The media storm passed quickly and the Kreskey investigation grew cold. Suspicion never once turned to Hank and Rain, not even for a moment. This town takes care of its own business, said Harper that night. Kreskey’s body was buried in a pauper’s grave, she didn’t know where.
Eventually, she returned to school, to life.
“How is this sitting with you?” asked her shrink at the time. Dr. Coppola had a swanky office uptown; the bills went straight to her father.
“Not as I would have expected,” said Rain.
The truth was, she’d started to wonder about her own internal coldness. She’d killed someone, murdered him in cold blood. This was a psychically damaging event, under any circumstances. Why did she feel so little?
“Oh?”
Rain never felt like this doctor was much older than she was. Her first doctor, Maggie Cooper, was comforting and motherly. But she felt like under other circumstances Dr. Coppola and she might be at a bar or a coffee shop, just chatting. Svelte and stylish, with a black tangle of curls, tortoiseshell glasses, he had a habit of reflexively pushing the hair from his eyes, which made him seem boyish and sweet.
“I feel freed,” she said. “Released from his grip.”
He nodded, even, gaze kind and warm.
She couldn’t tell him everything, of course. “The death of someone who harmed us can be a kind of catharsis. It reveals the impermanence of all things—even pain.”
“He was a person, someone who was damaged and ill,” she said. “Shouldn’t I feel—something else?”
“Was he that to you? A person, someone who deserved your compassion?”
“No.”
“What was he, then?”
“Someone evil who killed my friend, and damaged irreparably my other friend. Someone who stole my childhood. Who still had a version of me captured in his imagination. Those pictures he drew, and the people who bought them—whoever they are. It has haunted me.”
He nodded, listening, handing over that eternal box of tissues to dry tears she didn’t even realize she’d been crying.
“And now he’s gone. Why wouldn’t you feel freed? You’re okay, Rain. Let it all go now.”
And what would you say if I told you that I killed him with my own hands, that I drove a knife into his heart without hesitation? And that I don’t have an iota of remorse. What does that make me, Doctor?
That might be a different conversation, one she had no intention of ever having. With anyone.
In the woods, Rain found Hank’s pack first, knowing instantly that something had gone wrong. He’d never leave that pack out in the open. She knelt down beside it. She always thought of it as the kill bag—inside she found rope, a hammer, that same type of hunting knife, duct tape, a tarp folded into a tiny square.
She zipped it closed and hefted it onto her back.
Hank was nowhere to be seen, the night still, the air grown frigid. Her hands were stiff with cold, her face tingling, her jacket too light.
Instinctively, she checked the phone. It was a scroll of texts.
Gillian: He’s calling me. I didn’t answer. What am I supposed to do here?
Greg: I thought you’d be home by now. Lily’s fussing a little in her sleep. What should I do if she wakes up?
Gillian: He just texted. This is not right, my friend. Loop me in here. What’s going on?
Greg: She settled. I’m going to bed, I guess. Wake me up when you get home.
Greg: Rain. Wherever you are, you should come home.
A line from one of her mother’s books came back to her: Once a woman has a husband and child, her time, her heart, her desires never quite belong to her again. A blessing some days, a burden others, like all the other gifts that life brings.
He was right, of course. She should go home. This was madness.
She checked the camera app; Lily was sleeping, peaceful. Greg was still on the couch, snoring, phone on his belly. The sight of her living room, pretty, softly lit, television flickering, filled her with longing, and with a sudden clarity.
Her life, everyone’s life was split by these series of moments, these choices. Fight or flight. Go with Hank or call the police. Leave him in the house that night or go back and fight Kreskey with him. She’d made the choices as best she could. Some under duress, some out of guilt and fear, some out of anger. Right or wrong, they were all true. She had another choice now—keep following Hank into the darkness. Or turn around and go home