"This is like a psychotic version of The End of the F**ing World,*" Aubrey remarked with a sigh.
The End of the F**ing World* was a dark British comedy series about a boy who believes he's a psychopath and a rebellious girl. They run away together, facing absurd situations while unintentionally healing each other.
Hannah pulled the tab off her beer can and flicked it at him. "Don't ruin it for me. I actually liked that show. James, with all his dark brooding, and Alyssa, who couldn't care less about anything, were cool in their own messed-up way."
"But we're not dealing with teenage James and Alyssa," JJ interjected, her phone ringing incessantly. "We're up against the psychopathic version of Bonnie and Clyde."
Bonnie and Clyde, the infamous criminal duo, were also the inspiration for the movie Bonnie and Clyde. Their name was even used to define a psychological phenomenon, "Bonnie and Clyde Syndrome," also known as "bad boy obsession."
The syndrome refers to women who idolize and are aroused by men committing heinous crimes. Unlike Stockholm Syndrome, Bonnie and Clyde Syndrome involves women actively assisting in the crimes.
From what Hannah and JJ had gathered, Raylene showed symptoms of this syndrome, likely exacerbated by her brain injury from the car accident.
Then there was the white paper snowflake. Jack recalled the details they'd uncovered earlier—Raylene's family had died in a car accident while driving to a ski resort. The trauma left her with both physical and psychological scars.
"Ravenswood police found Ronnie's mother's address. Should we head there now?" JJ asked after hanging up her call.
"Let the girls rest. Who wants to come with me?" Jubal asked, standing up.
Jack grinned and pushed him back into his seat. "You're on dish duty with the grill and plates. I'll take Clay with me. He's about to start training in behavioral analysis, so this will be good practice for him—combining theory with real-world experience."
Ravenswood was a small, forgettable town, much like Greensburg—a dime-a-dozen name that could've belonged to any town in the U.S. When Jack and Clay arrived at the listed address and knocked on the door, they were greeted by a middle-aged woman who exuded a worn, sultry aura.
The woman, likely in her late 40s, stood at the door wearing nothing but a silk camisole, leaving little to the imagination. The pink light inside the house gave the scene an oddly lurid glow.
Blonde hair, blue eyes, and a curvaceous figure—Jack and Clay exchanged a glance, already piecing things together.
"It's late. If you're staying the night, that'll be an extra $500. Two of you? Add $200 more. But since you're both handsome, I'll give you a 20% discount," she said with a smoky voice, leaning lazily against the doorframe, completely unfazed by how much she was revealing.
Jack silently noted the deep crow's feet under her heavy makeup and pulled out his badge. "FBI, Ms. Bishop. Have you seen your son, Ronnie, recently?"
With a soft "click," Jack flipped open his Zippo lighter, igniting a flame for the cigarette hanging from the woman's bright red lips. She took a deep drag, visibly perking up as she exhaled a cloud of smoke. "I told you, Ronnie stopped by two weeks ago. Stayed less than three days before leaving."
"What did he come for?" Clay's gaze wandered across the cluttered room—from the bottles of pills on the vanity and the bizarre wall decorations to the towering stacks of cigarettes and whiskey on the wardrobe.
The smoky air mingled with the scents of alcohol, perfume, and marijuana, creating a dizzying cocktail of odors.
"I don't know. He just came to check on some old junk he left here ages ago," she replied nonchalantly, brushing her golden hair at the vanity.
It was clear Ronnie's mother had once been strikingly beautiful, perhaps even a star in her prime. But years of smoking, drinking, and substance abuse had taken their toll, leaving only faint traces of her former allure beneath layers of makeup.
"Did he take anything with him?" Jack asked, snapping his lighter shut and redirecting his focus.
"I don't know. You can check yourself." She disappeared into another room and returned carrying a cardboard box.
The box was filled with disorganized odds and ends—much like her and Ronnie's chaotic lives. Among the junk, Jack spotted a rusty keychain from a promotional campaign for "Mr. Biscuit."
Clay opened a window slightly, letting in fresh air to clear his foggy head. "Has Ronnie contacted you since then?"
Ronnie's mother examined her reflection in the mirror, her tone apathetic. "Contact me? We have nothing to talk about."
"Sounds like there's tension between you two," Jack observed casually.
"Tension? What tension? We've never been close. I move often, and now that he's grown up, he does too. We barely keep in touch. I don't even have his phone number," she replied dismissively, her indifference extending to her son and herself.
"Maybe… because of your line of work?" Clay cautiously ventured, choosing his words carefully.
The woman froze mid-motion, her expression shifting to irritation. "So what if it is?"
Her voice grew raspier. "Ronnie has no right to judge me. At least this job put food on the table and clothes on his back."
"And funded your substance abuse," Jack thought but kept his face neutral, maintaining a professional smile. "May I ask—when you started working in this… profession, was it always home-based?"
"Of course." She sounded almost proud. "I never went to those filthy motels with strangers. Too dangerous."
Clay, now understanding Jack's implication, looked horrified. When the woman confirmed her home-based work, his face contorted in disbelief. "What about Ronnie?"
"What could I do?" she snapped, extinguishing her cigarette in an ashtray before reaching for another pack—only to find it empty. Frustrated, she stood to fetch more.
"I couldn't leave an eight-year-old alone on the street, could I? That's not safe either."
Clay recoiled, his expression one of utter disgust, as though he'd just swallowed a fly. Catching Jack's sharp glance, he quickly turned back to the window, feigning interest in the rain.
Jack's stomach churned as well, but the woman was at least cooperating, and there was no need to provoke her further. From his pocket, he pulled out a slim cigar and offered it to her.
"Wow, fancy. If you're done questioning me, why don't you send your grumpy partner back? I don't have any clients tonight, and I wouldn't mind sharing a drink with you," she teased, running a finger under Jack's chin.
Jack sighed theatrically, feigning regret. "If not for this damn job, I'd love to stay for a drink. You've kept your figure remarkably well for someone with a child."
"Thanks," she muttered, a touch of pride creeping into her voice. Gesturing toward a wall of bizarre decorations, she pointed to an old photograph.
"Before having Ronnie ruined my figure, I was a dancer."
The photo featured a lithe pole dancer, her figure graceful and confident. The image bore the logo of a strip club, and though the picture had aged, it was clear she had once been a star—at least 20 years ago.
(End of Chapter)
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