She didn’t get out of the car right away; she just sat and stared.
It was too much.
Too much death.
Too much murder.
Ivy was tempted to just drive away. And she almost did, too. After all, this was no longer her responsibility—Abby’s words. Maybe it never was.
A shuddering sigh coursed through her, and Ivy finally opened the door.
“He’s gone,” Kachinski almost whined. “Slipped out during lunch. No one has seen him since.”
Ivy felt for this woman.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Kachinski said, shaking her head.
Ivy was sick of people saying that. It made her almost physically ill to hear those four words. People viewed the world, their lives, as this series of random events. Luck, chance.
Odds.
It wasn’t like that. It was more like the Queen Anne’s lace flower.
Fractal, predictable.
In essence, life was a math equation. A complex one, sure, but everything you experienced was part of this equation. Figure out all the variables, the terms, the operations, and you could predict the outcome with a fair degree of certainty.
Thiswasher fault.
Gene had called her, not Wendy. She’d gone to the house first. Dialed 911 after.
“I couldn’t—” Sarah sighed. “They know, Ivy. Management knows. They saw the cops last time and I managed to sneak Gene in, but—”
“I just want to find him.”
Déjà vu—how’s that for predictable?
“Me too. I already checked the field. He’s not there.”
“We need to spread out. I’ll start with the field, just in case.”
“Okay.” Sarah hesitated.
“Sarah. If you want to stay, I’ll—”
—understand.
“No.” Sarah said. Ivy had misinterpreted the pause. “It’s just that today is the anniversary of the fire.”
This surprised Ivy.
She checked her phone.
June 5th. Three years to the day. That, too, in a way, was predictable. She’d just missed the pattern.
“I know,” Ivy lied. She hadn’t known.
