CHAPTER ONE
1397 Words
CHAPTER ONE
Ilse’s sense of discomfort had reached new heights. She fidgeted uncomfortably in front of her dinosaur of a computer, staring at the screen as the slow connection of her equally slow processor finally displayed the webpage.
How often had Sawyer tried to convince her to get a new laptop? She had refused on principle. But now, she was reaping the reward for her stiffnecked determination.
Ilse shifted, reading the text on the screen. Behind her, from her wood-burning stove, she detected the faint scent of cinnamon. A new batch of granola. Homemade. Something she hadn’t done since she had moved from her lake house. But she was determined to get back to the things she enjoyed. Things that made her life unique to her.
Because she was just so damn tired of allowing her father to dictate her mood.
But even with the faint scent of the cinnamon granola, and the quiet tick of the analog clock over her stove, nothing could help curb the rising sense of frustration as she read the report on her screen.
He wasn’t doing anything.
“What are you playing at?” She murmured to herself. Her fingers brushed the side of her face, sending some of her hair over her injured ear. The ear had been a gift from her father. Along with years of trauma.
And now, after nearly twenty years, Gerald Mueller was being released from prison.
He had been granted parole, and was now living in a small, single story house that he had rented with money he shouldn’t have had. This wasn’t the part that surprised Ilse. She knew her father had connections on the outside. What bothered her most was how he seemed to be just sitting there. Waiting. Watching television. Eating food he ordered over the Internet.
Why wasn’t he doing anything? Where was his female accomplice?
Ilse’s frustration was palpable.
Gerald Mueller, a man who had stolen so much of her innocence, was pretending as if he wasn’t a s******c killer.
And while Ilse didn’t like the idea of using her FBI credentials to keep track of a personal case, she had pulled some strings. BKA, German feds, had been willing to give her updates on her father, in exchange for an interview about him. There wasn’t much she had been able to tell them they didn’t already know.
Some of the more personal things, from her family, she had left unsaid.
“Where is she?” Ilse murmured. “Come on,” she snapped, slapping a hand against the table.
The webpage had frozen, failing to load completely.
With a frustrated sigh, she wiggled with some of the cables behind her desktop.
She could feel her temper rising. She settled, inhaling slowly. She closed her eyes, using one of the breathing tricks she so often taught her clients.
In, out. A pause.
She inhaled the faint scent of cinnamon. Things were improving in her life. She couldn’t afford to think otherwise. Her father was under surveillance. Whoever had been sending her those taunting postcards for months had finally stopped.
She hadn’t seen another postcard nor tchotchke in her mail. There was no reason to let her anxiety get the better of her.
The analog clock, the desktop computer as old as some teenagers, and her wood-burning stove were all testament to her hatred of all things technology. But the direction society was heading meant that Ilse was going to have to make a tough decision sooner or later. Many of her clients were starting to prefer online meetings. She cared too much about helping the survivors of men like her father to not at least consider updating her device.
“One thing at a time,” she said out loud. Ilse had a ticket to Germany next week. But five days was a long time to wait. Especially because the BKA reports yielded nothing. What was her father playing at? Was he planning something? Was he just taunting them in his inaction?
It didn’t feel right that he was allowed to go free. Ilse hadn’t managed to make his parole, though.
She’d had something more important to tend to.
Her mind moved to agent Tom Sawyer. In her imagination, she glimpsed his stubborn, green eyes. The scent of sandalwood aftershave and sawdust. His flannel shirts, his baseball cap. His sandy hair, and thin frame.
Now, though, the picture had other memories. Sawyer crying. His rage.
He was exactly the sort of person she helped in her counseling. But a few days ago, it wasn’t counseling he had needed. It was a rescuer. She had saved him from himself.
She shivered, remembering the sheer loathing in his gaze. Tom Sawyer had gone into a federal prison with the intent of murdering the man who had killed his sister. Ilse had gotten there just in time. She felt a strange mixture of emotions while thinking of Sawyer... She frowned, trying to stave off a rising sense of... sympathy? Affection? She wanted to call him... in a way, she was almost glad she had an excuse to talk to him...
She hesitated, biting her lip and considering this strange notion of—
Ilse’s phone suddenly began to ring. A dumb phone. She didn’t trust smart phones. She brushed her hair uncomfortably past her ear, feeling a note of anxiety that often accompanied the nagging of any technology.
As she glanced at the number, though, she realized the very devil she’d been thinking of was trying to contact her.
Strange. She had tried to call him a couple of times over the last few days. Occasionally he had answered, but only for a short amount of time. He was embarrassed. She could tell. And she didn’t want to stress things. But she also didn’t want him to throw his life away. So she’d been insistent, and now, he was calling her.
She picked up the phone, feeling a note of apprehension.
“Tom?” She said, trying to keep her voice cheerful.
She wasn’t sure the proper emotion to communicate to someone who’d nearly murdered a man. Not that Ilse thought this made her any better. How many times had she thought about killing her own father? She shivered at the consideration. One of those small, dark thoughts that was never going to see the light of day...
“Doc?”
“Yes, it’s me. Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” Sawyer said.
Ilse hoped one day she could teach Sawyer a few words that involved more than a single syllable. “How can I help you? Do you need me to come over?” Ilse caught herself. She was being too eager. Too insistent. She didn’t want to scare Sawyer off.
“Yeah, you better come over right away,” he said.
She tensed, feeling a jolt of excitement. Excitement, because he was finally accepting her offer of help. Nothing more. She was excited whenever a client of hers asked for her help. Not that Sawyer was a client. He was a friend. Just a friend. Of course.
And though no one could hear her thoughts, Ilse felt a faint prickle across her cheeks.
“I’m at the office,” Sawyer said. “We have a case. See you in a few.” The laconic agent hung up.
Ilse blinked at the phone, frowning.
No mention of what had happened at that prison. Not that she’d expected it, especially over a phone call. It was strange to pretend like everything was normal. Then again, wasn’t it? No one had known what Sawyer intended. Ilse had gotten there to stop him in time. By the sound of things, he wasn’t planning another shot anytime soon.
She supposed there was nothing to do except return to the normal stream of life. With a faint sigh, and a smack to the side of her computer, Ilse pushed to her feet. A case would help her focus. Five days until she flew into Germany. A case would give her the distraction she needed to make it that long.
Besides, catching killers was one of the best ways she could help. Every time she spoke with a client, every time she spoke with the survivor of violence, like herself, or Sawyer, she was constantly reminded of one thing: killing a snake was far easier than treating poison.
- Writer
