Killing Ways

The kettle boiled, Ren made coffee and went back in to sit with Jonathan Briar. He had made a half-assed attempt to tidy the living room, but he appeared to have stalled.

‘Thank you for cleaning up,’ he said.

‘Not a problem,’ said Ren.

‘I told everyone to stay away,’ he said. ‘People offered to help …’

‘It’s not easy having people around when you’re grieving,’ said Ren. ‘Sometimes you just want the whole world to go away.’

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.