Instinct by Jason Hough (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

white wine from a box. One I set beside the pizza, the other I take a healthy gulp from. The golden liquid calms my thoughts, like sunlight poking through thick clouds. Sipping, I wander over to Greg’s desk and thumb through Johnny’s file again. It’s thin. Pictures from the ravine, mostly. But a few of the house. The boy’s room. Scribbled notes from interviews with his friends and teachers.

One photo catches my eye. A picture of Johnny’s bookshelf, stocked with far more video game cases than books.

At my desk I search online for each game, scanning the images and synopses that pop up. I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for, and almost give up, but the second-to-last game in the row is apparently some kind of apocalyptic wilderness survival simulator. It occurs to me then that if the boy shelved his games in order of when he bought them, that means this title, Bug Out Bag, would be a very recent addition. Could it be that playing this game inspired him to give the real thing a try?

I jot a note to research the game further, specifically to see if it was something his friends played, too. It’s not much, but if it eases Barb’s mind it’ll be worth it. The effort feels like genuine detective work, and I’m quite pleased with myself.

Another rumble from my gut tells me enough’s enough, though. I grab the pizza box, the wine box, and some paper plates, then head to the one occupied holding cell.

Katherine Pascoe lies on the stiff bunk, hands clasped over her belly. She stirs as I enter, and at the whiff of food she’s sitting up just as I’m sitting down. I hand her a cup, then a plate with a slice of pizza. The lack of meat makes it an abomination in my view, but she tucks right in.

“Good,” she says between mouthfuls.

“We’ve got a world-class Italian restaurant here in Silvertown.”

“Really? What’s it called?”

“Gas-n-Go.”

She grins halfheartedly, and for a while we feast in silence. Not because we’re stuffing our faces, although the rate at which we demolish the large pizza is damned impressive even by my lofty standards. No, it’s more that she’s both in shock and the quiet type, and I’m too tired to think of anything to say. For a while, at least.

“You want the last slice?” I ask her.

“No.”

“Well, I’ll take one for the team, then. Never leave a slice behind. Police policy.”

She doesn’t laugh, but there’s another brief grin. Progress.

I shrug and polish off the remains of the meal. “Listen, Katherine, I don’t have a big place, but you’re welcome to my couch. Or there’s a B&B that I’m sure has a room open—”

“What about here?” she asks.

“This is a jail cell,” I point out.

“It feels… safe.”

“Well… sure. Why not? Whatever makes you comfortable.”

“Thanks.”

Delicately, I broach the subject of her boyfriend. “Can I ask you something about Jeff?”

She gives a little shrug.

“We’re just trying to understand what happened,” I say. “Why he didn’t, you know, run, or play dead.”

“I don’t know why.”

I nod, understanding. “Is there anything… what I mean is, did he work with animals or something? At a zoo or—”

For a second my question perplexes her. But after a moment she shakes her head, definitively.

“An animal lover, maybe?”

Another shake, less sure this time.

“Look, Katherine, we’re a team here, okay? You can talk to me.”

A lift of her shoulders. Then she swallows, hard, and focuses intently on the floor of the cell. “The first time he came to pick me up, he freaked out at my roommate’s dog.”

“So he loves dogs?”

“Freaked out in a bad way.”

“Ah.” I picture the scene. “Is it a big dog?”

“A pit bull mix, but before you get the wrong idea, she is the sweetest dog ever.”

“Did she growl at him or something? Maybe he’s got something about him, a scent or whatever, that the dog—and the bear—”

She shakes her head. “She never had a chance to even sniff him. Jeff got one look and boom, he was waiting in the car outside.”

“Jeez. He say why?

A shrug. “Told me later he hates animals. A phobia or something.”

“Still, you went hiking.”

“Didn’t think we’d see a bear.”

So much for Doc’s zookeeper theory.

“Okay,” I say. “Get some rest, we’ll talk more tomorrow, okay? We’ll figure this out.”

Ten minutes later she’s asleep.

With food and Ms. Pascoe taken care of, I move back to my desk and just sit for a while, listening to the sounds of the station and trying to recapture my earlier revelation. That idea that Willy showed the same lack of fear that our deceased hiker displayed. I try to regain that mindset, to force myself to agree with it. As is often the case, though, the combination of time and white wine has given me a chance to reconsider. It seems too much of a stretch, now.

I leave the cruiser’s keys hung on their hook inside the station and pull my jacket on, determined as always to walk home and, in the process, acclimate.

Country music spills from O’Doherty’s across the street, mingled with the voice of someone singing along on the karaoke machine. Other patrons erupt in laughter at a particularly cringe-worthy note.

Without thinking I take a step in that direction, every fiber of my being drawn to the prospect of company and conversation. I’m imagining it as I step off the curb and onto the street. How I’ll dispel any rumors about the hiker, showing I’m on top of the situation. I’ll flirt with Kyle a bit, too, maybe let one thing lead to another…

I stop. Not tonight, I’m forced to remind myself. I’ve got a date with the inside of my eyelids tonight, and it’s a date I need to keep. With an effort I turn back to the sidewalk and put one foot in front of the other. Repeat, and repeat again. It’s only when I’m half a block away that the siren call of the tavern starts to drift from my thoughts.

The few