The One Who Got Away

by L. A. Detwiler

  I try not to vomit, terrified of seeing her. I haven’t talked to her since the breakup. She stares at me, a glare painted on her face as we make eye contact.

  ‘Adeline.’ My name darts off her tongue.

  I nod simply, averting my eyes. I don’t want to talk to her.

  ‘How are you holding up with all of this craziness in town?’ Mum asks, gesturing to a chair at our table. Mrs Parsons shakes her head, standing over me. I feel her stature looming like a foreboding omen. I steady my breathing. Certainly she doesn’t know everything. She can’t possibly know what happened to lead to my breakup with Oliver. Can she?

  He mustn’t have told her. He wouldn’t. She can’t possibly know what transpired. She must think that it was just two wandering, youthful hearts that were too wily to settle down.

  ‘It’s terrifying, isn’t it? But we’ve stayed focused on the business. Did you hear that Oliver earned a promotion? Following right in his father’s footsteps. He’ll be running that business someday. He’s such a charmer, that boy. Just a matter of time until he finds someone worthy of wearing his ring.’

  I stir my tea, fully aware her words are a pointed jab at me.

  ‘Apologies, Adeline. I did not mean to offend you. I know things with you two just didn’t work out. Perhaps it’s for the best. After all, I’m not sure you two were a perfect match. I just mean you certainly have a bit of a, shall we say, wandering manner?’ Her words are accompanied by a softened yet smug grin, as if to mask her bitterness.

  I feel my cheeks flame red. I notice my mother clenches her jaw. Still, ever the socialite, she manages to force a pained smile and remain calm.

  ‘Well, it is quite a shame. I did think our children were a truly lovely match. But the young are fickle, aren’t they? Who can tell. Perhaps they’ll come to their senses,’ my mum says jovially. It makes me livid that she sounds so desperate. She can’t even acknowledge that Mrs Parsons is being downright rude in her remarks.

  I remain quiet, not wishing to discuss Oliver or the sordid details. His mother thinks he’s a champion, a charmer, a gentlemen. She has no idea. Then again, does anyone really know their child? My mother doesn’t know all of my secrets. She will never know.

  ‘However, if I have my way,’ Mum continues, ‘we will be out of this town soon.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Mrs Parsons asks, still eyeing me from above.

  ‘Yes. All this killer nonsense, it’s too much. And the detectives don’t appear to be any closer to solving it all. I don’t want to take the risk. I’m hoping to convince Andrew to leave town, and soon.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be certain to let Oliver know so he can say his farewells. Such a shame to see such a cracking family leave,’ Mrs Parsons says with a bite of sarcasm in her voice.

  Mum and Mrs Parsons exchange pleasantries, but I don’t hear a word. My mind is stuck on the fact that now Oliver will know we may be leaving town.

  Will that lead to a new level of desperation? With the possibility I’ll be out of his clutches, will he heighten his need for vengeance? Will he speed up his game of cat and mouse? I shudder at the thought, thinking of what he might do next.

  West Green gets more and more dangerous by the minute, from every possible angle.

  Chapter 32

  Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home

  2019

  My skin feels itchy, and my eyes don’t want to open. Slowly, excruciatingly, my eyelids flutter, breaking through a thick crust that’s gluing them shut. I’m on my side in my bed, the sheets tangled around me. I’m so thirsty. Goodness, I’m so thirsty.

  ‘Trust me,’ a voice murmurs from outside of my room. A female voice. Youthful sounding. It’s as though I’m hearing the phrase from the other end of a tunnel, the quality echoing and distorting in a way that makes me nauseous. ‘She’s safest here. So many people your age go through this guilt. But this happens, love. It’s just the dementia taking control. Terrible disease, I know. My own mother suffered from it in her final year.’

  ‘I just – it’s so hard. It’s so heart-wrenching to see her so unhappy,’ a voice responds. A familiar female voice. Claire. Claire is here. What happened? Why am I so tired?

  ‘You’re doing the right thing. This is the best place for her. She gets the care she needs, and you don’t have to worry.’

