Because her place was so removed from civilization, she felt safe and secure. And because she had the reputation of being distant, not wanting company, people didn’t bother her. So the last thing she expected was a visit from the world she’d deliberately left behind. When she heard a car, followed by a knock on the door, she wasn’t inclined to answer. Let them think nobody was home. Maybe it was the investigative journalist who’d shown up a couple of weeks ago. The young woman had left her card in the door. Carmel something.
Another knock, this one more aggressive.
Putting an eye to a crack in the heavy curtains, closed now to block the sun, Reni was able to make out a man in a black suit. Nothing good came in a suit. You had your funeral directors, your FBI, your lawyers, your detectives.
Holding her breath, she moved away from the window and stood very still in front of the locked door, intensely aware of the stranger on the other side. She could feel the dark world he brought with him. It seeped through the cracks of the old cabin. She no longer carried a gun, or even owned one. Guns were not a part of this life. That proved to be a good lifestyle choice because right now her fingers were twitching as she imagined the comforting weight of a weapon in her hand.
The persistent annoyance knocked again.
Once again, she didn’t answer. She was sure he knew she was inside even though the only hint of present occupation was her battered and rusty white truck parked out front. That didn’t mean she was home. For all he knew she might have gone somewhere with someone. Closer to reality, she might have been hiking, but not at midday in temperatures that were hot for April.
The dark and shifting shape of his shadow moved against the curtains. Moments later, she heard the slam of a car door. But that sound wasn’t followed by an engine turning over or a car driving away.
She peeked through the curtains again and saw he’d found a sliver of shade and was sitting on the ground, arm resting against a knee, back against the shed that housed her kiln. His jacket and tie were gone, his sleeves rolled up. Without his suit he didn’t look as threatening. Just hot and tired. Human.
Was this about her old partner? Her old job? A cold case? Worse, did someone need her? She was surprised to find she had any curiosity left in her.
She opened the door wide and shouted to him, asking what he wanted.
“A drink of water would be nice.”
City folk. Funny thought, since she’d been “city folk” not long ago. But people came here to slough off that skin, and it happened quickly. “Only an idiot drives into the desert with no water.” People died in the desert all the time, dehydration and disorientation hitting them before they knew what had happened.
“How do you know I’m not from here?”
She made an exasperated face anyone with the least bit of emotional intelligence would understand.
He heaved himself to his feet with an agile yet stiff movement. Ground sore. When he was close and they were finally face-to-face, he appeared a little taken aback. Maybe because he’d been expecting the person she used to be. Polished and professional. Not some long-haired, barefoot hippie with clay dust on her hands and jeans.
“You’re hard to find,” he said.
“Apparently not hard enough.”
She was surprised her voice didn’t tremble. She gave herself points for that. And since she rarely spoke, she was equally surprised her voice worked at all and wasn’t just some croak pretending to be words. “This is private property. Who are you, and what do you want?”
“I tried to call first.”
She checked her phone, then turned it around so he could see the latest blocked number.
“That’s me. My name is Detective Daniel Ellis. I’m from the San Bernardino County Homicide Bureau. I’m here about your father.”
She placed a hand to her chest and felt the rapid flutter of her heart through her T-shirt. Dry mouth, shaking. This was the emotional earthquake she’d spent so much time trying to avoid. This was why she was in the desert.
There weren’t any self-help books for the children of serial killers. It would have been an extremely niche market. Hopefully. But in an attempt to understand why she couldn’t shake her past, she’d read books on dealing with trauma. She’d tried to understand why her yesterdays came rushing back even when she thought she was managing and coping and had put them behind her. In retrospect, she should have seen this coming, but when your walls were up, surprises hit harder.
As a diversion from the colliding thoughts in her head, she forced herself to zero in on the man in front of her, cataloging him, profiling him. Tall, looming, a young and too-serious face, a head of dark hair. In a gesture that almost seemed affected but might have been a move of politeness, he swept off his sunglasses. His brown eyes held caution. People tended to look at her that way nowadays.
He seemed familiar, and she struggled to place him. She’d blocked a lot of things. It was the only way to survive. Where had they met? George Mason University? Quantico?
In case she doubted his introduction, he flashed his badge and asked if he could come in.
People always left a little of themselves behind once they were gone. There was DNA, yes, but for her it was more of an energy that could take days to wear off. She did not want him in her home. Who knew how long it would take to purge him once he was gone. But it was hot out, close to ninety. She couldn’t refuse someone water and respite from the midday heat. She stepped back and let him inside.
The swamp cooler was chugging away on the roof, blasting air through vents with enough velocity to stir hair and ruffle clothing. Once he was inside, she sensed his relief at being somewhere cool.
“Have we met?” she asked, struggling to recall the world beyond the desert, while at the same time shying away from unwanted memories. She was unprepared for someone to bring her father into her safe space. Not his physical body, but rather thoughts of him, words of him, the ugliness of his life and all he’d done, floating freely about the room, touching everything. Her clay, her pottery wheels, even her dog’s ashes. Nothing was safe or sacred.
Her guest glanced around, giving her place the detective once-over. Probably mentally labeling it as bleak and rife with despair. More workshop than living space, something monastic and sparse except for the shelves of pottery in various stages of production, some recently removed from the wheel, others glazed and waiting to be fired. He took in everything in the open space, from the cinder-block walls to the concrete floor covered in clay dust just like her.
“Quantico,” he said. “You visited a profiling class I was taking.”
Ah, she’d been right about a connection to school. She remembered him now, along with his part in the brief introductions that had circled the room.
“You asked if I felt complicit in my father’s crimes even though I’d been a child at the time.”
He winced. “Sorry. That was out of line and too personal.”
He was sweating, and she remembered his initial request.
She retrieved a container of cold water from the refrigerator, poured, and handed him a glass. “Don’t apologize for digging deep and getting personal. It was a good question. I don’t remember my answer though.”
He took a long, grateful swallow. “You said no one should feel guilty for the crimes of others. Especially not a child.”