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She dragged the case files from under her arm and placed them on the table between them.
A tired-looking waitress in a wrinkled white shirt took their order—just two beers, no need for anything stronger tonight. There was already enough haziness clouding Roseline’s mind after the day’s devastating developments and subsequent failures.
“Well, should we review everything again from the top?” Roseline asked with a weary sigh, spreading the case files on the scarred table.
Callan nodded, his expression solemn beneath the bar’s dim lighting. “Let’s go through it systematically, chronologically. The timeline is key.”
As they slowly reconstructed each sinister twist and turn of the Game Master’s escalating deadly theatrics, Roseline noticed Callan jotting notes on a napkin, brow furrowed in concentration. She admired his methodical approach, so different from her own instinctive style. Yet both were effective.
“Impossible to confirm a pattern now,” Callan murmured. “However, the two live streams are three days apart. I won’t be surprised if he abducts his victims one week, two weeks before. There is a planning in this twisted thinking. Which means that even if we can figure out his next potential victim, we may be already too late to intervene. Either we need to find out where he keeps his next stars or find the initial motivations for finding them.”
“You’re right,” Roseline said, pulse quickening. “It’s a wobbly assumption, but might be our only chance to get ahead of him. Also, I need to re-examine the details of the DeLuca stream. I had the chance to record this one this time, so there may be another clue hidden somewhere that could give us an edge.”
Their beers arrived, and Roseline ran a finger down the chilled glass, collecting condensation on her fingertip as she gathered her swirling thoughts. The amber liquid was tempting, but she dared not dull her faculties yet tonight.
After some moments discussing possibilities for predicting the Game Master’s next target, she noticed Callan observing her across the booth.
“Enough about the case for now,” he said gently. “We’ve both been running on fumes. Tell me about something else. How was your weekend?”
Roseline blinked, unaccustomed to being asked about her personal life lately, apart from her tightest circle of friends. Since this investigation began, she had been wholly consumed with analyzing data and codes, rarely emerging from cyberspace long enough to remember there was a real world outside.
“It was all right,” she said. “Quiet. I stayed in mostly, caught up on reading.”
“Reading anything good?” Callan asked.
Roseline noticed he seemed genuinely interested, not just making idle small talk. She studied the sharp angles of his face accentuated by the bar’s low light. Why did he care about her simple weekend activities?
“An autobiography by Dorothy Day, the Catholic social activist,” she found herself answering. “I find her perspective on poverty and injustice meaningful.”
Callan’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “She’s an interesting historical figure I don’t know much about. What drew you to her story?”
Roseline opened up about her longtime fascination with Day’s unique blend of spirituality and activism. She was surprised to find herself sharing more about her own passions, too, from volunteer work at women’s shelters to her favorite books on philosophy to her penchant for old jazz music.
With a start, she noticed an hour had passed just talking with Callan about the simple joys and trials of everyday life, creating a blissful sense of normalcy separate from their all-consuming case, and her beer was half gone.
Turning the tables, she asked about Callan’s childhood in Boston, smiling as he spun colorful stories about playing street hockey with neighborhood friends, spending idyllic summers on Cape Cod, and the legacy of the Irish Catholic family that shaped him. He spoke fondly of parents who nurtured empathy, intellectual curiosity, and strong morals from an early age.
Roseline envied the warmth in his recollections. “You’re very lucky to have such a supportive family,” she said a little wistfully, memories of her own childhood rising unbidden. “Not everyone does.”
Callan regarded her kindly, his piercing blue eyes filled with empathy. “What about you, Roseline? If you don’t mind me asking, what was your upbringing like?”
Roseline tensed reflexively, fingers tightening around her beer. Her childhood was a time she preferred leaving buried in the past. But something in Callan’s compassionate gaze compelled her to respond.
“Well…” She stared down at the grooves etched into the scarred tabletop, marshaling the words. “I didn’t exactly have an idyllic family life.”
She pictured the small, ramshackle cabin shrouded by the humid Louisiana bayou, so isolated from the rest of the world. “It was just my father and me after my mama died when I was fairly young. He was a rigid, remote man. Never cruel, but… cold. Stern.”
Callan listened, his focus absolute. “That must have been very difficult, losing your mother so early.”
“It was,” Roseline whispered. “I still miss her, even after all these years.” She swallowed hard. “With it being just Daddy and me, things were… quiet. Lonely. He worked long hours after school, so I was often alone at the cabin with just the critters for company.”
Callan didn’t comment, only studied her until she felt compelled to start speaking again.
She traced her finger around the lip of her glass, lost in bittersweet reverie. “I learned to keep to myself, entertain myself. Books and studying became my escape.” A rueful half-smile crossed her face. “High school is when I became fascinated with computers. I guess their technical logic suited my antisocial nature.”
Callan gave an encouraging nod. “That lonely time helped spur your interests and skills. The challenges shaped you.”
“I suppose so,” Roseline murmured. She took a bracing sip of beer before continuing. “My relationship with my father remained… distant. We just never learned how to be there for each other after Mama passed. But the solitude led me to find my own voice without being muddied up by anyone else’s.” Meeting Callan’s gaze, she felt uncertainty morph into resolve. “So yes, it was lonely growing up. But it planted the seeds for who I am now. I survived and grew stronger.”
