Ronnie's apartment loomed, foreboding, above the scope of Cho's headlights. Staring blankly out the windshield at the front gate, waiting for the anxiety in her chest to quiet, the young woman wished there was some way that her partner would just back out of the driveway and take her with him.
Carla Masters had been in her apartment.
She'd taken photos, she'd been in her fridge, she'd been in the same room with Ronnie without being detected.
Around the corner, Ronnie could see the unmarked car where the plain-clothes police officers watched her building.
They were a band-aid on a broken limb.
There was nothing those men could do to protect her.
"Are you okay?" Cho was watching her.
His voice startled her out of the silent dread she'd been basking in, and he watched her nearly jump out of her skin. Her eyes, quick and darting, chased some imaginary villain in the dark before resting on him.
"Thank you for dropping me off." She popped the door open and scooted out. "I'll be okay. Gym tomorrow morning?"
Maybe getting up at the crack of dawn after passing out from exhaustion wasn't a great idea, but anything that involved getting out of her apartment as soon as possible was an appealing option.
Cho ducked his head a little to be able to see her once she stepped out of the car. "I don't think so. Why don't you take tomorrow off?"
The suggestion sent a jolt of panic through her chest. Stay in her apartment all day tomorrow?
She'd rather go back to the hospital.
"No, no, I'm feeling better." She wasn't. "I'll be good tomorrow. Pick me up at five-thirty. I'll be ready." Ronnie shrugged off Cho's jacket and tossed it in the passenger seat while he chewed on her words quietly.
Her hands were too empty.
Where was her gun?
She couldn't remember the last time she dared cross her own threshold unarmed.
The gym bag.
"You got my gear?" Ronnie opened the back door and peered around in the darkness for her green bag.
"Yeah, it's under mine." Cho threw an arm out behind him and fished around in the floorboard, finally producing her gym bag.
Cold, shaking hands snatching it from him, Ronnie yanked the zipper and dove into the interior compartment for the compact .9mm that accompanied her everywhere she went.
Grasping the grip, hand still inside the bag, she met Cho's concerned eyes with a fearful smile. "Goodnight. See you in the morning."
She hated her apartment.
The gate clicked open when she entered her passcode. Stepping softly up the stairs, she took in the familiar smell of the dank carpet, humid-moist walls, and faint whiffs of people cooking around the building.
Ronnie keyed open her door and shuffled inside, finally letting the gym bag drop once she closed herself in her room. The first thing she did, as she always did, was sweep her living space. Each room, corner by corner, flick the lights on, check all the closets and crawl spaces.
No one home.
Finally able to breathe, the tired woman tucked her gun into her waist band and moved to her bedroom, running a hot shower and peeling off her clothes that still smelled like sweat from that morning.
She turned on some music.
Soft alternative rock flowed from her speakers, steam flowed from her bathroom. Digging around in a drawer, Ronnie retrieved a lavender shower steamer, unwrapped it, and tossed it in the tub.
Her routine came together piece by piece after that: collecting pajamas, laying them out on the bed. Finding her robe, hanging it on the bathroom door. Selecting a bath towel and a hair towel, leaving them folded on the bathroom counter.
Her shower lasted nearly twenty minutes. She rubbed shampoo into her scalp until her skin tingled under her fingers. Exfoliating products dug deep into her arms and legs, like she could scrape off the uneasiness with sugar and shower oil.
The last thing she saw before she closed her eyes to wash her face was the gun in the cubby on the wall, and it was the first thing she saw when she rinsed the soap out of her eyes.
At last, hot water beating redness into her chest and shoulders, Ronnie relaxed. The day was over. It was off her skin and out of her hair, running down the drain like sudsy body wash.
A drawer slammed shut.
The sound shocked her, heart slamming, and her razor fell out of her hand.
One leg half-shaved, water running down her neck and into her eyes, Ronnie froze to listen. Her heart pounded in her ears.
Nothing happened.
She drew the gun out of the cubby, and gripped a handful of her shower curtain. Counting to herself, bracing for the potential horror of not being alone in her own bathroom, she yanked the curtain back and scanned the room, barrel-first.
No one.
Water splashed out of the shower onto the laminate, dribbling towards the floor drain.
All of her bathroom drawers closed, toilet, towel closet, all clear.
She closed the curtain and ducked back under the water. Lyrics from her music reached her ears like a comforting voice. She tried to convince herself that it hadn't gotten louder than when she left it.
Rushing through her shave, Ronnie shut off the water and stepped out of the shower, setting the weapon on the bathroom counter.
As she brushed her teeth and washed her face, she convinced herself that she was alone. Maybe the drawer hadn't been slammed, maybe something in her cabinet had fallen. Products stacked on top of each other, outsides turning slimy from the shower steam, could have toppled.
Her nighttime routine brought her peace. Teeth, hair, skin, nails. Moisturizer over arms and shoulders, oil over shaved legs. Her mental checklist of personal tasks grew shorter, tension in her muscles falling away.
Ronnie left the bathroom.
Lights off, door shut, bells strung up on the handle. No one opened her door without her hearing it.
Dressed comfortably in soft cotton pajamas and wrapped snugly in her robe, Ronnie toed into slippers and padded down the brightly-lit hall to the kitchen.
Gun in hand, she checked the room again.
Free and clear.
Her phone dinged.
Ronnie turned on her electric kettle, retrieved a mug from the shelf, and checked her phone.
Cho: Renfrew's in Tijuana. Headed that way after the local authorities give us the go-ahead.
Tijuana. They had all the luck on the day she had to stay home. Selecting a tea bag and plunking it into her cup, Ronnie tapped out a quick message: don't have too much fun over there without me.
A second passed in silence, and then—
Cho: I didn't know the red light district was your idea of fun.
She rolled her eyes and put her phone away.
That was when she realized that the music playing in her room was getting louder.
Gritting her jaw, tired of playing, Ronnie turned in the direction of her bedroom. "You can keep skanking around my house in the dark or you can come in here and face me."
She hoped to hell that no one appeared in the hallway. Palm grinding into the grip of her gun, her arms and legs went cold as her system began diverting blood to her core.
Fight or flight was kicking in.
No one came around the corner, the music didn't change.
The electric kettle dinged.
Ronnie poured herself a cup of tea.
The MENTALIST
Four hours after Ronnie fell asleep, her phone buzzed under her hand, jolting her awake. She'd passed out with the lights off, and the phone screen blazed blindingly in her face.
Blinking, squinting, eyes burning, she struggled to see past her sleepy haze.
It was a text from Cho: Renfrew's dead. We were too late.
Damn.
Ronnie fired back a quick response. He'd been killed before you got there?
Cho: Red John.
The words rested uneasily. Red John, still active, still lethal, so close. She dropped the phone to the bed next to her, blinking in the darkness. As her eyes adjusted, she remembered the look on Cho's face, all red and splotchy, full of self-loathing.
Renfrew's death was no loss in her book.
A laugh, low and raspy, sounded from the corner of Ronnie's room.
Bolting upright, the knife from under her pillow in her hands, Ronnie searched the walls wildly.
Standing like a ghoul, grayed by the darkness, shoulders hunched inward and long hair partially covering her face, Carla Masters stared down at Ronnie with big, rounded eyes, whites flashing in the dark.
She laughed again, body shaking with the wheezing of her voice.
Ronnie lurched out of bed, snatching up the gun from her nightstand, too. A sweat had already started, cascading down her back, hands shaking with terror. Nausea boiled in her gut and pressed at her throat.
Still laughing, completely manic, Carla turned and slunk out of the room without a word.
[end of episode eleven]