  ‘But what about all of this nonsense? About someone trying to kill her? And a baby? I have no bloody idea what this could mean. Why would she be saying that?’

  A sigh. ‘The mind plays ugly tricks sometimes.’

  ‘I suppose. I just, I don’t know. Her eyes used to be so clear when she looked at me. So determined. But now it’s like she’s already gone.’

  ‘This happens in old age. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll keep a closer eye on her.’

  ‘Okay. Has she woken up yet?’

  ‘She slept through the night. She should be waking soon. The doctor was in to see her this morning. I do hate it when the sedative is the only option. But sometimes, it’s the safest for them.’

  Sedative. I look down at my arm, see the prominent bruises where they stuck the needle in. I remember. The needle piercing my skin, and the burning of the medicine. The heavy eyelids. Me begging Claire to believe me. I close my eyes. It’s all so frustrating. No one trusts me. Why doesn’t anyone believe me? How will I ever make them believe me?

  ‘I’m going to sit with her until she wakes up,’ Claire announces.

  ‘If you need anything, you know where to find me,’ the other voice replies.

  Claire walks in, and I look at her from the bed once she’s close enough.

  ‘Mum, hello! How are you feeling?’ She swipes at her eyes to cover the tears. Her smile is her generic smile, the one I’ve come to loathe. Her genuine smile is so much prettier.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I whisper, painting on my pretend smile as well. I know now to play the part. I have to play the part. If no one will believe me, the best thing I can do is solve the situation on my own. I must figure it out, but Claire isn’t the one to help me. There’s no one here to help me anymore, and that fact daunts me.

  ‘Do you need anything?’ Claire asks after she helps me get freshened up.

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ I lie again, because what else can I possibly say?

  ***

  I rock back and forth, staring at the game show as the lady beside me cheers for the contestants. I don’t have the heart to tell her that the contestant just lost. She celebrates the victory like she’s just won a car and has somewhere to go in it. I stare on, the empty seat beside me underscoring the hopelessness.

  ‘Church time. Let’s go. Time to pray,’ a booming voice shouts down the corridor. I ease my neck backwards to see Father Patrick shuffling towards the community room, a Bible in hand. He stops near me, staring at me. He shakes his head, and then marches on.

  ‘Time to repent. Repent sinners, repent,’ he chants, his voice booming and angry, like brimstone and fire speeches from my youth. I involuntarily shudder. Repent. He said repent.

  No matter how much contrition I serve, I know it will never be enough when my time comes. Sure, time has softened the choices I made as a naive girl who felt cornered. Still, I know that time doesn’t assuage the cold, hard facts.

  I killed that baby in a back alley. I let my fears of Oliver, my own desires, and Phyllis convince me it was the right thing to do. But it’s been decades, and my heart still knows the truth. Times have changed. I’ve changed. And maybe, looking back now, I can say I was justified in my actions. Still, the murky, indistinct face of the baby I never birthed haunts my nightmares. I can never forget what I’ve done, not completely. And sometimes I fear maybe I will never entirely forgive myself.

  But the choice I made to kill my unborn baby isn’t the only choice that haunts me. It started a chain reaction of events that would lead me to other sources of guilt, to other regrets. Because when I ended that baby’s life before it began, when I incited the vile, raging side of Oliver I had only been
privy to in small doses, I started out on a path that would lead me far away from West Green. It would lead me to a place that felt safer – but was never quite untouched by the troubles of my youth.

  And it would lead me to a place where I thought I could wipe away the past, pretend it didn’t exist, and live a normal life. But the dark choices of our pasts are never left buried for long, and years and years after that decision, the hands of time would continually reach out and remind me that every choice has far-reaching consequences.

  The abortion is only one of several black stains on my soul, if the church’s teachings are to be believed. And now I can add Dorothy to the list. It was my fault. It is my fault. She’s gone because of me. Who else will have to pay for the things I’ve done, for the wars I wage? How many lives will I destroy because of my choices? I stand from my seat and head for my chamber of hell instead of the chamber of prayer – for some of us, no amount of holy words can cleanse us. And no amount of time will be enough to figure out the gory truth.

