tight and why won’t my heart stop racing? Why do I feel like I’m suffocating to death?
‘Baby?’
I look up and find Sarah staring at me in alarm.
‘You’re burning up,’ she says.
I drink my coffee. Sweat pours in rivulets from my brow. My armpits are soaked.
‘You feeling okay?’ she asks.
STOP ASKING ME THAT .
‘Fine,’ I reply, gripped with a sudden, inexplicable urge to pick up the kitchen chair and smash it against the table. Instead, I get up so quickly that I almost knock over the chair. I collect my briefcase and grab my coat from the foyer closet.
I’m about to head out when Sarah calls to me from the kitchen: ‘She’s beautiful.’
When I return, I find her standing at the table, sipping coffee and looking down at six folded and creased pieces of paper – colour printouts of the women I’ve researched.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Sarah says again, and points to a picture of Tricia Lamont coming out of her parents’ home. ‘Is this Tricia?’
I don’t answer: my mouth is as dry as bone. Bacon sizzles in the skillet and the weatherman on the radio is talking about an upcoming storm that could dump three to five feet of snow through central Colorado.
‘But this one,’ Sarah says, tapping a finger against the picture of 37-year-old Angela Blake, a tall woman with blonde hair and wide hips and fair skin. She wearsperfume that smells like fresh citrus and when you get up close to her you can see the fine spray of freckles along her nose and shoulders. ‘This one is … what’s her name again?’
‘Angela.’
‘Angela,’ Sarah repeats, almost dreamily. She sips her coffee while she studies the women, appraising each face as though it were a painting in a museum.
Then she places her mug on the table and picks up the sheet of paper holding Angela’s picture. Sarah folds it as she shuffles towards me, her slippers scraping against the floor.
‘This one,’ she says, and tucks the paper in my coat pocket.
‘Why?’ My voice is thick and wet in my throat.
‘Because she looks like a fighter. You like the ones who fight back.’
Then Sarah raises herself on her toes and, touching me lightly on the neck, kisses me goodbye.
19
‘You think he might’ve recorded himself in the act?’ Terry Hoder asked, his voice flat, almost dismissive.
Darby swallowed her coffee. ‘Don’t you?’
Hoder finished pouring coffee into a paper cup. It was 7.35 a.m., and they were the only ones inside Red Hill PD’s break-room. Bright morning sunlight flooded through the small window, a welcomed presence in the grey surroundings.
He leaned the small of his back against the counter; the hand gripping his cane was white-knuckled. ‘I know that type of software exists for home computers, but I don’t know anything about iPads and tablets. Totally different operating system and different software, right?’
‘Right. And, yes, the software exists for both iPads and iPhones. The iPads, phones and the laptops in the bedroom photos all had cameras and microphones. He could stream the video to his own phone or a laptop halfway around the world if he wanted to, and replay it at his leisure. All he’d need was the family’s network name and password. They all had Wi-Fi in their homes, I’ve checked.’
‘It’s an interesting theory. Solid.’
Hoder seemed distracted. Lost in thought.
Then he stared out the window, at the snow-capped mountains in the distance. The sky was a ceramic blueand cloudless, the perimeter of the empty parking lot dotted with aspens and tall pines that creaked and swayed in the wind.
Darby had heard the stories about the man’s two broken marriages; the grown son and daughter who barely spoke to their father, a relentless workaholic who had suffered a nervous breakdown and almost died from encephalitis. With a little over a year to go from the FBI’s mandatory retirement age of fifty-seven, Hoder should have been at home resting, recovering from his knee surgery or
‘Baby?’
I look up and find Sarah staring at me in alarm.
‘You’re burning up,’ she says.
I drink my coffee. Sweat pours in rivulets from my brow. My armpits are soaked.
‘You feeling okay?’ she asks.
STOP ASKING ME THAT .
‘Fine,’ I reply, gripped with a sudden, inexplicable urge to pick up the kitchen chair and smash it against the table. Instead, I get up so quickly that I almost knock over the chair. I collect my briefcase and grab my coat from the foyer closet.
I’m about to head out when Sarah calls to me from the kitchen: ‘She’s beautiful.’
When I return, I find her standing at the table, sipping coffee and looking down at six folded and creased pieces of paper – colour printouts of the women I’ve researched.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Sarah says again, and points to a picture of Tricia Lamont coming out of her parents’ home. ‘Is this Tricia?’
I don’t answer: my mouth is as dry as bone. Bacon sizzles in the skillet and the weatherman on the radio is talking about an upcoming storm that could dump three to five feet of snow through central Colorado.
‘But this one,’ Sarah says, tapping a finger against the picture of 37-year-old Angela Blake, a tall woman with blonde hair and wide hips and fair skin. She wearsperfume that smells like fresh citrus and when you get up close to her you can see the fine spray of freckles along her nose and shoulders. ‘This one is … what’s her name again?’
‘Angela.’
‘Angela,’ Sarah repeats, almost dreamily. She sips her coffee while she studies the women, appraising each face as though it were a painting in a museum.
Then she places her mug on the table and picks up the sheet of paper holding Angela’s picture. Sarah folds it as she shuffles towards me, her slippers scraping against the floor.
‘This one,’ she says, and tucks the paper in my coat pocket.
‘Why?’ My voice is thick and wet in my throat.
‘Because she looks like a fighter. You like the ones who fight back.’
Then Sarah raises herself on her toes and, touching me lightly on the neck, kisses me goodbye.
19
‘You think he might’ve recorded himself in the act?’ Terry Hoder asked, his voice flat, almost dismissive.
Darby swallowed her coffee. ‘Don’t you?’
Hoder finished pouring coffee into a paper cup. It was 7.35 a.m., and they were the only ones inside Red Hill PD’s break-room. Bright morning sunlight flooded through the small window, a welcomed presence in the grey surroundings.
He leaned the small of his back against the counter; the hand gripping his cane was white-knuckled. ‘I know that type of software exists for home computers, but I don’t know anything about iPads and tablets. Totally different operating system and different software, right?’
‘Right. And, yes, the software exists for both iPads and iPhones. The iPads, phones and the laptops in the bedroom photos all had cameras and microphones. He could stream the video to his own phone or a laptop halfway around the world if he wanted to, and replay it at his leisure. All he’d need was the family’s network name and password. They all had Wi-Fi in their homes, I’ve checked.’
‘It’s an interesting theory. Solid.’
Hoder seemed distracted. Lost in thought.
Then he stared out the window, at the snow-capped mountains in the distance. The sky was a ceramic blueand cloudless, the perimeter of the empty parking lot dotted with aspens and tall pines that creaked and swayed in the wind.
Darby had heard the stories about the man’s two broken marriages; the grown son and daughter who barely spoke to their father, a relentless workaholic who had suffered a nervous breakdown and almost died from encephalitis. With a little over a year to go from the FBI’s mandatory retirement age of fifty-seven, Hoder should have been at home resting, recovering from his knee surgery or
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