CHAPTER ONE
1074 Words
CHAPTER ONE
Ilse scowled in frustration and let out a sigh, causing an errant fringe from her dark hair to lift then flutter back as she listened to the music playing from her dumb phone.
Sitting at her kitchen table, her dinosaur of an old desktop computer whistled and whined as she stretched its processing power to full capacity. Green text scrolled across her screen, and she leaned in, reading the names slowly and taking mental notes.
Briefly, the generic hum of guitar and piano ceased emitting from her flip-phone. She shot a look of anticipation towards the thing, but then scowled as the holding music started from the beginning.
Dr. Beck sighed, leaning back in her chair and glancing at the clock above her table. Nearly 9:21. She'd been on hold for almost a half-hour. Time mattered to Ilse—promptness mattered. The German prison official on the other line had insisted it would only take a few minutes to get the information Ilse wanted.
Those minutes had just sped past the half-hour mark, waving where it disappeared into the rearview mirror. But Ilse was patient. She tapped her foot nervously against the floor, returning her attention to her computer screen.
On one hand, she was waiting to hear back from her father's prison. But while she waited, she scanned patient files from the last decade. Her own patients.
She tapped a finger against the screen beneath an unfamiliar name. “How about you?” she murmured. She clicked on the file, and it took her a moment to navigate the device. Computers, technology, none of it had ever much appealed to her. She didn't even have a normal stove—just a wood burning oven.
Her phone couldn't connect to the internet, or GPS, nor could it tweet. She preferred it that way.
As she read the file of the patient in question, her brow furrowed. The profile didn't match. She clicked back to the main registration page.
Hundreds of clients had seen her over the years. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack—and yet that was the task before her.
She needed to find that needle.
The little prick that had sent her postcards over the last few months. Taunting, teasing, mocking cards. Most likely anti-social personality disorder. She trusted her notes to narrow down whether any of her own patients had been behind the cards.
But so far, no luck.
She scrolled down the list, her eyes strained from staring at a screen for so long.
And then the music coming from her phone went quiet again.
She perked up, staring at the device. The music didn't continue.
“H—hello?” she asked.
“Yes,” the voice on the other end said, the German accent all too apparent. “This is Warden Schuler. Who am I speaking to?”
“Agent, er, Dr. Beck,” she said quickly. In this situation, Ilse wasn't certain which credential might open the door faster. And where her father was concerned, speed was key. She'd learned this the hard way for most of her childhood, tormented, along with her siblings, by the man in that horrible basement.
Knowing he was in prison, surrounded by concrete, just like he'd kept his kids, had given her some sort of solace... But now? She could feel her pulse quickening. How dare they try and release him?
“Yes, well, er, Agent-doctor,” the warden said in that uptight, stiff way long-term bureaucrats mastered. “The information you request will take a few days.”
“Wait, why? I'm just looking for the date of his parole hearing.”
“Yes, but the prisoner in question is maximum security. Prison protocol is to go through BKA when external agencies request information.”
“I—I don't understand. I just want to be at the hearing.”
“It will only be a few days, I'm sure,” said the warden in a very bored tone.
Ilse resisted the urge to slap her desk. She bit her lip, considering her options, then said, quickly, “Would it matter if I was the prisoner's daughter?”
A pause. A faint exhale. “You are related to Gerald Mueller?”
“Yes,” Ilse said insistently.
“You wish to testify on his behalf at the parole?”
Ilse's nose wrinkled. She angrily brushed her hair past her scarred ear. “No!” she snapped. “I aim to testify against his release. I'm asking as a daughter. Not as an agent.”
The warden sighed.
“Please!” Ilse insisted. “Surely there isn't a policy against telling a daughter when her father's parole hearing is.”
Another long, world-weary sigh. “We have on record that Gerald has children. Did you visit the prison recently?”
“Yes, yes I did!” Ilse said suddenly. The visit hadn't been a social call, but she decided not to add this part.
“In that case, no information may be shared with foreign governments pertaining to the location of maximum-security prisoners,” he said, somehow making every word dull and gray with his tone. “Understood?”
“Understood!” Ilse said, trying to keep the eagerness from her voice.
“Next week. Tuesday. Noon. Family or representation only!” he said.
“Got it. Thank you!”
He hung up.
The droning, holding music mercifully ceased, and Ilse slowly pocketed her phone. She frowned at the computer screen displaying the names of her patients from over the years.
Her father wasn't the one taunting her. That much was clear now. He couldn't have been the one sending the postcards. Someone on his behalf?
It didn't really matter if he was involved or not.
He couldn't be let out of prison.
They didn't know him like she did. Ilse was determined to do everything in her power not only to show up at that parole hearing, as horrible as it would be to share a room with father, but also to make sure they kept him locked away indefinitely.
It was the only way to keep others safe.
To keep herself safe.
As she considered this, she was jarred from her thoughts as her phone began to buzz. She stared, blinking—but not the warden this time. She leaned in, staring at the number, and winced. s**t. The boss was calling.
- Writer
