Chapter Two
A serial killer is generally defined as a person who commits a series of three or more murders.
They usually operate within a defined geographical area.
A comfort zone near their residence or place of employment where they feel confident targeting, capturing, controlling, and disposing of victims. We believe that for Ryan, this was between Burlington and Mount Mansfield.
Which is still a vast area to search. But there are limits to how far a person can carry dead weight—how far from wherever he left his car he could bury a body.
Matching this information to the places where he took me is the key.
Particularly the locations where he liked to linger for a while when we went on hikes.
Therefore, Muriel, Hana, and I spend Saturday in and around Stowe.
And what a gloriously sunny, hot, and bug-filled time it turns out to be.
Hauling our asses all over the mountain makes for a long day.
But over the years we have found a café with the best grilled chicken chopped salad in existence.
It helps to alleviate some of the pain—especially when combined with cake.
The special today was a vanilla maple whiskey cupcake, and yum.
“Noah’s ex-wife is gorgeous. I am obsessed.
The separation mustn’t have been too bad if he didn’t wipe her from his socials.
Can you imagine being friends with an ex?
” Hana asks as she slouches in the backseat of the Subaru on the way home.
She’s in charge of the music and we’re listening to Paris Paloma. “Well, no. Not you, Sidney.”
My smile is as wry as can be.
“Let me see,” says Muriel. “My cell’s out of batteries or something.”
“What have you done to it now?” asks Hana. “Why does technology hate you?”
“I thought I plugged it in, but I guess not,” grumbles Muriel.
I hand over mine without taking my eyes off the road. “Here.”
It took them hours to get his full name out of me.
Though the truth is, I want to talk about my new neighbor.
I haven’t seen him since the night of the storm due to work.
They’ve had me doing extra hours. By the time I go to bed, the light is out in his bedroom.
Muriel finds him on social media in no time.
I have not been creeping on him, but he is at the top of my most recent searches. Let’s not ask why.
“He was sous chef at a restaurant in West Hollywood with a Michelin star,” continues Hana. “Talk about goals.”
I nod. “He said he needed to slow down.”
“Vermont is certainly a good place to do that,” says Muriel.
“So, you have been talking to him.” Hana sizes me up in the rearview mirror. “And you didn’t say a word. How many other secrets do you have hidden?”
I just laugh.
“This is good news,” says Muriel. “You could do with more people in your life.”
“You’re going to get one of your online contacts to search his credit rating and criminal history, aren’t you?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“No,” says Hana archly. “That would be a massive invasion of his privacy.”
“Of course we are. You can never be too careful.” Muriel peruses the screen. “I didn’t realize you were back on social media, Sidney.”
“I am not really,” I say. “It’s a locked account and I didn’t use my full name.”
“But still…you’re putting yourself out there. Albeit in a limited fashion.”
“It was my therapist’s idea. To embrace some of the activities other people my age are doing.”
“You’re so cute when you’re being all normal,” says Hana with a smile.
“Thank you. I used to like taking photos. It’s been good getting back to that.” I smile. Then I stop smiling. “He asked me what I do for fun.”
“Who?” Muriel turns my way. “Noah?”
I nod.
Hana’s gaze meets mine in the rearview mirror. “And what did you say?”
“I didn’t know what to say,” I admit dismally.
Muriel half turns in her seat and shares a pointed look with Hana. There’s a small chance I don’t like change. Or admitting that my life sort of sucks. But here we are.
“You should ask him if he’d like to be your new hobby,” says Hana.
I just smile.
“Or you could ask him out?” Muriel nudges me with her elbow. “It’s the sort of thing normal people do sometimes.”
“Sidney, we haven’t gone out in ages,” says Hana. “I’ve been so busy with school. What’ve you been doing with yourself outside of this and work?”
“Well…I read and stuff.”
The two exchange another look.
“I like my own company,” I say. “Being by myself isn’t so bad. For instance, I enjoy disassociating and taking long walks.”
“Who doesn’t?” Hana shrugs. “We should all regularly make space in our lives to be antisocial. But don’t you get lonely sometimes?”
