Chapter 27
SHE WALKS QUICKLY, PURPOSEFULLY, TOWARD the sea of reporters and law enforcement that have already set up camp on Leroux’s front lawn, setting the air around them buzzing with tension.
It’s a scene of calculated chaos, with grown men and women trying their damndest to get a photo of the scene or a sound bite from a traumatized participant.
They jostle each other and hoist cameras up high, clicking at anything the lens can catch.
She flashes her credentials at a young officer blocking anyone from entering the perimeter. He wears a mask of authority, but underneath it is the face of a kid. As she sidesteps a few more officers, she comes across Maya in the front yard. She looks like she’s seen a ghost.
“Hey, Wren,” Maya says, enveloping her in a hug that is much more than just a greeting. It’s like Maya knows what’s needed at all times and is the consummate nurturing presence that Wren never knew she craved.
“Are you okay?” Wren asks, pulling back to scrutinize Maya’s face. She looks concerned, and Wren is sure her own face mirrors the feeling. Leroux was forced into an unthinkable choice this morning, and the magnitude of that isn’t lost on either of them.
Maya nods, looking briefly at the house before returning her gaze to Wren. “What about you? They couldn’t just send a tech here?”
“Absolutely not,” Wren says, shaking her head. “I’m the only one who can do things the way I do things.”
“Lord, that was a mouthful,” Maya says. She places a gentle hand on Wren’s back and begins firmly leading her toward the front door.
Wren can’t help but chuckle, a nervous and involuntary reaction that feels grotesquely out of place considering the circumstances. “Have you talked to him?” she asks quietly. The question hangs in the air uncomfortably.
“He’s shaken up, but—” Maya falters, giving Wren a look of pity. It’s a look Wren doesn’t want to see anymore.
“But what?” she asks, dread beginning to claw at her insides.
“But he did what he had to do to save Andrew’s life.” Maya’s words seem intended to land softly, but they cut to the bone all the same.
It’s clear why she hesitated. Leroux did what Wren would give anything to go back and do.
Every single night, she dreams about saving Richard, and the idea dominates her thoughts in every waking moment.
She has gone through all the possible scenarios in her head, every mistake, over and over, so many times that sometimes she can almost convince herself it didn’t happen.
Sometimes she wakes up and reaches over to his side of the bed, thinking it’s all just been a nightmare that she conjured up, the product of too many late nights surrounded by death.
But it’s never a nightmare; it’s always real, and it’s always a complete gut punch.
She feels the urge to simply collapse, to just surrender, drop her bag, and go home, but she can’t do that—not now, not when John needs her. She can’t let herself obsess over the ghastly parallels between what she desperately wishes she had done and what John was able to do.
Now set with determination, she reminds herself that if there was ever a moment that required her professionalism, it’s this moment. The unforgiving house of regret can be visited another day. She gives Maya another hug and continues through the yard.
“John protected his family,” Wren states, her voice thick with the emotions that are bubbling up from her gut. “But I know this isn’t a small thing that he’s done.”
“You hit the nail on the head. This shit might not be easy for him to process,” Maya says, her voice soft with empathy. “But Leroux surprises me daily.”
Wren just nods a silent agreement as the house looms before them, now feeling monstrous amid the scene that surrounds it.
Maya guides them through the crowd of officers, lifting the yellow caution tape and ushering Wren underneath it.
Every time the tape lifts, Wren feels like she is entering another even darker realm.
She feels the weight of it like a portal.
The windows in the house are dark, and the air just outside is thick with unease.
As soon as she crosses the tape, she can feel it—a change in the atmosphere.
A harbinger lies before them. Death has a way of hanging in the air, and it lingers.
It reaches out and grabs her as soon as she hits the front steps, an insidious presence that’s impossible to ignore.
Through the window next to the front door, she sees the forensic team moving like specters, working diligently. Patrol officers speak to one another in hushed tones in the living room.
As she crosses the threshold, her eyes find John immediately.
He’s sitting on the couch, his hands clasped together and his leg bouncing with anxious energy.
His eyes are rimmed red with exhaustion, an indication of the new burden he bears.
There’s blood staining his white T-shirt, splattered across the fabric in different ways.
His arm is stained as well, and she notices a cut on his lip, a glaring and grim indication of the violence that occurred here.
She shoves her own demons aside, approaching him like someone would a hurt animal, moving slowly and quietly, not wanting to startle him more.
“John,” she murmurs softly, sitting next to him and putting a hand on his back. “I’m here.”
It’s all she can think to say, offering her silent but unwavering support to her friend who has been there for all her darkest days.
He turns to her, and there’s a haunted look in his eyes.
It’s the look of a man who is struggling with a decision he would continue to make in a hundred lifetimes if given the chance.
“I couldn’t let him hurt Andrew,” he says to her, his voice coming out stronger than she anticipated, each word drenched in conviction. “I didn’t have a choice. I had to do it.”
She nods, not taking her eyes from his. The weight of the confession is clear, but John’s strength comes through even clearer. “You did what you had to do to protect your family, John. You certainly don’t owe me an explanation.”
He protected his family, yes, but a deeper truth lies beneath it all: By killing Philip Trudeau, he avenged Richard. Whether he meant to or not, he eased some of her pain, lightened some of her burden in that moment.
“Thanks, Muller,” he says, his voice breaking.
She realizes then that he was worried Wren wouldn’t see it that way, that she would be upset that he killed Philip—like justice came when her back was turned.
Even with the weight of taking a life on his shoulders, John was still concerned that he cheated her out of closure somehow. Now she can see the relief in his eyes.
She smiles, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “I’m going to get to work.”
“I’m sorry for the scene.” He shakes his head.
“Hey,” she says, placing her hand on his shoulder, careful not to touch any blood. “I’m sure I’ve seen a lot worse.”
