“Repeat what?”
“The part starting, I watched him swim out to sea, and then he dived, flashing a length of tail, like a whale or a dolphin. Is that what you meant to say, Ms. Reynolds?”
Adria thought about that for a minute, cheek pressed against the cool glass. “I didn’t mean to mention it to you, no. It’s what I thought I saw.” She shook her head, forehead against glass. “I don’t know.”
“Ms. Reynolds.” His voice was condescending, humor the poor hysterical witness. “You’re saying the perpetrator was a mermaid?”
She turned to stare at him, a small flash of anger making her feel more like herself. “Not a mermaid—a merman, a triton. A male equivalent.”
His face showed what he thought of that theory.
“I don’t know, detective. I don’t know if I saw it, or dreamed it, or hallucinated. I’d just found my best friend murdered, brutalized. I don’t know. Is there anything else? I’m very tired.” She wanted his condescension, his pity, out of her house, out of their house.
The dark-haired detective stood. Adria thought he frowned at his partner. “Ms. Reynolds, you had a very traumatic experience last night. There’s nothing wrong with seeing things under that kind of stress.”
“I suppose not.” She hesitated and asked, “Do other murder witnesses see monsters?”
He folded his notebook up and put it in his coat pocket. “In a manner of speaking, yes, they do.”
She turned away from his eyes, kind, sad eyes that had seen too much until Rachel’s death was just one more, among too many.
“We’ll want you to come down and talk to a sketch artist when you’re ready. I don’t mean to rush you. I know how hard this is on you.”
She started to accuse him of not understanding, but his eyes wouldn’t let her. They had seen more death than Adria would ever see, if she was lucky.
“Get some rest, Ms. Reynolds. Use those pills the doctor gave you. That’s what they’re for.”
Adria turned back to the window.
“Let’s go, Frank. We’ve got all we need for a while.” The detective with the gold-framed glasses seemed ready to argue, but he followed his partner.
“We’ll leave a patrol car outside for a day or two. Don’t be alarmed.”
“I’m not.” The thought that the killer might come back to hurt her didn’t seem real or possible, not in the broad light of day.
The door shut, and she was alone. She took a long, hot shower and two of the pills the doctor had given her. Adria tracked water across the carpet. Rachel wouldn’t care. She would never fix her famous apple omelets for them late at night. No more popcorn and sad movies. No more anything.
Adria choked back a sob. If she started crying, she felt as if she would split into pieces and fall down a long black hole. She collapsed on the unmade bed, hair wet, wrapped in towels. A deep, dreamless sleep pulled her under.
She woke to late-day sunlight. She had slept nearly twelve hours. The first thought was, Rachel is dead. The knowledge was a leaden emptiness. It was as if a great hole had opened up inside her. And the hole was full of pain, and rage and helplessness.
Rachel was the third victim of what the newspapers were now calling “The Beach Rapist.” The only thing the victims had in common was where they had been killed, at the edge of the sea. Two victims hadn’t been newsworthy. Three seemed to be the magic number. There was a serial killer loose.
What had Rachel been doing out on the beach? Why Rachel? Adria needed answers, but there was no one to ask.
She checked her watch, not for time, but for what day it was. It seemed like it had taken weeks for Rachel to die, the hospital. Days at least, but her watch said it was Sunday. Only hours had passed. Only hours and Rachel was gone, just like that.
Adria dressed and tried to comb the tangles from her hair, but it didn’t seem to matter all that much. The numbness shredded, falling away. Tears choked at the back of her throat. She took another little pill, just one. She didn’t want to sleep, but she wanted the pain to go away. Had she really told the detective the murderer was a triton? Had she really seen a tail? Adria closed her eyes and saw it, flashing in the moonlight, wet and slick, and attached to the man. Could she have made it up, to make the brutality more understandable? Like a child, saying a monster did it, instead of Daddy.
Adria shook her head. It didn’t help to call the man a triton. It raised more questions. Why would she hallucinate the man was a merman?
Co-workers from the health club came in the next few hours, to cry, offer comfort, and be comforted. Adria didn’t want any of them, didn’t want to grieve in a group. It cheapened it to share memories and sob on each other’s shoulders. None of them had really known Rachel. She refused to exercise. She was five-nine and had never gained weight. Adria was nine inches shorter. Adria had to work at staying in shape. She could never convince Rachel to go to the club.
Adria asked all the people to go away. Their kind intentions, their helpfulness, their sorrow, it was all more than Adria could deal with. She needed to be alone, wanted to be alone. She wasn’t ready for company, no matter how well intentioned.
Adria told no one about her delusion. There was no such thing as mermaids, or mermen. She didn’t want to see pity and knowing looks among their friends.
When the flock of mourners had been chased away, Adria lay down on the couch and waited for the tranquilizer to give her sleep.