email pinged. She glanced at it. Gary.
Subject: BP support
Oh, here we go …
Tonight. Henderson Hotel.
Control explosion.
Ren went to Gary’s office. Her fist was poised to knock on the door, until she heard his rising voice.
‘Nothing!’ said Gary. ‘Nothing is wrong, Karen! Jesus Christ, I’m going to record it on a loop.’
Gary Dettling was calm, cool, rational, in control. He could rein in any emotion … until it came to his wife. He loved that she was crazy, he hated that she was crazy, she made him crazy.
But Ren knew that in some small way, Karen Dettling was bound to have made Gary more sympathetic to Ren’s own brand of crazy.
‘No, good. Go ahead!’ said Gary. He slammed the phone down hard.
Ren let out the breath she had been holding.
Fuckity fuck.
She knocked.
‘Yes!’ said Gary.
Ren opened the door and walked in. ‘Do you have any rubber bands?’
Gary frowned. ‘Yes.’
Ren walked over to his stash. ‘Can I just say I hate these passive-aggressive emails about meetings and appointments?’
‘They’re active-aggressive,’ said Gary. ‘And I can get even more active …’
Ren grabbed a fistful of rubber bands and walked out.
Why do you even keep them in here? You asshole.
When Ren went back to the bullpen, Janine and Everett were huddled together. They looked up.
‘Was he shouting at you?’ said Everett.
‘You could hear that out here?’ said Ren. ‘No – it wasn’t me. For once.’
‘Are you coming out tonight?’ said Janine.
‘No,’ said Everett, ‘she’s checking into a facility …’
‘You may be right,’ said Ren. ‘No, Janine. I was out last night, and the night before. I think even I need a break every now and then.’
‘Well, I’m ready to strap on my drinking boots,’ said Janine.
‘As am I,’ said Everett.
‘Damn you both!’ said Ren. ‘Well, if you’re going, Janine, would you like to stay in my place? Save your drinking money.’
‘Even better, thank you,’ said Janine.
‘I will try not to be bitter,’ said Ren.
‘Robbie’s going to come too,’ said Janine.
D’oh! Everett’s face …
Only Ren noticed. And only she could see the sparkle in Janine’s eyes.
Ren sat at her desk and thought about Hope Coulson – how she hadn’t driven home, how that likely meant that she had met with someone unexpectedly, that something had changed her plans.
‘I think someone was watching Hope Coulson,’ said Ren. ‘I think she was taken from right outside the church.’
‘Like she was bundled into the back of a van?’ said Everett.
‘I don’t know,’ said Ren. ‘Who knew where she was going to be? Was it someone close enough to her that they knew her routine? Was it a member of the congregation? Someone who was served Meals on Wheels by her? A relative of one of the elderly people she visited? Maybe one of the fathers whose kids go to her school. Maybe someone she trusted …’
‘Maybe some creepy guy who had a thing for her,’ said Everett. ‘Or maybe it was an opportunistic thing – some guy who lived near the church?’
‘There are ten registered sex offenders in the area,’ said Janine. ‘According to DPD’s notes, they were all cleared.’
‘Every sex offender was, once upon a time, unregistered,’ said Ren. ‘And every killer had a clean record before their fairy tale ended.’
After work, Ren took the five-minute walk to the River North Arts District, RiNo, where her boxing gym defiantly stood – fierce and battered, like a prizefighter – between two shiny rookies: a pristine artisan coffee shop, and a crafts store/ceramics studio. The area was slowly regenerating, with warehouses being renovated and new buildings going up in what were once abandoned, overgrown lots.
The filthy man-gym was scattered with bulked-up men working on bags, sparring in the four rings. Ren went to the token lady area, and got changed into black shorts and a black tank. She put in her EarPods, cranked up her beat-the-shit-out-of-people playlist. She strapped up her hands, put on her gloves and got to work.
Jab. Jab. Hook. Hook. Uppercut. Uppercut. Jab. Jab. Hook. Hook. Uppercut. Uppercut. Rinse. Repeat.
She moved over to the speed bag, did ten minutes on that, left, hot and sweaty, and took a shower in the quiet after-work calm of a hushed Safe Streets.
Ren drove home, walked into the hallway of the apartment building, went over to the wall of mailboxes and took out her mail.
Bill. Bill. Bill. Store card. Bill. Bill. Store card. Bill.
A woman wheeling a mountain bike came in behind her. She looked like the type who described herself as ‘wacky’ in her online dating profile. Thirtyish, hair in pigtails, a tie-dyed T-shirt, full lips, blaring red lipstick, XL plaid shirt as a cover-up.
I have zero interest in meeting bikes in the hallway when I get home from work. Or wacky people. I am maladjusting to apartment living.
‘Hi,’ said the girl. ‘I’m Lorrie, are you new?’
‘Hi, Lorrie,’ said Ren. ‘Yes. I’m Ren. Nice to meet you.’
I have dead-body photos in a folder under my arm right now. Be on your way.
Ren had moved in two months earlier, just days before Annie Lowell returned from her travels. She had clung to the hope that Annie would extend her trip as she had done before. The move was painful, and sad, and already blocked out. Annie’s house was a home. The apartment was a base. It never drew her in in the same way. Instead, mania and the night drew her out, bars and bright, shiny things. Bright shiny people.
Ren had decided not to rush into renting
