Page 31 of Keep Me

Occam’s Razor

Reggie

“Guest bedroom is the last door on the left.” He flicks his head behind him toward a hallway while loading bullets into magazines on the dining table.

I walk throughout the apartment, noting how clean and impersonal it is. I’m not surprised to learn that Roan is a clean freak, but the place hardly has anything that points to Roan as a person. It reminds me of how houses are staged sparsely so that people can envision themselves and their things in the empty house.

The only art on the wall as I walk down the hallway is a vintage photo of a pub. “McGregor’s” is painted across its face, but through the sepia tones and erasing the passage of time, I can tell it’s what now is The Fox’s Den. The roof is squat and flat, and the apartments that are there now haven’t been built yet. The sidewalk doesn’t exist yet either, and the road is instead unpaved with carriage wheel tracks and horse hoof prints marked in the dirt. I wonder why this, of all things, is the one piece of himself Roan puts on display.

Further down the hallway, there’s an odd metal door that feels very out of place. It looks like the kind used in commercial buildings. It’s slightly ajar, so I peek inside. The only things that make me place it as Roan’s room rather than the guest room are the pair of men’s running shoes on the floor and two different bottles of cologne on a dresser.

The guest bedroom turns out to be less sterile than his own room. There’s a queen-sized bed with a big, fluffy comforter and several colorful throw pillows. There’s even a vase of flowers on the nightstand. I toss my bag on the neatly made bed and change into more comfortable clothes for the night.

When I come out, Roan is setting a bottle of beer and a handgun on a side table before sitting in an armchair. If I hadn’t grown up with men bringing guns to family dinner, maybe I’d be more scared or concerned. Instead, it feels as natural as watching someone pouring a glass of scotch for a night cap.

He moves mechanically and practiced like a soldier, checking the safeties and doing a press check. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t made this place feel lived in and personalized. Because he doesn’t see himself as his own person, but rather as a soldier with a greater purpose: to serve the family.

“Why do you have a metal door to your bedroom?”

His hand freezes where it is about to pick up his bottle, and the muscles of his jaw tick. As if it were only a temporary glitch in his programming, he goes back to what he was doing. “It’s cheaper than wood.”

“Okay.” I half laugh, half roll my eyes at his non-answer. “What a fucking day.” I flop onto the couch and kick my feet up on his coffee table, feeling surprisingly at home here. Even though the last time I was here, I was cursing Roan for all the reasons I didn’t trust him. And, despite what I said at the Chariot, I don’t hate him.

I mean, sometimes it feels like I do. Like when he snapped at me for asking questions after the strawberry field. Or the arrogant look he gives me that both grates my nerves and turns me on. Or just knowing that this whole no-touching rule is a farce because he and I both know that if he wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to stop him. He’s proven as much.

It’s aggravating and confusing because I want him to honor it, but I also want him to break it. God, do I want him to break it.

“You don’t like losing, do you?” He gives me a teasing look over his bottle.

“Does anyone?” I scoff. Once the coast was clear, we used the key card to get into room 1604, but it was completely cleared out and smelled like cleaning supplies.

He shrugs, then spreads his arms and knees wide, taking a long, slow pull of beer. He comes off equally exhausted and relaxed, but still has the edge of a guard dog always on duty.

“It wasn’t all a dead end. I’ll get the video of the man to Cash and start asking around about Diablo Entertainment. If anyone knows anything, we’ll find out.”

“It feels like we’re chasing a ghost,” I say aloud.

“Every man has a weakness. We’ll find his.” There’s a steely set to his eyes, like he’s beginning to see this job as more of a personal mission. He picks up a book from the side table and begins reading, effectively ending the conversation.

I take my computer from my bag, and we both go about our business as if unwinding together after a long day is the most natural thing in the world. It amazes me how quickly Roan has become a comforting fixture in my life, even if he drives me fucking insane.

A thought crosses my mind, and I log in to the institute's remote server. It takes me a bit, but once I’m done, I shut my laptop and sit up straight with a horrifying realization.

“What is it?” Roan asks, closing his book. The longer I don’t answer—because I’m not sure I want to give voice to what I’ve discovered—the more his brows knit together. “Cortez, talk to me,” he orders, but it’s with a concerned undertone that feels almost comforting.

My mouth feels dry when I finally speak. “Do you know the Occam’s razor principle?”

“Yeah, the simplest answer is usually the right one.”

“We use it all the time at work. Hyoid fractures make up .002 percent of all fractures in humans, but occur in one-third of all homicides by strangulation. It can happen by blunt force trauma in car accidents or martial arts, but it’s extremely rare. So when a body comes in with a fractured hyoid bone—”

“It’s safe to assume they were strangled,” Roan finishes my sentence, nodding.

“Right. So…” My stomach churns. “I went back and looked at the dates for all the deliveries of unclaimed bodies we got from DSM Transports, and all of them are within a few days of or during one of my father’s visits to June Harbor. It could be a wild coincidence, or…” My voice trails off, and I look at the floor, unable to face the obvious conclusion.

“Or the simplest answer is usually the right one.”

I fidget with the hem of the lounge shirt I’d changed into after the hotel. “What am I going to do?” My voice sounds brittle. Roan warned me about this in the beginning. Would I really want to know if my father was behind the murdered women? Now, the truth is staring me in the face and I’m not sure I can handle it.

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