Jessica opened her eyes, said, “It could be, sure. Though I don’t know if that makes it any better.”
Bobbi looked everywhere in her office except at Jessica. She missed Harriet now in a whole new way. Where Harriet had been endlessly supportive and constructive, Jessica could be blunt and tactless. Bobbi always preferred speaking to Harriet on just about every occasion. A bubble of anger pushed aside the nausea. “No – it doesn’t make it any better. Either way, if I hadn’t called in sick…”
Jessica straightened her spine and looked at Bobbi through half-lidded eyes. “Roberta, I’m not blaming you, no one is – the only person responsible is the one who did this.” She blinked, long and slow. “But would you rather pretend it was some other way? I’m just saying you should probably avoid talking to anyone from the newspapers. You know how they love to spin these things.”
“I just…” Bobbi rose unsteadily to her feet, waited for the dizziness to pass. She still hadn’t eaten anything and it was going on ten o’clock. She gripped the edge of her desk, leaned forward to get some blood back in her brain. “Are they still out there?”
“The police? Yes.”
“Did they take her body yet?”
“They’re taking it now, I think. And hopefully it draws off the press. I talked to them but—”
“Did you hear what happened to her?”
“She was stabbed multiple times. Cut across her neck. That’s what I heard.”
Bobbi reached her limit – Jessica’s callous way, the sterile smell of the office, the idea of Harriet’s tortured body sitting there in her car throughout the night – it had all become too much. She stumbled out into the hallway and headed toward the building’s rear entrance, hit the crash bar of the exterior door, and left.
* * *
The sun beat down, the air breezy and dry, pine needles baking in the heat. Bobbi walked toward the tree line, expecting another upheaval from her stomach, but there was nothing left to come out. She paced a circle, hands on her hips, taking in gulps of air, trying to settle herself.
The back door opened and Rachel cautiously stepped out. “You want to be alone?”
“No, it’s okay.”
Rachel came closer. “I’m sorry I lost it in there.”
“We’re all losing it. This is unreal. Just unreal. Poor Rita.” Bobbi felt the sting of tears but beat them back.
She looked around at the cars in the back lot, many of them double-parked, crowded together to keep the area clear out front. But it was quiet, just a few bugs zipping through, almost like nothing was happening.
“Let’s get out of here,” Rachel said. “They’re letting people go.”
“I don’t even know where I’m going to go,” Bobbi said. “Home? Sit staring at the wall?” She thought of Connor again. He was probably working but given the circumstances might be able to get away. She didn’t want to be alone.
“You probably need to eat,” Rachel said. “Have you eaten anything?”
Bobbi shook her head. “They asked me about Lennox.”
Rachel nodded. “They asked me about you. I mean… hey, you’re shaking. Are you okay?”
“You know what Jessica said to me?”
“Oh my God. She is in high-time bitch mode. Can you believe her? Stalking around in there. She’s crazy.”
“It’s just her defense,” Bobbi said. “I’m sure she’s hurting.”
Rachel blew air out of her lips in dismissal. “Don’t be her apologist. What did she say?”
“She just reminded me – Harriet was here because of me.”
Rachel clucked her tongue and crossed her arms. “Nice. Real nice. She’s a piece of work. Don’t even let that—”
“But no, I mean – she’s right. I was supposed to be here. What if that, oh my God, Rachel…” Bobbi could barely choke the words out. “What if that was supposed to be me?” It was a horrible thought now that she’d allowed it to fully form, the worst thought, and on top of it she felt guilty for focusing on herself instead of Harriet. “Our cars, Rachel, you know, my car and Rita’s are almost exactly the same…”
Rachel was staring now, a real holy shit face. “Your cars,” she said slowly, “and you even kind of… well you’re a lot younger, but your hair…”
The way she was looking her over, Bobbi had to face away.
She just stood there beneath the sizzling sun, wondering what came next.
* * *
The smell. The fucking smell – what was that? Spoiled milk? They said odors did things, could even trigger repressed memories. But he wasn’t remembering anything, not now. Just killing her, just the blood, and searching his soul to find satisfaction. Was he satisfied? He was excited, that’s what he was, and a little bit angry.
He drove through Lake Haven, not really seeing anything, thinking about how the stink of rotted milk had gotten under his skin, infected his brain, and made him want to shower with scalding water. How it had screwed him up.
And the car had been so damned hot. If he hadn’t cleaned up afterwards, he’d have left a puddle of sweat behind on the seats. Lucky he didn’t vomit.
He drove fast, eager to scrub himself in the shower, remembering how her blood had been like fireworks, spraying all over the car; some of it had squirted in his face and it had tasted like pennies, and that sensation, too, had brought the past to life…
A car blared its horn and he swerved, narrowly missing the oncoming traffic. He’d gone away for a second, lost in a dark place, filled with the odor of spoiled food, cool jets of air, music playing in the background – The Doors.
He braked for an intersection, waited for the light. While waiting he searched the cassettes on his passenger seat. That was the beauty of having an old car like this one – even if there was some rust and a tendency to overheat, it had a working cassette deck. Nothing quite like cassettes, nothing like the squeak of the gears that pulled the magnetic tape. He popped in The Soft Parade and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, first humming then singing along, off key, under his breath.
He’d never had a singing voice. Not even close. He’d had other talents, though, things people didn’t really understand.
Which wasn’t surprising, because people didn’t understand much of anything.
The light changed and he made a right turn, started out of town. Got the old car up to speed and dialed up the music, reminding himself that this thing wasn’t over.
Three
Mike Nelson swept the papers off the desk and stuck them in his valise. He stood and rolled his neck, hoping to get out some of the kinks after sitting in the social worker’s office for five straight hours.
Yari Fennel. Fennel had been to a late meeting with his divorce lawyer at the time of death. That was one person who could be immediately eliminated from inquiry. But Fennel was the only one, so far, with about twenty staff left to go.
DSS had released the staff and closed services for the day. The lobby was empty as he walked toward the main door, still aromatic of coffee and traces of shampoo. There was a trash can in the corner brimming with wads of used tissues. Most of the news crews were still outside. Overton had given them a statement but Mike knew they’d be hungry for more.
“Investigator Nelson?” A woman came from the other hallway before he reached the exit.
“Yes?”
“How did everything go?”
He mentally brought up her file: Jessica Rankin. Short-statured, fifty-six, a divorcee who lived in Lake Haven. She had a close haircut, colored blonde to hide the gray. There were lines around her brown eyes. She lived alone and said she’d been home during the commission of the crime, watching Netflix.