  We’ll all die here. But some of us will go with more regrets, more pains, and more questions than others.

  ***

  I’m flipping through a book in my room the next afternoon – the harsh-faced nurse agreed to bring me a novel from the reading room. Of course, she grabbed me some boring, drab historical fiction book.

  With Philip Woman out at an appointment, I’m alone with my thoughts. This isn’t a good thing as of late, the occurrences around me lead my mind down a twisted, malevolent path of possibilities. Who needs to read a horror story, after all? I glance out the window, staring over at 300. For once, there is no one peering back at me. Maybe that’s a good sign. Maybe all has quieted down after all … maybe …

  And then I hear it. Footsteps. Shuffling footsteps. A flapping paper. I look up from my book, turning my head to the door – and there he is.

  He leans on the doorframe for a moment, a cherry red paper in his hand. He smiles at me without showing any teeth, a crooked smirk that unsettles me. But his leer isn’t the most troublesome thing. It’s in his eyes, always in his eyes. There’s something so familiar in the way he looks at me, something thirsty in the way his eyes travel over my face, my hair, my hands.

  I shudder, my hands pausing in the middle of a page flip. He methodically traipses into my room. There is no hesitancy like that first day so long ago – was it long ago? A month or two perhaps? Maybe even less? I can’t be certain as the days have blended into one another. But it feels long ago.

  Two hands on the paper, he walks towards the noticeboard, his body turned so he never takes his eyes off me. When he gets to the noticeboard, I notice how large he is. Not in an unhealthy way – no, in a powerful way. In a way that could do damage. His breathing is rapid. I squeeze the pages of the book tighter, never letting him out of my line of sight. There is a lingering pause, a space between us he doesn’t quite fill but claims, nonetheless.

  Finally, he opens his mouth and says the words that are so simple but so terrifying.

  ‘I’ve missed you. Oh, how I’ve missed you,’ he murmurs.

  I grab at my chest, worried that I’m going to lose control. I can’t let him get to me. But as he takes a step forward and smirks, staring at me, the familiar flash comes forward in my mind. So familiar. He’s just so familiar. But why? Why is he recognisable? I don’t understand. I don’t know what’s happening. My head thuds with pain and uncertainty. I grab my forehead, my thumb rubbing my head methodically between my eyebrows.

  ‘I’ve missed you for a long time,’ he hisses, so softly I think I must’ve misheard him.

  And that’s what does it. I know for sure I know him from somewhere. I know him in some way, in some form, from the past. But how? Where? I can’t trace him in my memories.

  Does it matter, though? I know he’s dangerous. I know what he’s capable of. Tears start to flow as I realise how easily he could end things. I’m at his mercy, the weak one at the end of the corridor. The forgotten one everyone thinks is crazy. No one will believe me. No one. He holds all the cards. As he violently flicks the pin into the board on the menu, stabbing it with impressive force that absolutely petrifies me, my hands wobble, still holding the book. He turns slowly, agonisingly slowly. Hands now in his pockets, he is cool and confident.

  ‘What do you want?’ I ask through the tears, through the shakes, through the fear. This needs to be settled.

  His poker face gives nothing away, and other than my heaving breaths and his raspy ones, there is silence in the room. Somewhere on the floor, a resident shrieks and cries. Somewhere else, a telly blares. But here, in Room 316, silence. Bone-chilling silence. He leans closer and closer, rattling his teeth together a time or two in an absurd display. I don’t move, afraid to look away. I’m petrified to the core. When he is so close that I can feel every exhale, when his face is just centimetres from mine, his toothy grin appears.

  ‘You, Adeline. It’s been you for so long. It’s always been you.’ He reaches out and grabs my wrist, squeezing it, his fingers finding my pulse. I try to pull back, but it’s no use. He’s got me. He’s not breaking a sweat or looking stressed. It’s so easy for him to control me. He looks right into my face, grinning and whistling. Oh, the whistling. It’s some sad tune from long ago, and it pierces into me.

  I’ve heard that song before.

