Alex Barclay - Killing Ways

He nodded.

‘I lost my older brother to suicide when I was thirteen years old,’ said Ren.

‘Really?’ said Jonathan.

‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘His name was Beau. He was only seventeen.’

‘Man...’ said Jonathan. ‘Do you ever get over that?’

‘No. But it does get easier, and there’s the cliché that I know you won’t believe applies to you... until it does.’

‘I can’t imagine... getting past this.’

‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘And you don’t have to. Just take each day at a time.’

‘Each day sucks.’

‘Jonathan, I wanted to talk to you about a Friday night two weeks before Hope’s disappearance.’ Ren took her laptop out of her bag and opened it to Hope’s Facebook page.

‘Hope didn’t update Facebook for thirty-six hours,’ said Ren, ‘which is kind of unlike her, right?’

She studied Jonathan’s face. He was lost in the photos.

Shit. I should have prepared him.

He started to cry again.

Fuck.

‘I’m sorry if this is upsetting,’ said Ren, ‘but I just wanted to find out, did anything happen that night?’

He shook his head. ‘No.’

Ooh. I don’t believe you.

‘Are you sure?’ said Ren. ‘Hope was drinking all afternoon... she continued when you joined her. She could well have been very drunk that night... Did you guys have an argument?’

‘No,’ said Jonathan. ‘But, yeah, she was really drunk. But she never got mean or anything, like some girls do. We didn’t have an argument.’

‘Did you come home together?’ said Ren.

‘Yes,’ said Jonathan.

‘How did you get home?’ said Ren.

‘Uh... we... got a cab.’

Once more with feeling.

Ren glanced down at the screen. ‘From this bar? The Irish Hound?’

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘How long did that take?’ said Ren.

‘Five or ten minutes?’

Love that guessing tone of voice.

‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Thanks.’ She paused. ‘Are you sure there isn’t anything else?’

He nodded. ‘Positive.’

Positively lie-telling.

Ren got back to her apartment, changed, and went up to her second gym of choice — the top-floor glamor gym of her apartment building. Its glass windows looked out over the twinkling lights of Denver and made her feel like she was in a hotel. It was blessedly empty.

Woo-hoo. No stranger sweat.

Proud to be here: drank only coffee earlier. Albeit the ninth mug of the day. But not alcohol. That makes me a winner.

She pushed in her EarPods, hit buttons and set the treadmill speed to low. She started with a one-minute walk, then cranked it up.

Run, run, run.

Music pounded in her ears, loud and piercing, and hammering. She cranked it up again.

I am alive. I am alive. I am alive. My mind is a wide-open space. Everything is possible.

She thought of Hope Coulson. The face of Stephanie Wingerter quickly slid in beside her.

I know you are connected. You look so... alike. You were both brutalized, discarded. Just... I know you’re connected. I know it.

What the fuck are you lying about, Jonathan Briar? I told you I don’t think you’re a suspect.

Ren ran for forty-five minutes, finally slamming her hand on the Stop button, slowing to a walk. She was hot, but barely sweating. She breathed deep.

I will find you, killer. I will run after you. I will be fitter and better and stronger than you. I will not fail.

She went back to her apartment. I need Ben. I need to fuck him. I need to fuck. I need to fuck now. She took a shower, then went into the bedroom, and sat on the edge of the bed. She dialed Ben’s number. He picked up right away.

‘Are you alone?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

She lay back on the bed. ‘I need you to talk me through something...’

She lay there afterwards, staring at the ceiling, her left arm up over her head, her right hand holding the phone.

‘It was fun while it lasted,’ she said. ‘Now we’re just alone, which sucks.’

‘I’m at the supermarket...’

Ren laughed. ‘Ben... I’m sorry about earlier. I was hungover and cranky.’

‘That’s OK, baby.’

‘How are you doing?’

‘I’m good, busy. How about you?’

‘We’ve got that murder case — the Hope Coulson one, and I’m thinking... there are similarities to another rape/murder from two months ago.’

‘I thought the fiancé was looking good for the Coulson case...’

‘Trial by media, yes. And Gary.’

‘You’re still having issues with him...’

‘Has he said anything to you?’

Ben and Gary had been friends for years — Gary trained Ben in the Undercover Program, as he had trained Ren.

‘No, but I doubt he would,’ said Ben.

Paranoia. ‘ So, anyway, I got to thinking about serial killers—’

‘Whoa, what? You think this is a serial killer?’

‘Well... I think the same guy may have raped and killed two women — does that count?’

‘Technically? No.’

‘OK — forget that,’ said Ren. ‘In general, though, how do you feel about the following? A problem with the wiring of the brain results in: me. And: serial killers.’

Patient pause.

‘I’m serious,’ said Ren.

‘What exactly are you saying?’ said Ben. ‘Are you trying to relate the two things? You and serial killers?’

‘What I’m saying is — I have something in common with serial killers.’

‘That’s just nuts,’ said Ben.

That’s not a very nice thing to say.

‘Is that what you’re actually thinking?’ said Ben.

‘No.’ Yes.

‘Ren, I know you don’t like me reading up on these things, but I know that bipolar people can sometimes think everything is their fault. Like, they see a natural disaster on the other side of the world, and can manage to feel guilt on some level about that. This sounds to me like a version of skewed thinking.’

‘ But... think about it,’ said Ren; ‘a serial killer goes around thinking things that no one knows about. He has these internal thoughts that he can’t say out loud because people would know. They would know .’ She paused. ‘And I have thoughts like that.’

‘All thoughts are internal,’ said Ben.

Oh, yeah.

‘And your thoughts are not about raping and murdering people... That makes a serial killer just that little bit different.’

‘I like how your mind works.’

‘It’s pretty much how most people’s minds work.’

Ouch.

‘I didn’t mean it like that, before you get weird.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’m going to stop talking now.’

Ren laughed. ‘I think that would be very wise.’

Donna Darisse reached out of the shower, grabbed a faded towel from the hook on the wall, and wrapped it around her slender body. She stepped onto the tiled floor of the tiny bathroom, grabbed a second towel and quickly dried her fine, wispy dark hair. She looked in the mirror. She sometimes expected to see her pre-chemo hair — this fragile, but fighting hair still had the power to startle her.

There was a knock on the bathroom door.

‘Mommy, can I come in?’

‘Just give me a moment, Cam,’ said Donna. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘Yes! I just wanted to say hi!’

Donna smiled. ‘Hi yourself,’ she said. ‘Now, you go back in to your movie, I’ll be out in a little while.’

‘I wish you weren’t going to work,’ said Cam as she walked away.

It was Donna’s first week back since her treatment. She was high on guilt, low on options. She listened for the DVD player to kick in, and she went into her bedroom. She went straight for the drawer and the wig hidden at the back. She couldn’t bear to tell Cam — she was only six years old. So Donna always wore the wig unless Cam was staying with her father. Five of Donna’s friends had their heads shaved in solidarity when she lost her hair. Cam just thought they’d all gone crazy.