She was just about to close her laptop and head back into her bedroom, where Carl was waiting for her, when she saw another new e-mail, again from Gage. This time, she had a moment to think about it, to consider her options. I should just toss it in the trash. I should change my e-mail address. I should pretend that he never fucking existed, she thought. But…then I’ll always be wondering.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? The wondering. It was the biggest issue in Fiona’s life right now, which was going pretty fantastically otherwise. As a victims’ advocate, she got do to real, genuinely good work, work that connected her to people rather than keeping her isolated. That was a change of pace for her, but she was adapting to it as well as possible. She was proving that she was flexible, that she was kind, that she was compassionate. She was whole. She was a total, complete person, not a broken shell like she’d always feared she’d be. She had a relationship, too, a good one. A healthy, average relationship, not one forged by passion, torn asunder by every burst of bad wind that got in the way. It was the kind of relationship that normal, functioning people had. That was what Fiona wanted. But…she couldn’t help but wonder, now and again, if that was only because she didn’t have anything to tempt her here. Maybe she hadn’t really fixed her problems. Maybe she was still-fucked up but nobody could see it because she lived in such a nice, stable place. Maybe, if faced with the darkness again, she would fall into it headfirst. Maybe her shiny, new, fancy life was untested, unchallenged. Maybe she only thought she’d beaten all her demons because she’d just run away from them. Maybe they were still waiting for her. Maybe after everything she was still…addicted.
How would she ever know if she didn’t test it out to see?
So Fiona clicked on the message, scanning it as rapidly as her eyes would allow. “Fiona, hi,” she read out loud, repeating the message to herself so it would sink in. “Sorry to bother you like this, but I need your help. It’s happening again. What happened to Abigail. What happened to you. It’s here in the city. I need your help to find him. Please reply to me as soon as you get the chance.”
Fiona scoffed a little at the last sentence, resenting the demanding tone. Gage would always do that, sneak in little commands when she wasn’t paying attention. He didn’t even notice that he was doing it. Fiona used to think that was the way that all men were, but after being with Carl for the past several months, she was now beginning to realize that it was a biker thing. Gage’s MC, the Bandits, had shaped him as much as “the incident,” as Fiona referred to it in her brain, had shaped her. It had molded her to the exact configuration she was today. If she hadn’t been kidnapped and tortured as a teenager, she probably never would have become a victims’ advocate. She definitely wouldn’t have been a criminal profiler, although those days were behind her now that she had left the city.
In any case, maybe it was “the incident’s” fault that she started typing out a reply almost immediately, even though she was keenly aware that she was running late for her first appointment of the day. Some things take precedence, like dealing with stupid assholes, she thought, justifying her decision to herself as she typed out the following message: “What do you mean, it’s happening again? They caught The Jailer years ago. I was there, remember?” She sent the message before digging her phone out of her pocket and calling her first client, leaving a message to say that she was running late. She’d take notes on the woman’s abuse later. For now, she had to deal with this nagging feeling that kept tugging at her thoughts, making her sway back and forth nervously in her seat. Less than a minute after she’d sent the previous message, Gage got back to her.
“Not him. A copycat. Or maybe just another person with the same fucked-up hobby. Twelve girls dead. Two missing. Help me find them.”
She stared at the message for what felt like an eternity, letting each word sink in, one after another after another, until it clicked in her brain. She’d heard about this, a string of vaguely connected killings in the city. The cops kept arguing whether or not they were all conducted by the same person. That was the last thing that Fiona had heard about it, anyway. She tried not to pay much attention to what was going on in the city. It was more peaceful out here, where you could actually see the stars and smell the fresh grass, untouched by human hands. It was safe here. When she first moved, she felt like she had somehow climbed back into her mother’s womb, shielded from the outside world.