She turns around, and before she can leave the room, she almost collides with Andrew.
He appeared like a ghost in the doorway, struggling to button up a clean shirt with a freshly applied bandage covering his right hand.
He wears a look of shock and exhaustion on his face.
When he sees her, tears rim his eyes, and he rushes forward to embrace her.
She hugs him tightly and doesn’t pull back.
Something tells her that Andrew needs as big of a hug as he can get.
His heart beats rapidly in his chest like a frantic drumbeat, and there is a slight tremble to his movements.
“If I could have gotten to the knives, he would have been julienned,” he says through tears.
Wren can’t help but laugh at Andrew’s ability to inject levity into literally any situation.
He pulls back, wiping his eyes. “This is just another excuse for me to have a beautiful set of knives on either side of the kitchen.”
She shakes her head, holding a hand to his cheek for a second, just happy to see that he’s still Andrew, still whole.
“Babe, I don’t think John will argue with that one.”
She chuckles, and they embrace again. This time, his shoulders relax a bit with the release of a laugh.
“I’ll let you do your thing. Be careful, please,” he says, giving her arm a final pat.
She walks into the kitchen, steeling herself for what she’s about to see. Immediately the smell of fresh blood hits her nose. It slithers into her nostrils, filling them with a metallic scent with which she’s wildly familiar.
Philip Trudeau lies sprawled before her, his eyes open and staring at nothing, an endless void before him.
His body is contorted into an unnatural position, and a deep pool of red surrounds him, the clean white floor looking bright in contrast. It’s clear right away that he has a bullet wound in his neck.
John had a legal right to do it. They live in a state where it’s perfectly acceptable to use deadly force when someone enters your home and threatens you or the other occupants with imminent death. He was protecting his castle, as they will likely say.
Her gaze travels over Philip. She takes her time to memorize this broken body splayed out before her, powerless and empty—a poisonous husk.
When her eyes get to his hands, she stops, appreciating how much she hates them.
Those hands are responsible for the upheaval of her entire world, like Jeremy before him, but worse somehow.
Two technicians arrive behind her, standing on the periphery and waiting for further instructions. Their entrance pulls her from the anger she has tempered, a welcome shift back to the task.
She opens her bag with practiced movement, the sound of the zipper cutting through the eerie quiet of the kitchen.
She pulls on a pair of black gloves and hovers over Philip’s face for a second, trying to calm the instinct she feels to gouge his eyes out of his head.
Her hand moves with deliberate movement to his neck, palpating for a pulse she knows isn’t there.
“No pulse detected,” she says to the techs, her eyes still locked on Philip’s vacant gaze.
One tech has taken out a camera, ready to begin documenting. The other scribbles notes as Wren dictates aloud, her voice calm and clinical.
“No respirations visible. Pupils fixed and dilated.” She breaks her stare to look up at the techs. “There’s also a giant hole in his neck.”
One of the technicians sputters out an uncomfortable, nervous chuckle while the other remains stone-faced and professional.
She snaps photos as instructed, not acknowledging anything else.
Wren can’t blame her for not engaging in the strange art of gallows humor at a death scene—it’s not for everyone.
“Dead on scene. Let’s take him back. Be careful with the neck,” Wren instructs, a strong note of finality in her voice.
She watches as they lift him onto a gurney, covering him and strapping him down—as if she would care if he fell off. He’s brought past John and Andrew and out of the house to the waiting morgue vehicle.
She follows behind, taking in the house as it is now, the ghost of Philip Trudeau still lingering in the air. Wren silently reminds herself to get Maya in there later to clear him the fuck out.
Stepping outside, she takes a look around, surveying the swirling chaos that continues to grow outside.
For a second, she just watches it, seeing all the ways humanity feeds on darkness, always giving in to the more sinister inclinations.
She lives in the shadows too, and she’s often comfortable there, but even those who dwell in the umbra crave the brief reprieve of light sometimes.
Feeling a shiver run up her spine, she decides to seek refuge in the backyard, desperate to breathe in the outside air away from the metallic tang of blood.
Philip Trudeau is gone, a scourge eradicated.
She can almost feel Richard take a breath again.
He’d probably just be happy to see Wren do the same.
After living through an eternity of fear, it feels like the danger has finally been contained.
She feels the smallest flicker of relief, but she knows better than to let her guard down completely.
But now Wyatt will be headed to prison. His transgressions will lead him to a new kind of hell: death row, where he will join his mentor.
Jeremy the puppet master will find he has fewer and fewer strings left to pull as he awaits his final sentence.
But now they’ll likely be together, in the same facility, which makes Wren anxious. Jeremy may have some moves left.
The important thing is the present, and right now the man who helped kill Richard is dead. That’s a relief that she is choosing to focus on.
Leroux steps down onto the dew-kissed grass to join her.
Adrenaline is still coming off him in waves.
He lights a cigarette, trying desperately to inhale a sense of calm back into his system.
She notices a slight tremble in his hand as he brings the cigarette up to his mouth, a cue that now is not the time to lecture him about his unhealthiest vice.
She sees that the cut on his lip has started to bleed, smearing a vivid streak of red onto the end of the cigarette as he pulls it away.
“You should get that looked at,” she says, carefully breaking the silence.
He looks at her, following her gaze and touching the place where his injury has reopened. He winces slightly and gazes at the blood on his fingertip. There are a million little ghosts haunting him, and she can see him silently fighting them before shaking his head and taking another long drag.
“Yeah, I will,” he answers, his eyes drifting back to the expanse of trees in the backyard.
She watches him for a moment, wondering whether she should speak at all. The tension hangs thick in the air around them.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
He pauses a moment, weighing the question in his mind. “We will be,” he says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and squeezing lightly.