Any hope of a quiet girls' night was dashed. When O'Malley and Finley took their leave, the apartment fell quiet. Rose had parked herself on Ramirez's couch. She was scrolling through social media feeds and texting back and forth with her friends.
"I guess you know not to tell anyone what has happened," Avery said.
"I know," Rose said, a bit resentfully. "Wait…what about Dad? Should we tell him?"
Avery thought about it for a moment, weighing the options. If it was just her, there was no question. There was no reason Jack needed to know. But with Rose involved, that changed things. Still…it could be risky.
"No," Avery answered. "Not yet."
Rose only gave a curt little nod in response.
"Rose, I don't know what to tell you. This sucks. Yes. I agree. This is lame. And I'm sorry you're having to deal with it. It's not exactly a picnic for me, either."
"I know," Rose said, setting her phone down and looking her mother in the eye. "I'm not even really upset about the inconvenience. It's not that. Mom…I had no idea things had gotten this dangerous for you. Is it always like this?"
Avery let out a stifled chuckle. "No, not always. It's just that this thing with Howard Randall has everyone looking over their shoulders. An entire city is scared and they need someone to blame while they look for answers and a way to feel safe."
"Shoot straight with me, Mom: are we going to be okay?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Really? Then who threw that brick? Was it Howard Randall?"
"I don't know. Personally, I doubt it."
"But there's some weird…thing with you two, right?"
"Rose…"
"No, I want to know. How can you be so sure?"
Avery didn't see any reason to lie to her or to keep her in the dark-especially now that she was apparently a part of this.
"Because a dead cat through a window is too obvious. It's too showy. And despite what the methods of his murders might say, Howard Randall wouldn't do that. A dead cat…it's almost comical. And in talking to him both as an attorney and a detective…it's not something he'd do. You have to trust me on this, Rose."
Avery looked out the window at the black Ford Focus that sat three floors down, parked along the far edge of the street. She could see the basic shape of Dennison's left shoulder as he sat in the driver's seat. Sawyer would be beside him, probably habitually munching on sunflowers seeds, as he was known to do.
Thinking of the brick and the cat, she started to cycle back through her past. Between her career as an attorney and the few years she'd spent as a detective, the wheel of names and faces in her head was a long one. She tried to think of who else might have reason to toss the brick and cat through her window but it was too much-too many faces, too much history.
Jesus, it could have been anyone…
She turned back to the apartment and tried to envision the last time Ramirez had stood within it. She slowly walked the length of the living room and kitchen, having been there before but seeing everything as new. It was a small place but decorated nicely. Everything was clean and organized, each item in its designated place. His fridge was decorated with several pictures and postcards, mostly from family members Avery had never met but had heard about from time to time.
How many of them know what has happened? she wondered. During his time in the hospital, only two family members had come by to visit. She'd known that Ramirez's family wasn't very close but something about his family not coming to see him struck her as sad-even though she'd likely get the same if something happened to her.
She turned away from the fridge, the images of those strangers suddenly too much for her. In the living room, there were pictures here and there of his life: a shot of him and Finley at a cookout, playing horseshoes; a picture of Ramirez coming across the finish line at a marathon; a picture of him with his sister when they were much younger, fishing along the edge of a pond.
"I can't," she said quietly.
She turned to Rose, hoping she had not heard her audible denial.
What she saw was Rose asleep on the couch. She'd apparently conked out in the moments Avery had taken to look at the photographs. Avery studied her daughter for a moment, feeling the first stirrings of guilt. Rose had no business being here, mixed up in all of this.
Maybe she would have been better off if I'd not reached out to patch things up, she thought.
It wasn't just a wandering woe-is-me thought. She genuinely wondered it sometimes. And now, with both of them under surveillance and people threatening her for sins of her past, it was worse.
Maybe I'm not being threatened for the sins of my past, she thought. Maybe it was really Howard. Maybe he's snapped in some way I could not have predicted.
