It’s weirdly comforting.
I have the security footage pulled up on my laptop, cued to about half an hour after Mum left for work. It’s too dark to get a good picture of whoever left the flowers and I’m not sure if that’s purposeful or not. There’s maybe an impression of height (average) but even when Archer fiddles with filters to bring out more detail, the person is too bundled up against the cold to get anything useful. Only their eyes and a bit of the nose are visible.
“Do you recognize him?” Archer asks, as Sterling scans back earlier than the time stamp.
“How are you so sure it’s a he?”
“Way he walks, stands,” Sterling answers absently. Her eyes are glued to the screen, looking for anything that jumps out before the mystery man approached.
Archer leans against the back of the couch. “So that’s a no on the recognition, then.”
“I can see why they gave you the shiny, shiny badge.”
Sterling turns her aborted laugh into a throat-clearing cough. “We’ll ask your neighbors, find out if anyone saw where he came from or went. Maybe someone will know who he is.”
“Did your section chief give approval for that?”
“We’re not going to stop doing our jobs in anticipation of being told to back off,” she says easily.
“And when the neighbors ask what’s going on?”
“You really think they don’t already know who you are?” Archer shakes his head at his partner’s glare. “Every spring, every city with a victim starts plastering photos all over the place with if-you-have-new-information-call banners. Your mother was profiled in the Economist and said you were moving to Huntington. People know who you are, Priya. It’s inescapable.”
“Just because you’ve studied a case obsessively doesn’t mean everyone else is familiar with it,” I retort. “Most people don’t pay that much attention to something that doesn’t directly affect them.”
“When the new neighbors bring a serial killer trailing along after them, it tends to affect people.”
It affected Aimée, but of course, none of us knew that was a possibility until it was too late. He’s still an asshole for pointing it out.
“You don’t even know if this is the killer,” I say, and Sterling nods.
“Who else could it possibly be?”
“You should have seen some of the letters and gifts we got from the crime fans and amateur grief counselors. You’d be amazed how many people thought it was appropriate to send us chrysanthemums.”
A tinkling piano theme rings out during the appalled silence, and Sterling glances at it with a frown. “Finney. I’ll be right back.” Answering the call with a perfunctory “Sir,” she heads into the kitchen.
“When do you move to Paris?” asks Archer.
“May.”
“Hm.” He fidgets with the cuff of his coat, fingers running along the nearly invisible line of stitches. “You know . . .”
“I’m assuming I’m about to.”
“Finney really didn’t warn us about your mouth.”
“How would Finney know?” I give him a sweet, innocent smile and swallow the last of my tea.
Archer stares at me, then visibly collects himself. “You know that if this is the killer, this could be our only chance to catch him? We may never again know what city he’s in before he kills.”
“Looking for a career boost, Agent Archer?”
“Trying to bring to justice a man who’s killed sixteen girls,” he snaps. “Seeing as one of them is your sister, I’d think you’d be a bit more appreciative.”
“You’d think.”
I can actually hear his teeth grinding.
“Finney said you live here in Huntington,” I say after a while. Warmth seeps into my fingers where they’re wrapped around my empty mug. “From what I understand, you’re supposed to be doing drive-bys before and after work?”
“I am driving by, yes.”
“Then it seems to me the person in the best position to learn anything would be you. After all, if he wanted me or Mum to see him, he’d just knock on the door or ring the bell.” I shrug at his nasty look. “The problem with making me bait—as I assume you were going to propose—is that it’s of limited value if the target doesn’t know he’s on a deadline. Why should he hurry?”
“But if you leave before the flowers finish—”
“Did any of his victims get flowers before their deaths?”
“Not that we’ve been able to determine,” Sterling answers, standing in the kitchen doorway and watching us thoughtfully. She flips her phone in her hand, catching it easily. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking we don’t know enough to guess at the intentions of the person sending these,” I say honestly. “If it’s the killer, he’s breaking pattern. If it’s not the killer, we can’t trust him to follow a pattern he didn’t create. There’s no way to know if he’ll go all the way down the line.” I know what I’m willing to trust, but they’re federal agents; they’re not supposed to make assumptions based on gut feelings. “Bait is only useful if you know what the reaction is going to be.”
“No one is going to suggest using you as bait,” Sterling says, her voice sharp.
We both look at Archer, who at least has the grace to look uncomfortable.
“Finney needs us up in Denver,” Sterling continues after a moment. “We’ll be back this evening, though, to talk to the neighbors. Hopefully we’ll catch them home from work. I’ll check in with you when we call it a night.”
“Bring a travel mug. We’ll hook you up with tea for the drive home.”
She actually smiles, a bright flash of a thing here and gone that lights up her whole face.
The agents head out into the grey Monday, sleet drizzling down unpleasantly. I don’t have any intention of walking through that to go to chess. Checking the porch has become a habit, though, even when I have no plans to leave the house.
I text the Quantico Three to give them an update, then knuckle down to schoolwork for a few hours. After a lunch of leftover pizza, I plant myself in the living room with the empty journal boxes. For the past week, the journals have just sat there in heaps except when I’m reading them.
Neatly ordered heaps, thanks to Mum, but heaps nonetheless. It’s time to put them away for now. I even bring down the journals I have in my room.
Still, when I get to the San Diego books, I take them to the couch and curl up with them. I only skimmed through before, looking for the entries about the flower deliveries, and Mum was the one to make scans for the agents. This time, I want to actually read them.
It feels like sitting with Aimée for a while, and I owe her that much. I’m not na?ve enough to think her death is my fault, but it is my burden. I owe it to her to remember her not just as a victim, but as my friend.
Aimée was the effortless kind of pretty, and genuinely didn’t seem to recognize that she was. Not that she thought she was ugly, she just didn’t seem to pay attention to what was in the mirror short of making sure her hair was in order. When the amaranth was in bloom, she’d pin pink-red clusters around her ribbon-wrapped bun, and her mother would tease her about stealing food. She was in ballet and ran the French Club. Her love for all things French came from her mother, I’m sure, who moved from Mexico to France for school and then fell in love with an American.
We were in French class together, the only two with the intent of actually using the language, not just because we needed it to graduate or get scholarships. I’m still not entirely sure how she talked me into French Club, except that she promised it wouldn’t ask anything of me, and maybe I was lonely by that point. I used to be a social creature. I remember that. I just can’t remember what it was that made me work that way.