But this? This is different. This is not just any story. This is the Hellfire Riders, a gang that doesn't just flirt with danger—they're married to it, and they don't take kindly to strangers. And they are especially not nice to nosy journalists.
The photo in my hand, the coordinates scrawled in her neat cursive, is a breadcrumb she's left, whether intentionally or not, it's my only lead.
Adrenaline pumping through my veins as I contemplate my next move. That clubhouse is about two hours away. Two hours into what could very well be a nightmare. But there's no choice, is there? Laina is out there, possibly in over her head, and I'm the only one who knows where to start looking.
I gather the mass of file and papers into my arm and rush out the door.
Please, Laina. Let me be wrong about this.