She supposed if she were doing her job correctly, she could not simply eliminate the possibility that Howard had killed that poor girl with a nail gun and then, the next night, tossed a dead cat with a threatening message through her window. She had no evidence to support that he hadn't done it so logically, he'd be a suspect.
I'm too close to him, she thought. I've come to know him in some way that makes me place him on this weird pedestal. Did he intentionally do that?
It was a scary thought, but he was brilliant. And she knew his penchant for mind games. Had he manipulated her in some way she still did not understand?
She picked up her two bags and carried them into Ramirez's bedroom. She had crammed the basics from the box of Howard Randall case files into one of them before leaving her apartment. She took those out now and fanned them out on the bed.
This time, she did not waste time looking at the photographs. Right now, she just needed the facts. And the facts as she knew them, as had gone down in the books, was that once upon a time, Avery Black had been an attorney who had represented a man who was being accused of murder. She'd suspected that he committed the act but there had been no evidence and the case was getting torn apart in court. In the end, she had won. Howard Randall had been free to go. Over the course of the next three months, college girls from the ages of eighteen to twenty-one were killed in grisly yet effective ways. In the end, Howard Randall had been caught. Not only that, but he openly confessed to the crimes.
Avery had watched it all on television. She had also quit her job as an attorney and had been motivated to start working toward a career as a detective-a career almost everyone told her was out of her reach. She was getting a later start than most. She was a woman who was haunted by the ghost of Howard Randall before his murders. There was too much baggage. She'd never make it.
But here I am, she thought, looking over the details. Maybe that's why he was always so open to speaking with me in prison. Maybe he was among those who thought I was a lost cause in trying to become a detective. When I not only became one, but became a damned good one, maybe I earned his respect.
And sadly enough, she hoped that was the case. She'd like to think that she couldn't care less if Howard Randall respected her-but she did. Maybe it was his intellect or the simple fact that no one had challenged her the way he had when they had occasionally met.
She thought of those meetings while she pored over the case files and it all connected like a frantic tennis match in her head. Back and forth, back and forth.
He genuinely seemed happy whenever I saw him, with the exception of a single time when he thought I was taking advantage of him. He had connections in the prison, able to get knowledge of the outside that other prisoners could not.
Did that information reveal something to him? Did it give him some reason for breaking out other than simple freedom?
And after he broke out, what would he do? What kind of a man would he truly be? Would he get as far away as he could and live life as a free (yet highly wanted) man?
Or would he start killing again? It's been said that once someone commits murder and gets over the initial shock, the second one is easier. And then the third one is almost like a natural act.
But Howard doesn't seem like the type to commit to that base animal instinct.
All of the original murders were clean and simple.
The latest victim was killed in a grotesque fashion…as if the killer was trying to make a point.
Does Howard have a point to prove?
And through it all, she saw him in her mind's eye-sitting across a table from her in the prison with the beginnings of a smile always on his face. Confident. Almost proud.
I have to find him, she thought. Or at least determine if he is indeed the killer. And the best place to start is going to be speaking to those who knew him on the same level I do. I'm going to have to talk to people he worked with-other instructors at Harvard.
It felt like a flimsy plan but at least it was something. Sure, Connelly didn't want her on the case, but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
She looked to her phone and saw that it had somehow come to be 12:10 a.m. With a heavy sigh, she gathered the files up into one pile and set them on Ramirez's bedside table. When she undressed for bed, she did so slowly, recalling what things had been like the last time she'd been standing in this bedroom, taking her clothes off.
When she slid into bed, she chose to leave the light on. She did not believe in paranormal activity, but she felt…something. For a brief moment, she thought she could sense Ramirez in the room with her, checking in on her while he floated somewhere between life and death.
And while Avery knew that wasn't possible, she still didn't feel like facing the dark.
So the light stayed on and she managed to fall asleep fairly quickly.