Chapter Thirteen

"SO THAT'S IT, THEN." NOAHuses the flat edge of a chef's knife to squash garlic cloves and then sets to mincing them. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and thick veins creep up his arms like ivy. Music plays, Pearl Jam. Noah is obsessed and has driven three times to Seattle to watch them in concert.

Chelsey leans against the counter, glass of red wine in hand and real estate flyer loose in the other. She is giving the townhome a half-hearted appraisal. She places it down along with her wine and reaches for a jar of pickles tucked in a cabinet. "I don't want to share a wall with someone." She pauses. "What do you mean, that's it?"

He throws the garlic in a pan, and it sizzles in the oil. "The vic—"

"Ellie," Chelsey corrects.

"Doesn't want to cooperate."

"Declined to participate," she corrects again. She twists the jar's lid, and it doesn't budge. A growl of frustration. "Why do you always close jars like you have something to prove?"

Noah stops stirring the garlic and saunters over to Chelsey. Gently, he pries the jar from her and cracks the lid, the scent of pickle juice wafting. "I'm making dinner." He hands it back.

"This is an appetizer." She crunches into a pickle.

Noah resumes his position at the stovetop. "All right. So, Ellie has declined to participate in the investigation. I may not be a cop, but I do know you have to have a complainant for a case."

He's right. The ADA won't even look at it. The case is too weak. There's no prosecution. But… "I thought about that. I don't need Ellie. I have another victim. Gabrielle Barlowe." Chelsey has sunk her teeth into this, and she will not let go. It doesn't matter if Gabrielle Barlowe is outside of Chelsey's jurisdiction. She's in pursuit.

Noah shakes his head, equal parts exasperated and affectionate. As he reaches up for some spices in the cabinet, Chelsey admires his back, the way the muscles flex. He is four years her junior and went to a school nearby in Ilwaco. He admitted six months into their relationship he'd seen her back then at football games with her father. Sitting high in the bleachers under the stadium lights. That's why he approached her at the bar. He'd recognized her. I always thought you were so hot, he stated.

She watches in silence as Noah makes the rest of dinner—boiling noodles and finishing the sauce. They plate up and sit at the table. The lighting is low and warm, and there's a muted baseball game on the television.

"What exactly is Ellie so scared of?" Chelsey says between bites of noodles. "What did he do to her?"

Noah rubs his head. "Chels," he starts, and she knows he's trying to steer the conversation in another direction. Away from work. Away from missing girls.

"C'mon," she cajoles. "Play detective with me." It's been a while since they've done this. Noah acting as a sounding board for Chelsey's cases.

He balls up his napkin and stares at her for a second, quietly pondering until he comes to a decision. "You want to profile him?"

"Yes." Chelsey pounds her fist against the table, excited.

Noah grins, and suddenly it's like old times. When Noah had been fascinated by Chelsey's career. Back then, he'd wanted to know all the details. He'd listen for hours and hours, lending his ear and thoughts. He tops off Chelsey's glass and then his own, skirting the edge of the bottle with his thumb and licking off an errant droplet of dark red wine. "All right. So, he snatched two girls."

"Gabrielle Barlowe and Elizabeth Black." Chelsey nods. "Originally, I thought she'd been left for dead, but she doesn't have the same injuries as Gabrielle Barlow. No signs of a struggle. No bruises around her neck. Maybe she escaped before any major physical damage could be done? Still, I wonder if this guy uses parks as a dumping ground." The search of the park and trail where Ellie had been found didn't yield anything. No campsite. No primitive dwellings. But they hadn't been looking for bodies…

"It's a good theory." He chews slowly. "But are you positive it's the same guy?"

She arches a brow. "What do you mean?"

"It could be two different perps. One offs Gabrielle, gets rid of her clothes, and the other picks them up."

Chelsey shakes her head. "Too much of a coincidence." Plus, there is the station wagon. The dogs.

Noah sighs. "Okay, so it's most likely the same guy. What do you know about him?"

Chelsey's forehead crinkles as she thinks. She doesn't have much. Loose facts jangle around in her mind. "Well," she starts. "He strangled Gabrielle Barlowe. That's angry and intimate. On the other hand, how he dumped her body suggests planning and caution. According to the detective that took over the case, it was ‘pure chance' Gabrielle's body was discovered. He's smart, controlled when he needs to be."

Noah twists the stem of his wineglass. Chelsey has a flash of Noah's hand holding her by the neck, his grip tightening, anger burning in his eyes. Silly. She dismisses the image. That's what this job does. Makes you question the people you love, ask yourself whether you really know them, whether you can even trust them. But of course she can trust Noah. He is a good man. They have a good marriage.

