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I remember the day I opened Bailey Counseling. Me, owner and CEO. Me, entrepreneur, mom, wife, soon-to-be on the cover of Forbes magazine. The headline: She Can Do It All. It was mine. I had done this. Me, me, me. Finally, all the years in college, dragging myself deeper into debt, were going to pay off. I was overflowing with pride, hope and accomplishment.
And then I couldn’t pay the bills. The rent and liability insurance alone were astronomical. Between the cost of running a business, and being unable to pay for any office help whatsoever, I was slowly drowning. I made the tough decision to close Bailey Counseling after only two years in business. Now, I work for a local group practice called Oak Tree Counseling.
Do I feel like a failure? Yep. But do I sleep better at night knowing the entire business isn’t on my shoulders? Yes.
It’s been almost a year since I closed my doors and I still haven’t done a thing with what remains of my old office.
Until now.
I open the garage door, inhaling the sweep of cool, fresh autumn air that blows in with it. Several leaves dance inside, settling at my bare feet. I consider running inside to change clothes, but don’t even want to see my husband. So, I unbutton the top button of my slacks, roll up the pant legs, and shed the jacket.
After selecting a playlist from my cell phone and putting it on blast, I lower into a crisscross on the garage floor and begin.
Two hours and two boxes later, I decide to take a break from scanning and redirect my focus on something less mind-numbing. I grab the fabric cleaner and go to work on the couch we are planning to sell. It’s a beige two-seater with an eggshell-colored wavy print that I bought on Craigslist. Nothing special, but it was conformable and nice enough to serve as the client couch in my office, where countless patients spilled their deepest and darkest secrets to me.
The playlist switches to Lizzo and I begin humming, my shoulders dancing with the beat.
That’s right, Lizzo, it’s time to focus on me.
I reach between the cushions and pause, my fingers finding the corner of something hard.
Frowning, I pull out what appears to be a small, thin notebook.
Inside there is no name, no date, just pages and pages of barely legible scribblings.
TEN
ROWAN
The early morning sun streams through dusty windows, the slanted shades casting long lines across the boardroom table. The conference room is boiling hot, an unfortunate side-effect of being located next to the station’s main furnace. Despite it being only eight-thirty in the morning, the Blackbird Cove Police Department is a buzz of activity. It always is after a homicide. Especially one as gory and sensational as Alyssa Kaing’s.
Crammed around the pockmarked table is my partner, Kellan Palmer, our admin officer, Evelyn Weber, and Sergeant Chris Hoffman, a mid-thirties, competent officer who I hand selected to help on this particular case.
It is officially day one of our investigation.
I set down my coffee—black with three packets of sugar—and seat myself at the head of the table. All eyes turn to me. My stomach roils with nerves. Maybe coffee wasn’t a good idea.
I plug in my laptop to the projector, power it up, and slip into my role as lead detective. Into the only role in which I am competent. On that note, I begin.
“Thanks for meeting on such short notice.” I take a quick inhale to steady my voice. “Let’s dive right in. Chris, will you hit the lights, please?
I click into the crime scene photos. The horrifying image of Alyssa Kaing’s mutilated face fills the projector screen.
“First, we will discuss the nature of the homicide. I should start by saying—clarifying, rather—that we are working under the full assumption that this is a homicide. That this was not an accident, nor suicide. Therefore, we are living, eating, and breathing three things now: means, motive, and opportunity. These three buckets will frame every single conversation we have about this case, got it?”
Nods around the room.
“Okay, here we go. According to Darcy, the victim was strangled—you can see the purple contusions around her neck—and we are assuming that this is how the assailant disabled her, and that this is also the cause of death. From the initial examination there appears to be no sign of a struggle, either in the room or on Mrs. Kaing’s body. This makes me think she either knew her assailant or that the assailant snuck up on her and took her by surprise.”
I zoom in on Alyssa’s face.
Evelyn, the only other woman in the room, gasps.
“Sorry,” she apologizes quickly for the outburst, folding her hands neatly over her notebook. Today, her long acrylic nails are adorned with little white flowers, an update from the kitten paws she had last week.
“As you can see an X has been carved over each of Mrs. Kaing’s eyes. Darcy thinks this was done postmortem with a small paring knife, or maybe even a scalpel. Whoever did this took their time and clearly wanted the X to be prominent. Other than the eyes, there are no obvious signs of other mutilation.” I click to a picture of her arms. “Important to note, it appears that there are needle marks around her median cubital vein, and also, that they don’t appear to be recent. She also has an anarchy tattoo which she tried to coverup with roses. Both these things suggest a rebellious past. Darcy is going to run a toxicology scan to see if there were any drugs in Alyssa’s body at the time she died. Next, the scene.” I nod to Kellan to take the reins, as we’d planned. Kellan is alert and impeccably dressed in a starched blue dress shirt and slacks.
You would never know he was up with me until almost four in the morning.