  ‘Please,’ I beg, but with that one word, something dark and twisted happens to his eyes. They turn from a look of defiance to a look of need. They turn both hungry and angry, and my heart beats. It is that look in his eyes, a look I’ve only seen a few other times before, that verifies the truth. I know for sure this is no regular man I’m dealing with.

  This is a beast. This is a vicious fiend who has survived well beyond his expiration date. I open my mouth to scream but he grabs my mouth. He shushes me with his finger. I look at him, shaking my head, trembling at the ludicrous nature of him, of what he’s doing.

  He pulls his hand away, still shushing me. My breathing is laboured, but I stare at him, incredulous, as he turns to head towards the door.

  Just as I’m getting ready to breathe a sigh of relief as he leaves, I see him stop. One hand on the threshold, he turns around, glares at me, and licks his lips. And then, before he’s gone, he bites his teeth together two times so I can see.

  I am lost once more.

  Brazen Killer Ups His Game, Terrifying Train Station

  Northgate, Crawley, West Sussex

  10 August 1959

  At 7.00 p.m. on 9 August 1959, the dismembered body of Muriel Claubaugh was discovered in Northgate, Crawley, by a ticket attendant at the train station. Bite marks on the body have led investigators to believe that the murder is the work of the man now being dubbed the West Green Killer.

  Muriel Claubaugh, 24, never returned to the flat she shares with her sister on Meadlowview Lane, West Green, on Monday evening after work. Muriel Claubaugh worked as an administrative assistant in Langley Green. Her employer notes that she left at the same time he did, but her sister, Sarah Claubaugh, told investigators she didn’t return home.

  Muriel’s body was discovered in the train station in Northgate. A ticket attendant noticed several unclaimed, oversized, unmarked bags outside the ticket window. When they were opened, the dismembered body was discovered. Investigators later determined the body belonged to Muriel Claubaugh, the head having been discovered in a separate bag.

  ‘The killer is getting sloppy. He’s getting bold. It’s giving us hope that he will make a mistake,’ a detective told reporters early this morning.

  The suitcase left in a public place is a more conspicuous move than the hiding places of the other bodies, which were at least partially concealed. Detectives have been questioning passengers at the station, hoping someone saw the owner of the nondescript bags. So far, several suspects have been questioned, but detectives note they have all been dead ends. Just last week, the prime suspect in the West Green murders, Denis Butler, was released after witnesses confirmed
his alibi. Denis Butler was the fiancé of the late Gloria Carlton and was the prime suspect in the case after her death. Reports tell of a series of affairs Denis Butler was involved in, suggesting a motive for the murder of his fiancée. He was also loosely tied to the first victim, Elizabeth McKinley, as the two were once romantically involved. Initial dental record comparisons suggested Butler was a match to the killer. However, detectives released Butler this week after several other pieces of evidence cleared him.

  Detectives appear to be starting from scratch as they move forward to solve the cases.

  The residents of Crawley grow more uneasy as the weeks go on and no leads have been found. Detectives assure the public they are working around the clock to bring justice for the now six women murdered over the summer, but many fear that the killing spree will continue.

  ‘We’re not safe here. My neighbours, my friends – we’re all thinking about picking up our lives and moving. We just can’t stay somewhere that isn’t safe,’ a resident noted. She wished to remain anonymous.

  Investigators are looking for links between the victims. So far, all victims are females in their late teens to early twenties and residents of West Green, living within a few streets of each other. No other definite connections have been discovered.

  All residents of Crawley, and especially of West Green, are asked to be on high alert. The extra police presence in the area has not seemed to deter the killer.

  ‘We aren’t dealing with an amateur, here,’ one constable noted. ‘This killer is cunning, calculating and very intelligent, which has made our job difficult. He works fast, cleanly, and doesn’t make any mistakes. But that always changes. They always make a mistake, and when he does, we will catch him.’

  The brutal dismemberment of Muriel’s body has left many residents forlorn. ‘It’s disturbing enough that women are being murdered. But the brutality, the disrespect of the body – that’s on another level,’ Mrs Nora Walker stated when investigators interviewed her.