Page 55 of Pure Killers

I shake my head slowly. "No."

Dean sighs, pressing his fingers to his nose. "I'm sorry, El. None of us knew. I can't believe…"

Howie speaks, finally, "We can't be sure yet. Let’s wait for the forensics…" he trails off. We both stare at him. Denial is fruitless. It makes too much sense, as impossible as it is. He had access to the crime scene's first and took what evidence therewas of him. And what DNA was left behind, well, wasn't he at the crime scene as a detective? It could all be explained away. Until it couldn't. Today, Needler's display.

He did warn me; I realise now.

And what does this make Needler? Innocent of a kind, of this, at least. What does it make me? A fool.

"They're not going to believe you didn't know…" Dean starts, but the door behind me opens then, loudly. I turn to see Dirk, and right behind him, Tawill.

"Detective Ginsburg is in no state to be interviewed right now," Tawill declares, then turns to me. "You're to go home and stay there until this all gets cleared up. I'll post a guard outside your building. If all this is true, there's a Cocooner copycat who has been operating for the past three and a half years, and you could be on their list. You three escort her home.”

***

Dean and Howie wait outside, Dirk the one who guides inside, to my couch. He drapes a throw over my shoulders, somehow finds tea I didn't know was in the kitchen and presses a hot mug into my hands. Only when he's kneeling in front of me do, I finally look and see him. There’s a slight line between his dark brows. I look him in the eye longer than I’ve dared before, now seeing more in his expression than I’ve let myself see before.

What I return is little more than blankness.

“You got Tawill to send me home. Before I could say anything dumb.”

“You’re not in a good frame of mind right now.”

My eyelids feel heavy, wanting to pull closed, to block everything out. “Why do you do this for me? Why do you care…” I turn away, away from his gaze. His eyes are many colours,green and hazel and caramel. What colour are Needler’s eyes? Always in the dark, I don’t know.

"It’s gonna be okay, El," he says, instead of answering my non-question.

My smile, for what it is, is bitter. And here I convinced myself that him being Needler would have been the worst news I could get. "Is it? How?"

"I don't know. But it will be."

I stare at the steam coming from the mug. As though a weight lies on every limb, every digit, it’s an effort even to let my shoulders lift and fall with each breath. "They're not going to believe me. They're going to think I knew or helped." And why wouldn't they? "How stupid could I be to…"

"Stop it. We all know you couldn't have been a part of it. The truth will come out."

I don't say anything, turning back to unresponsive.

"Look, I've got to get back. Everything is in an uproar. I know this is fucked, but it'll pass. You have to believe that. If you need anything…"

But I've already turned away, gazing out the tiny window, the streets fourteen storey's down where the news is right now circulating. I slept through most of the revelation. What bliss. I think I'll go back to sleep now.

When I tune back into the world next, Dirk is gone, and the mug in my hands is still steaming.

Chapter seven

The partner. The partner the partner the partner. Tristan. The burned body? Must be. Maybe he found out, accused Caleb.

I can't think of him as my husband anymore. Just Caleb. Justhim. But not Cocooner yet, either.

No, Tristan must be the Needler. Caleb cocooned his sister a year before, then Tristan found out and stabbed Caleb in a rage. Yes, that must be it. But then the body at the scene... Who? Even now, I can't stop. Trying to piece it all together. I search for a picture of Tristan, but I can’t find one. I find too many others; Caleb’s arms around me, our wedding. I can’t look at those. I met Tristan, so briefly. He was skinny, I remember that; blond, a beard, crooked teeth… I give up looking for him. Now I can’t take it, with every picture from every album scattered among the bottles already cluttering the apartment. Always something within reach, even if it’s just the dregs. What else can I think about, if not the case? It’s a breakthrough, really. A detective’s dream. What else? The times Caleb worked late, all the times he just wanted to be alone. Even when I had been alone all day, trapped in that suburban prison, the only highlight of my dayhim coming home.Heimprisoned me there, always encouraging fewer and fewer hours until… none. The job was too dangerous. But not too dangerous for him, no, he still went, still had a life, a career. Usually coming home too late for dinner, and barely a peck before he locked himself away. I never called the station, never checked. Trusted him. Too much. Shouldn't have. I take another swig, two gulps, long enough to burn. I'm allowed to leave, to get the paper, to visit the bottle shop. They can't stop that. I haven't done anything wrong. Unless naivety counts. Which it should.

I answer an unknown number, letting the outside world intrude. Someone who says their name like I should know it. They're doing a documentary. Do I want to say anything? I say something, but it’s not suitable for their documentary.

The men out front of my building don't know me, or me them. They probably know menow. Today’s paper has me on the front page this time. Standing at the memorial, the shrine to Caleb's truth. My shoulders are slouched, my face twisted. I've never been so perfectly captured in misery. ‘Terrific actress, or stunned widow?’The headline asks. Indeed.

The article blurs after the part about his kills, even the amateurish ones that are now being attributed to him, back in his hometown. Re-opened cases. I feel nauseous. There was never a time he wasn’t that, not while he was in my life. From before our first date, he was that monster. Born a psycho, too good at hiding it, or just waiting for the one too dumb to see through the act.

They're listing reasons they think I knew now, then reasons they think I didn't. Asking the public's opinions on it. Marie from Northside thinks I mixed the plaster, and claims she can see a woman's touch there. Devon from Downtown says he's been following my story for years, all the pictures, all the grieving. No one can fake it that well, he says. Someone else from somewhereelse suggests that I picked the victims, all those female detectives. Jealousy. The same person thinks I'm advising the copycat, giving them pointers. I try to imagine that.Feet tied this way. Wings for the next one, not this one.

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