Chapter 12: (Allison)

Allison tugged her thick coat closer, shielding herself from the biting cold gusts that threatened to sap her of any remaining warmth she might be harboring. Even with thermal clothing, no amount of survival or wilderness training would ever truly keep the frigid claws of the north away ... or make it any more bearable.

It just had to be a wendigo or bigfoot or something that thrived in the mountains; never something that liked warm, tropical weather. What she wouldn’t give to be chasing chupacabras in the desert again. Sure, it had been hot even in the shade, but at least her lungs hadn’t felt on the edge of collapse like they did here. And her dad had also shown her some fun tricks with harvesting cactuses for water...

Allison’s steps faltered for a moment, her dad’s loud laugh echoing in her ears as she had bitten into the bitter flesh of the cactus, her scrunched face just making him laugh harder.

No, none of that. There was a job to do. She didn’t have time for this.

“The only way out is through,” Allison mumbled to herself, letting the sting of those words seep deep into her bones. They clove through flesh and sinew, settling in her very marrow; a wound that would never heal.

Expelling all extraneous thoughts through her long sigh, the air frosted before her, obscuring the sub-urban cookie-cutter house. Easily mistaken for any of the dozen identical houses that filled the blocks save for the dull metal numbering nailed to the fading frames, the Aberdeen household loomed ahead, her final target for the day.

The last two interviews had been ... less than helpful.

The park office hadn’t been particularly forthcoming, even under the threat of her faked federal ID. All it ever took was an excessively ironed buttoned shirt, maintaining eye contact, never smiling, and suddenly everyone got nervous. While the staff had done their best to heap documentation in front of her, mostly to cover their own asses, it hadn’t amounted to much. Signed permits and waivers, all completely in-line with federal policy the older secretary had assured her through stutters, had been produced immediately. Unfortunately, they’d been the only ones renting that night with any paperwork. She’d taken a copy of the guest log, but people rarely signed unless they actually stopped in at the office; most just walked the trails and then went home.

The frat house had been a completely different level of useless ... and humiliating. Boys that age rarely responded to investigators, instead going all googly-eyed and dumb over a ditzy blonde. And as much as it grated on her nerves to sink to that level, she’d done what she’d needed to. Out had come the buttoned shirt, tied at the waist to show off her belly with an extra button popped at the top for her cleavage. The perfectly combed hair had been tussled and teased and parted to one side. The glasses had disappeared, and on had come the red lipstick and blush. Raising her voice an octave, she had practiced her SoCal valley girl accent in the car until she’d wanted to vomit.

It was just lucky that Bethany hadn’t been there, or she’d have never heard the end of it.

Still, even with the drunken dude bros clambering over themselves to tell her about what had happened, all she’d managed to learn was that it had been Trent’s idea and that he had been dating Melissa Aberdeen, who might know more. Also, that if she felt really torn up about it, any number of their rooms, and beds, were available to her.

There weren’t enough showers in the world to get the stench of ick off her.

Halting at the porch, Allison smoothed out her short hair once more, letting it fall freely to her shoulders. Rounded glasses adorned her face this time rather than the more severe squared ones she’d used for her agent disguise. Grieving partners and their families wanted someone to talk to, not to be interrogated. As such, a quick change into something more casual had been appropriate. A sweater and jeans fit the situation, the colors on the warm side to suggest a sympathetic shoulder to lean on.

Settling into her character, Allison rang the bell, a light chime ringing within. Soft footsteps approached, the door cracking slightly.

“Yes?” the woman asked, her voice soft and inviting. This had to be Hana Aberdeen, the older sister of the girlfriend as the hair didn’t match and she seemed perhaps a decade older.

“Hello, Ms. Aberdeen? I’m Jennifer Connolly. I was asked by Mrs. Helman to do a small family piece on her son, Trent.” Handing over an embossed card, her name professionally printed with a fake media logo, Allison gave her an empathic smile. “I know it can be hard, but it would mean a lot if I could speak to you for a few minutes. Grieving parents ... they tend to find closure in hearing about how others remembered their children.”