"To strangle someone… you have to look at your victim, look them in the eyes," Chelsey continues. Did Gabby's killer stare at her while he did it? And why did he leave her naked? To humiliate her? Because he'd been humiliated? Both? "There was evidence of sexual assault on both Ellie and Gabby," she adds.

"Maybe he thinks he's in a relationship with them…"

Chelsey bobs her head. "He kept Gabby for years." Does he think he loves them? Does he fear being abandoned? It makes sense. Men like this, misogynists, disempower women. Strip them of self-confidence. Security. Until they are reliant. Too weak to leave.

Noah swipes a hand down his face. "He kept her for years… and then murdered her? What happened? Did she get too old?"

"I thought about that. Maybe he takes one when the other no longer fits his preferences."

"What are his preferences?" He pushes away his plate, the spaghetti forgotten. Chelsey isn't eating anymore, either. The discussion is feeding her now.

"It's hard to tell with just two. Young. Ellie was seventeen, and Gabrielle was fifteen." Chelsey pauses. "There was wild game in Gabrielle's stomach. Ellie has an aversion to unnatural light. This probably means they were kept somewhere without electricity, rural, maybe off the grid." An encampment of sorts? A farm?

"He's a loner."

"Yeah."

"Narcissistic."

"Hostile towards women," Chelsey finishes. They are not smiling anymore. Sexual assault is less about the act and more about domination. Chelsey thinks of Ellie and Gabrielle. Of rings of bruises around the soft flesh of necks. Of jackals roaming the streets. Making nests in the woods. "What makes a man a monster?" she whispers.

"Didn't cry enough as a kid," Noah says. It's a joke but not a joke. Research correlates a man's inability to show emotion to violent behavior. Silence falls again, and the air around Chelsey and Noah snuffs out.

"Maybe mommy issues," Noah says finally.

"Or daddy issues." Chelsey casts Noah a grim smile. How many times has Chelsey heard from men who beat their wives that they saw their fathers do the same to their mothers? Why are women most often the target of bitter men?

"Well, I have officially lost my appetite." He stands and clears his plate. He flicks on the sink faucet and the garbage disposal, dumping slimy noodles down the drain.

Chelsey approaches Noah, hugging him from behind. He goes still for a moment, then lays his wet hands over hers. "Thank you. I'm sorry I've been distant lately." She rests her chin between his shoulder blades.

He turns, and his eyes catch hers, locking in. He cups her cheeks. "I know it's hard not to bring the work home, but you've got to try. It's just a job, babe."

But not to her. And herein lies the problem. This is Chelsey's life. The darkness that swallowed Lydia touched Chelsey, too. This is where she lives now. She is drawn to the shadows. Every case is personal. Chelsey stays mute, folds that charcoal part of herself up, and puts it away. She gazes at him with all the love she feels but cannot say. She smiles.

He raises a brow, then lays one on her. And she presses her body into him. His eyes go hazy and dark, and she leads him to the bedroom.

They fuck long and slow with all the lights on. Afterward, they lie next to each other, bodies slick and sticky. "Hey, we can go check out that townhouse." Chelsey stares at the ceiling and holds the sheet to her chest.

Noah shifts and hovers over her. She takes the medallion he always wears between her fingers, the metal cold. She touches his face, his beard. She always jokes that if he shaved, she wouldn't be able to pick him out of a lineup. His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Yeah? You think it looks good? It has a nice backyard. We could get a dog," Noah says. All he wants are simple things. A wife. A home. Maybe tickets to a ball game.

She makes a mew of agreement, resolves to try again. To open a box in the garage, carry it to the living room, place a vase or picture frame inside of it. It cannot be that hard. She becomes aware of her hands, suddenly clammy.

He smooths the hair from her face. His eyes are glazed, blissed out. He kisses her once. Twice. She kind of nuzzles into him and inhales. Noah smells of summer, freshly mown grass, time inevitably moving forward. "I'll set it up. Tomorrow good? We could go after I get off."

"Yeah, tomorrow is good. I'll make time," she promises, but feels a tiny pinch, the unbearable idea of packing up her father's house. And it's compounded by the fact that Noah and Chelsey need the money from the sale of her father's place for a down payment on a new one.

Noah lies back and drifts off to sleep. Ever so discreetly, Chelsey shifts and clicks on her phone. She jots down notes, ideas from the conversation with Noah. Noah rustles, throws an arm over his head. But his breathing is steady. His chest rises and falls, the saint medallion glinting in the emaciated moonlight.

She goes back to her phone and clicks open the photographs of Ellie's exam, finding the snapshots of her hands. There. Ellie's fingers are spread on a piece of white cloth. Underneath her fingernails is dirt, but the nails themselves are clean-cut. Not like Gabby's. Whose nails were ragged, ripped off. Lost in a fight.