‘Yikes,’ said Ren. ‘Poor woman.’
Lasco nodded.
‘Thanks for this,’ said Ren. ‘It has solved one mystery for me. Now, if I found Jennifer Mayer, that could help.’
‘I hope she has fared better in life than this poor lady.’
Ren pulled out a list of known sex offenders from Summit County and Garfield County. One name hopped out: Malcolm Wardwell. He wasn’t bald and fat, but Jean and Amber Transom had been in his store not long before she died. Ren read back through the older files to see if Malcolm Wardwell could have been relevant to any of those descriptions. But then, she didn’t know what Malcolm Wardwell might have looked like thirty years ago.
Ren couldn’t face supper that night. By five a. m., she was starving and staring blindly into the darkness of her bedroom. Her thoughts were on a loop. Why did Jean Transom have Paul Louderback’s number? Why did he request me on the case? Did he want to steer me? Toward something? Or away from something? What does any of this have to do with Jean’s murder? Have I been manipulated for years?
The theories continued, nauseating and paralysing, until she eventually fell asleep, half an hour before her alarm woke her.
Ren sat in her room at the inn. She got up and made coffee. She sat back down. She got up and made her bed. She adjusted the blinds. She laid out files on the sofa. And ultimately, she came back to Paul Louderback’s number, scribbled in what was clearly Jean Transom’s hand-writing. Her stomach was barely able to keep the coffee down. She sat down and dialed Paul’s regular number. And stopped before she had finished. He will know. She was about to ask him something strange, but he was the only one who could answer it. But he will know why I am asking. Or maybe not. Maybe he has no idea Jean Transom had that number. Maybe he really didn’t know Jean Transom.
She dialed his number again. He answered. ‘Paul? Hi, it’s me.’
‘Let me call you back in five minutes.’
Shit. Shit. Shit. I was ready now. I won’t be ready when you call back. ‘Oh … OK. Sure.’
She could feel her momentum draining. She looked at the bright shiny icons on her cellphone screen, moving over them into the menu for Divert All Calls. Her thumb hovered over the Select button. Jesus – just take his call. She clutched the phone tight, but let her hand fall down by her side. She stood up and did a tour of the three rooms. She picked up magazines and put them down. She threw clean clothes in the laundry basket. She read the spines on the bookshelf. She squeezed hand-wash on to a paper towel and rubbed it around the sink. Jesus Christ.
When the phone rang – twenty minutes later – her heart nearly blew.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hi.’
‘How’s it going down there?’
‘I’m just letting everything go where it takes me. I mean, so far? Finding the body hasn’t changed a whole lot. We do have a photo of Ruth Sleight – the young girl from that 1979 Mayer–Sleight case.’
‘And how do you think it ties in?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘So, that’s it?’ he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. ‘No one has “suddenly remembered” anything?’
‘In a town where Mind Erasers are the shot of choice …’
Paul laughed. ‘What’s in them again?’
‘I couldn’t tell you.’
‘I see.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So basically no one in Breck ever remembers anything?’ said Paul.
‘Well, no one under twenty-five. And one person who is thirty-six.’
Paul laughed. ‘We need to go out drinking again.’
‘Yeah, screw this whole investigation thing.’
They were silent for a few beats. ‘Poor Jean Transom,’ they both said at the same time.
‘Whoa. That was very serious,’ said Ren. ‘And simultaneous. Time to go. Too much emotion zaps my superpowers.’
‘OK. Look, you take care.’
‘I will,’ said Ren.
‘And remember, Superwoman – you can’t actually fly.’
‘If I ever think I can, I won’t go straight to the rooftop/window thing. I’ll be smart enough to start on the ground first, see if it works.’
Paul laughed. ‘Bill Hicks.’
‘An homage, yes.’ She paused. ‘Shit. One thing. Can you talk talk?’
‘Sure, go ahead.’
‘Did you keep anything I sent you when … you know … over those six months …’ said Ren. When we nearly had an affair.
He paused. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I’m just asking.’
‘OK. You gave me one CD. Celine Dion –’
‘Shut up.’
‘OK. One CD – Dropkick Murphys, which I loved; two DVDs – that Swedish one I had to read, thank you very much. And The Station Agent. And whatever that book was. And yeah, of course I kept them. I thought they were all great. Apart from the book. Why do you ask? Do you want them back?’
‘I guess I was talking about the phone.’
‘The piece-of-shit throwaway? Well, it lived up to its name. I threw it away.’
If I ask him when, he will know.
‘You didn’t write down the texts I sent you or anything before you got rid of it?’ said Ren.
‘Because I’m not a fourteen-year-old girl, no. I did not. You ain’t all that.’
Ren laughed. ‘I know they were all just bullshitty and non-… whatever, but …’
‘But what?’
‘Nothing.’
‘OK, then.’
‘Are your emails, like –’
‘If you’re going to ask me are my emails secure, I will now think you are crazy. What is your –’
‘Nothing! I just …’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. G’bye.’
‘You’re nuts. You know that. G’bye.’
Ren sat back down and threw the phone on the bed beside her. She only had Paul’s word that he had gotten rid of that cellphone. But it had come from the mouth of the same man who’d told her he didn’t know Jean Transom. Ren held a hand across her stomach and inhaled deeply. If anyone had asked, she would have said that she trusted Paul Louderback one hundred per cent. She couldn’t say that about everyone. And now she was worried that she couldn’t even say it about him.
And where does that leave me?
Malcolm