I don’t know how to answer that question. Nor do I want to.
“It’s been almost ten years.” Muriel sighs. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but there’s a chance we may never find their bodies.”
My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “We have to. Then everyone will know exactly what he did and how many people he hurt. Their families will finally have closure.”
No one speaks.
“If either of you want to stop, I would understand.”
Muriel shakes her head. “No.”
“Same,” says Hana. “But you getting a hobby is a good idea. Having something in your life other than death and taxes.”
“I vote for you knocking boots with your neighbor,” suggests Muriel.
Hana laughs.
It’s not a bad idea. Not the having-sex-with-Noah part. The bit about me getting a hobby. Bringing the missing women home is my mission, but maybe there’s room for more. Maybe. “What if he’s only being nice to me because he doesn’t know who I am?”
“He might know and not care,” says Hana.
“Or he might know and be waiting to form his own opinion.” Muriel’s gaze stays on the screen. “It makes sense to try and protect yourself after everything that’s happened. But you don’t want to overdo it.”
I am not convinced.
Which is when Muriel stabs at the screen with a finger while asking, “What does this button do?”
“You followed me on social media,” says Noah with a smile.
“And you followed me back.” There’s no way I’m telling him Muriel was responsible. How embarrassing. “On your way to work?”
It’s midmorning Wednesday and we’re standing in my driveway.
He’s dressed in a plain white tee, black pants, and matching Birkenstock leather clogs.
Which I guess is what chefs wear. I am wearing my old blue jeans, a boxy tee, and a baseball cap.
I used to like sundresses and crop tops and such.
But now it’s all about boring, safe, nondescript clothing to blend with the masses.
Not standing too tall in case someone sees me as a threat.
Things like that. People still often recognize me.
They associate me with the fear and horror they felt back then when more women than normal were disappearing.
So long as I avoid eye contact and keep moving everything is usually fine.
“Yeah.” He nods to the bags in the back of the small Subaru SUV. “Can I help with those?”
My first instinct is to say no. A good indicator it’s the wrong thing to do. I don’t want to hide when it comes to him. Maybe Hana and Muriel are right about it being time for my world to get a bit bigger. “Sure.”
He steps forward and inspects my grocery purchases.
There’s no other word for it. But me and my things being perceived by this particular man isn’t so bad.
His interest doesn’t seem prurient like some.
Then he gathers up the bulk of the bags in an impressive feat of strength and organization. What a useful person to have around.
“Just at the front door would be great. Thanks.”
He nods.
A cop car cruises down the street, but I don’t recognize the person behind the wheel. Which is a good thing. “I know you’re dying to say something about all of the microwave meals.”
“There’s nothing wrong with convenience,” he says. “I’m more of a frozen pizza guy myself. I actually need to stock up. Where do you recommend getting groceries that’s local?”
“I like the co-op.”
“Duly noted. Haven’t seen you in your bedroom window lately.” He stops and blinks. “That sounded sort of perverted and stalkerish, didn’t it?”
“Just a little.”
“Shit.” He deposits the bags by the door. One side of his mouth rises higher than the other and it’s charming as fuck. “Sorry ’bout that.”
Music is blasting from the student share house.
And the old couple across the road are out working in their garden again.
I refuse to worry about whether they’re watching or what they’re thinking.
We’re not doing anything wrong. Marigold, daisies, dahlia, and zinnia are in bloom in their yard, making for a riot of color.
End of summer is a good time for gardening.
My grandmother used to love growing things.
She had a theory that gardens should be half pretty and half purposeful.
For every tomato plant or cucumber vine there had to be a flower.
She was big on balance. Which is not something my life has seen much of lately.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. Just thinking.”
“What about?”
“Flowers, weirdly enough.”
“Nothing wrong with flowers,” he says. “I have to go.”
“Thanks for carrying those.”
He nods and stands there. Not leaving. Not even a little. And there’s this energy between us. This awareness of each other that I haven’t felt in forever. Then he asks, “Talk to you later?”
My smile is as wide as can be. “Okay.”
“Keep your hands up,” says Mateo, throwing another jab at me.