Chapter Twenty-Five
The waitress comes over, asks if she wants some coffee.
“Only if you have an Irish one,” she says, but the lady doesn’t get the joke. Probably because it’s not a joke. It’s not even ten in the morning and Jules is craving a drink.
The bell on the door rings and she sees Lucy. She’s looking goth as ever with the dark hair and eye makeup and Doc Martens. She plops down at the booth.
“So he convinced you to come too?” Lucy says in her husky voice, without saying hello. “He’s been watching too many sitcoms about friends sitting in coffee shops. I knew I shoulda got that Rachel haircut.”
Jules smiles. She remembers when she first met Lucy. Jack had said it could help if she talked to others. Others who understood. Others who had also survived May Day. Other Lucky Ones.
“How’s life as a supermodel?” Lucy asks.
Jules ignores the sarcasm, waves at Carrie, who walks timidly into the diner.
She wears a conservative blouse buttoned all the way up.
A necklace with a gold cross on the outside of the shirt.
She’s the daughter of the minister at Christ Church of the Heartland, a megachurch that draws thousands of people into its pews every Sunday.
“Church mouse is here,” Lucy whispers.
“Be nice,” Jules says.
Jack has worked the case for five years.
With only dead ends, he asked the three of them to brainstorm—to try to identify any connections they may have to one another that might help identify him—“the Subject,” as Jack calls him in that clipped FBI-speak.
The three of them have gotten together only a few times over the past year, but there’s a bond, one forged in misery.
“Hi,” Carrie says in her high-pitched Barbie doll voice. She’s a delicate, sheltered woman, and Jules bristles a moment imagining what he did to her.
“Who do I have to fuck to get some service,” Lucy says loudly in the waitress’s direction.
Carrie blushes and looks around instinctively. She has appearances to keep up for her father’s church.
“Thanks for coming, Carrie,” Jules says. “How are you?”
“I’m okay. You?”
Jules nods, knowing that none of them are really okay.
“How’s the apartment hunting going?” Jules asks Carrie.
“I found a place! I’m moving out of my parents’ house next month.” Her parents have a sprawling mansion in Linden Estates, along with the CEOs and other rich people, but no other ministers.
“That’s amazing,” Jules says.
“What’s amazing?” Lucy counters. “She’s twenty-five years old.”
“How are you, Lucy?” Carrie says. Ignoring Lucy’s sarcasm is the best approach.
“I’m peachy.” She’s distracted by someone coming in the door. “Clark Kent has arrived.”
Jack sees them, gives a wave.
Jack always looks like Hollywood’s version of an FBI agent: early forties, square jaw, broad shoulders, sharp part in his hair, dark suit, crisp white shirt.
He’s one of those too-disciplined types, probably gets up at 5 a.m. every day and runs ten miles.
Prepares his meals for the week. Flosses regularly.
But that’s what they all needed. A rock.
“Ladies,” he says, nodding. “Thank you for coming.” He smiles at the waitress, who has materialized and is already filling his mug with coffee.
Lucy slides over her cup, stares at the waitress, her eyes slits.
Jules wonders why this nice man, this decent man—this handsome man, she supposes—spends his days trying to get into the dark minds of serial killers.
Allergic to small talk and manners, Lucy says, “So why the victims support group meeting? Are you really this desperate for clues? I’m not doing hypnosis again. That dude was a weirdo.”
Jack frowns. “First off, how are you all? Jules, I saw you in a magazine.”
“Hustler?” Lucy asks.
Jules narrows her eyes at Lucy, turns to Jack. “I’m okay,” she says again.
“You’re still in New York?”
Jules nods.
They catch up: Lucy is still employed at the record store. Carrie still working for the church. Jack is tight-lipped about his personal life, ever the professional.
Lucy finally can’t take any more chitchat: “Look, it’s great to have this little reunion on the anniversary of the worst day of my life, but why are you here, Jack?”
He exhales loudly. “You know that there are others, like you—that he let go?”
“Um, we can read the newspaper,” Lucy replies. “Tell me you’re not inviting more girls to this pity party because I’m not—”
“No,” Jack interrupts, his tone serious. He stares into his coffee a moment. “One of them—one of the others he let go—is missing.”
“Wait, what?” Jules says. “You mean…”
Carrie finishes her thought: “He’s coming back for us.”