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After a quick glance in the rearview mirror, I pluck my cell phone from the cup holder and call the senior facility to ensure Aunt Jenny is there, and not at home. Then, I take a detour to the gym, and ensure Shepherd is there.
Then, I hurry home.
THIRTY-TWO
ROWAN
My hands shake as I pull the clothes from the hamper. Cradling the pieces like a newborn baby, I jog to the living room and dump them in the middle of the floor. Banjo whines from the other side of sliding glass door, but I don’t pay him any attention. The sound barely even registers.
I run to the garage, grab a bottle of lighter fluid and a lighter.
My blood roars in my ears as I shove the clothes into the fireplace and carefully douse each piece with lighter fluid. My hands are trembling so badly that it takes four tries to ignite the lighter.
I sink back on my haunches as the flames ignite.
Fifteen minutes later, I wipe the tears from my face, scoop the ashes into a metal trashcan, pull on a baseball cap, and drive to Piper’s Pier.
THIRTY-THREE
Personal Notes—Dictated
Special Agent Darla Thatcher, PhD
Case 927-4 “RS”
I am becoming very concerned about RS. Perhaps I should start by saying I am guilty of allowing our relationship to go beyond the traditional agent/victim relationship. I take full responsibility for this error. However, it’s important to note that this happened because RS insists on only meeting with me, he will only speak with me, and continues to request meetings beyond what is expected or needed, especially at this point in the case. I allowed this, under the circumstances. However, with each new meeting, RS exhibits new and alarming behavior and I am becoming increasingly concerned about his mental state.
Per his medical documents, RS has recently been diagnosed with ADHD (along with PTSD, which was diagnosed almost immediately). However, I fear this latest diagnosis is incorrect. I believe it is much more than that.
RS has self-harmed twice now, both in response to what he perceived as failure on his part. For example, we tried art therapy. RS hated his painting so much that he threw it across the room, cracking the window, then proceeded to pick up the easel and bash it against the floor until it broke into several pieces. This outburst was in response to the art therapist suggesting he do something different than he was doing. RS took this as criticism. Later, he cut himself with a dull butterknife. He was punishing himself, I believe, for “failing” the therapist. This, along with a similar instance, shows a significant increase in lack of self-control, inappropriate emotion, hostility, and a skewed sense of self (i.e., everything he does is bad—he has told me this verbatim).
RS is also showing alarming paranoia. He is having trouble sleeping. The doors and windows must be locked, the shades drawn, and overhead light must be on. Even then, I don’t think he sleeps, though I cannot prove this.
I strongly believe RS needs a multi-day psychiatric evaluation in addition to the therapy that is already being provided. Pharmaceutical intervention must be considered at this point.
This is beyond the scope of my job as well as expertise. Combining this with unnatural attachment RS has formed to me, I have made the difficult decision to request that another agent take over his case.
THIRTY-FOUR
AMBER
Something is going on with Rowan. For one, she showed up twenty minutes early for our 5 p.m. session, and Rowan is never early. And two, she looks like she’s been run over by a truck. It’s not just the messy hair, the dark circles, and sallow skin; it’s the wild look in her eye. Behind the exhaustion is a madness that I’ve seen before in my clients, usually right before a mental break.
This concerns me. What has happened between our last meeting and now?
I lean back and take her in. She’s staring out the window, shredding her cuticles. I can practically hear her thoughts spinning. Her trademark blue button-up is dirty with what appears to be ash, her slacks wrinkled. Her shoes are speckled with fresh mud, as if she’s just come from a hike.
I follow her gaze out the window. Two squirrels bicker violently at the base of a tree, then skirt up the trunk and disappear into the shadows of the brown, brittle leaves. It is a cool, overcast autumn day. Dreary and bleak, with rain in the forecast. Dark, just like Rowan’s mood.
Five minutes pass, ten. My eyes never leave her, not once. This complex enigma of a woman.
At the fifteen-minute mark, I speak.
“How’s work?”
“In general? Or are you referring to the two dead women found recently?”
Minimal details of both murders have been leaked and are already threaded through dozens of conspiracy theories. There is no longer need for prudence on Rowan’s part.
