Page 17 of By the Time You Read This

“Attention is attention,” Anand says to that. “And we’ve incorporated brutal psychopaths into our everyday routines. We listen to podcasts about them as we do laundry, we unwind with a glass of wine at the end of the day and turn on our favorite docuseries. They’re in our lives, they’re in our hierarchies.”

When I asked Isabel what she thought of her fans, she grinned. “They would be fun to kill.”

Chapter Six

Raisa

Day One

The address Isabel had included on the letter to Raisa was in a small fishing town on the coast of the peninsula, one like so many others dotted along the stretch of land.

The cute red wooden house stood on the edge of a rise overlooking the water, the blue of the sky stretching out for days beyond it. Raisa tried to imagine more picturesque scenery and failed.

Kilkenny pulled to a stop in front of it, looking as hesitant as Raisa felt. Out of all the places Isabel could have sent them, this seemed strange.

There was nothing else to do but go forward, though, so Raisa hopped out of the SUV.

A woman in her late fifties, early sixties, opened the door wearing loose working jeans and a cable sweater despite the heat of the day. Her thick white hair was braided back away from a face weathered from a lifetime spent outdoors near the water.

“What do you want?” she asked.

They both flashed their badges. “We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions.”

The woman squinted at them. “What’s this about?”

“Could we go inside?” Raisa pressed.

“You tell me, is this ...” The woman was getting worked up enough that words seemed to fail her. “Is this about my girl?”

Raisa’s chest tightened. “Can we come inside, ma’am?”

“Helen,” the woman offered, pulling a tissue out of her sleeve, and waved them in. “Yes, come, come.”

The house was dark despite the fact that it was midday, the shutters all closed tight, the air stale with the grim neglect universally recognized as a sign of a recent loss.

Is this about my girl?

Raisa didn’t know what she’d expected to find, but a victim hadn’t been on her mind.

Helen led them to a small sitting room that probably normally had a beautiful view of the water.

The furniture was worn in a comfy way that fit the rest of the house, but that was the only thing normal about the room. Every inch of space was covered by photographs of a pretty young woman—alone, with friends, on a boat, with big groups at special occasions. But always the same girl in all of them.

Raisa touched one of them, and Helen whimpered, a soft, distraught sound that punched Raisa in the gut.

“Is this your girl?”

“Lindsey,” Helen said, her eyes locked on the picture Raisa had chosen. It was a selfie of the young woman, alone on a boat, her smile wide enough to crinkle her eyes into oblivion. “She died two months ago.”

Her attention shifted back to Raisa’s face, everything about her sharpening. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

Probably,Raisa thought.

“We have some questions regarding another investigation,” Raisa said as gently as possible. “Can you tell us what happened to Lindsey?”

“What other investigation?” Helen asked.

“We can’t disclose that,” Raisa said.

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