Then came dinner, a bit of reading, some more cleaning, and then bed. It was an eventless routine, but it was a routine all the same.
It took two months to get the cabin clean and in order. By that time, her two-mile run had evolved into a five-mile run. She no longer looked over the old files or the contents from the last one. Instead, she had taken to reading books she bought on Amazon featuring real-life crime dramas and nonfiction police procedurals. She’d also mixed in some books pertaining to the psychological evaluations of some of history’s most noted serial killers.
She was only partly aware that this was her way of filling the void her work had once filled. As this dawned on her more and more, she couldn’t help but wonder about what her future looked like.
One morning, while she made her run around Walden Pond, the cold burning her lungs in a way that was more pleasant than unbearable, this hit her a little harder than it had before. Her mind was running a loop around the questions about getting the package from Howard Randall.
First, how did he know where she was living? And how long had he known? She’d lived under the assumption that he’d died when he had fallen into the bay on the night that final, terrible case came to a close. While his body had never been found, it had been wildly speculated that he had indeed been shot by an officer on the scene before splashing into the water. While she ran her lap, she tried to put together a trail of next steps to figure out where he was and why he’d reached out to her with a strange message: Who are you?
The package came from New York but it’s obvious he’s been around Boston. How else would he know I moved? How else would he know where I live?
This, of course, brought images to her mind of Randall hiding out in those trees with eyes on her cabin.
Just my luck, she thought. Everyone else in my life has died or shut me out. It makes sense that a convicted killer would be the only one that seemed to give a damn about me.
She knew that the package itself would offer no answers. She already knew when it was sent and where it was sent from. It was really just Randall teasing her, letting her know that he was still alive, on the loose, and interested in her in some form or another.
The package was on her mind when she returned from her run. As she stripped off her gloves and stocking cap, her cheeks pink and blustery from the cold, she walked to where she had kept the box. She had looked it all over for clues or little hidden meanings from Randall but had found none. She’d also come up empty when she had looked over the balled up newspaper. She’d read every article on the crumpled paper and nothing had seemed worthwhile. It had just been filler. Of course, that had not stopped her from relentlessly rereading each and every word on those pages several times.
She was tapping anxiously on the box when her cell phone rang. She grabbed it from the kitchen table and stared at the number on the display for a moment. She smiled hesitantly and tried to ignore the happiness that tried to peek into her heart.
It was Connelly.
Her fingers froze for a moment because she honestly didn’t know what to do. Had he called two or three weeks ago, she would have simply ignored the call. But now…well, something was different now, wasn’t it? And as much as she hated to admit it, she supposed she had Howard Randall and his letter to thank for that.
At the last moment before her phone would go to voicemail, she answered the call.
“Hey, Connelly,” she said.
There was a heavy pause on the other end before Connelly responded. “Hey, Black. I…well, I’ll be honest. I was expecting to just have to speak to your voicemail.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Oh, no way. I’m glad to hear your voice. It’s been too long.”
“Yeah, it’s starting to feel that way.”
“Am I to take that to mean you’re regretting your far-too-early retirement?”
“No, I wouldn’t go that far. How are things?”
“Things are…good. I mean, there’s a void in the precinct that used to be filled by you and Ramirez but we’re plugging along. Finley is really stepping up his game. He’s been working very closely with O’Malley. I think Finley, between me and you, he took it personally when you quit. And he decided that if someone is going to have to take your place, then dammit, it better be him.”
“Good to hear. Let him know I miss him.”
“Well, I was sort of hoping you’d come and tell him yourself,” Connelly said.
“I don’t think I’m ready to visit just yet,” she said.
“Okay, so I was never good at the small talk bullshit,” Connelly said. “I’ll cut to the chase.”
“That’s when you’re at your best,” she said.
“Look…we’ve got a case—”
“Stop right there,” she said. “I’m not coming back. Not now. Probably not ever, though I wouldn’t rule it out completely.”
“Hear me out on this one, Black,” he said. “Wait until you hear the details. Actually, you’ve probably already heard them. This one has been all over the news.”
“I don’t watch the news,” she said. “Hell, I only use the computer for Amazon. I can’t remember the last time I read a headline.”
“Well, it’s strange as hell and we can’t seem to get to the bottom of it. O’Malley and I had a late-night drinking session last night and decided we needed to call you. This isn’t just me kissing your ass and trying to convince you…but you’re the only person we came up with that could maybe crack this one. If you haven’t seen the news, I can tell you it’s—”
“The answer is no, Connelly,” she said, interrupting. “I appreciate the thought and the gesture, but no. If I’m ever ready to discuss a return, I’ll call you.”
“A man is dead, Avery, and the killer might not be finished,” he said.
For some reason, hearing him use her first name stung a bit. “I’m sorry, Connelly. Be sure to tell Finley I said hello.”
And with that, she hung up. She looked at the call idly, wondering if she had just made a huge mistake. She’d be lying if she told herself the idea of returning to work hadn’t elicited a bit of a thrill. Even hearing Connelly’s voice had made her yearn for that part of her old life.
You can’t, she told herself. If you go back to work now, you’re basically telling Rose that you don’t give a damn about her. And you’d be running directly back into the arms of the creature that put you where you are right now.
She got to her feet and looked out the window. She looked out to the trees, into the thickness and shrouded daytime shadows between them, and thought about Howard Randall’s letter.
About Howard Randall’s question.
Who are you?
She was beginning to think she wasn’t exactly sure of the answer. And maybe being without her work in her life was the reason.
***
She broke out of her routine that afternoon for the first time since establishing it. She drove out to South Boston, to St. Augustine Cemetery. It was a place she had been avoiding since the move, not just because of guilt but because it seemed that whatever cruel force manipulated fate had delivered a vicious jab to her. Both Ramirez and Jack were buried in St. Augustine Cemetery and though they were many rows apart, that did not matter to Avery. As far as she was concerned, the nexus of her failures and grief was located in that one green strip of land and she wanted nothing to do with it.
That’s why this was her first visit since the funerals. She sat in the car for a moment, looking out toward Ramirez’s grave. She slowly got out of the car and walked over to where the man she had been ready to marry had been laid to rest. The grave marker was modest. Someone had recently placed a bouquet of white flowers on it—probably his mother—that would wither and die in this cold within the next day or so.