The One Who Got Away

by L. A. Detwiler

  There were so many oversights on her part. It had been child’s play, really. People generally aren’t smart. They aren’t observant. I would feel bad if it didn’t feel so good. I, after all, am brilliant. I was always smart. Smart boy, the teachers had told me. Smart, smart boy.

  But oh, to see that life snuff out of her, to watch whatever was left of Adeline Evans’ soul leave her body – wow, had it been satisfying. Satisfying indeed. I’m not hungry for the first time in decades. I am finally content.

  Of course, it had almost been foiled by one person. That blasted friend of hers, Dorothy, who had caught me emerging from the stairwell that night and who had clearly snooped in my room. Had she seen the box? Had she seen the letters? I couldn’t risk it all. I couldn’t let the game get ruined again. How had I been so careless? Still, I’d known she’d have to pay. I’d been patient with her, too, had been careful. I’d waited until the exact moment to strike. After all, I know a thing or two about getting away with murder – and I wasn’t about to let some moronic, ugly woman with a big mouth get in the way of my master plan. I’d waited too long. So I took care of it – even that had been so easy for me. I hadn’t lost my touch, even after all those years. Even after I’d been discounted as nothing but a loner on Floor Three. They had no idea. They still don’t. But once I flexed my killing muscles on Dorothy, I realised I was still brilliant. I was still more than capable. It had given me hope, the hope I needed to finish the task.

  ‘They’re all dead. They’re all dead now,’ I mutter, rocking back and forth, back and forth. I shake my head, beaming in disbelief. They are all dead. All dead, indeed! I never thought I could accomplish it, but dreams could come true. Dreams could finally come true if you were cunning and persevering. And, I admit, if you have some strokes of good fortune.

  I stretch my legs out, leaning back and staring at the ceiling, wondering if they’ll figure it out. Will they pin it on me this time? True, it seems the police have better systems now. But still, it’s been over a week since I held her tight and felt her tremble. She’s long gone, deep in a hole that her daughter had wept over. I wish I could’ve been there. Funerals were always a glorious moment for me, a shining trophy of the accomplishment that I shared with so many others, even though they didn’t realise it. I close my eyes, almost tasting the glory of being in that church, watching the townsfolk in West Green pray for the return of the missing girls. It was hilarious, in ways, to watch them think they could pray hard enough to make the girls come back, like the church was some wish-granting fountain. It was dramatic irony at its finest – I’d known the truth, that the girls were long gone. But that was also part of the thrill of it. Watching, waiting for everyone to realise what had been done. Sure, it wasn’t as good as the kill. Nothing could equate to that climactic satisfaction, for sure.

  Thinking on it, I know I’ll get away with it, I always do. It feels like I’ve been born again. I’ll get to live out the rest of my life basking in the glory of my accomplishment. I am finally at peace.

  I had been brilliant, after all. No one had ever known. I’ve lived my life, have managed to get away with it all. Every bloody, orgasmic detail. From the kidnappings to the burglaries to the slashing of throats to the dismemberment of the bodies. I got to watch their terror close, right under their condescending noses. I got to read the articles. I could bask in their fear – all as a free man, though. It was splendid, really.

  I shouldn’t be surprised that they haven’t figured it out. The police get everything wrong. They’d been so easy to outmanoeuvre, to outsmart. The bobbies had assured West Green they were safe. Six murders in, though, and I was able to fly under the radar.

  After Adeline left West Green, I’d mistakenly thought that maybe I could find solace in the killing of another. I tried stalking new subjects, but it just never felt right. It wasn’t the same. They weren’t her. They weren’t the one on my list. They didn’t count, I realised. And even as I examined new possibilities on my route in Crawley, I knew there never would be another one. I’d failed. I hadn’t carried through my plan. My thirst for death was strong, but my thirst for victory was stronger. After all, I wasn’t a quitter.

  No, I’m not a fucking quitter. I spent most of my life hungry and unsatisfied, thanks to Adeline Walker’s escape. It was all her fault.

  I often think of those plans I’d made on that day in 1959 when I finally realised my destiny. I finally realised what would give life meaning, would satisfy me. I understood what I was meant to use my brilliance for, what would make me worth something in the town. I wanted everyone to know my name.

  And I wanted to make her proud.

  The stupid, foolish, broken, dirty boy inside of me needed to make her proud.

  I’d laid out the seven girls, had selected them in a meticulous fashion from my postal route. It all had to be just right. I would outdo that Haigh bloke everyone was so quick to mention when they talked of West Green. That man was a blasted fool, gave a bad name to killers. He made them all seem incompetent and foolish.

  But I wasn’t a pillock. I was, quite the contrary, an intellect. I was smart, even if people couldn’t see it. On that day in May, nonetheless, when I’d made the official plan, I knew they’d see it eventually. I would leave behind a legacy, a true legacy, of brilliance, of patience, of strength.

  Her death was going to be glorious. I’d known from the start she’d be the greatest achievement, the most beautiful killing. I wasn’t going to hide it. I was going to put her on display for all to see. I would drag her lifeless body, intact, to the station, let everyone see her in her shining glory.

  And then she left me.

  My fists clench as I think about those moments when all was lost. But it’s different now, I realise with a smile. I didn’t fail after all. Finally, all these years later, I succeeded. I finished what I started, had snuffed out the last one. The body hadn’t been hidden this time, after all. It was there for everyone to see. Even if they didn’t figure out she was murdered, it didn’t matter. She’d met her end just like the others, just like she was supposed to. I murdered seven women, seven beautiful women.

  But I didn’t set the fire. It pissed me off royally when the initial articles in West Green had accused the West Green Killer of the fire. Arson is for lazy assholes like that Oliver Parsons bloke. Arson is the kind of revenge someone takes who wasn’t committed, who isn’t smart enough to do anything else. I’m still certain that it had been that Oliver bloke who started the blaze, probably pissed at her for leaving. The detectives had ruled it an accident, but they were so often wrong. No, I’m certain that Oliver had something to do with the fire, no matter how innocent he seems.

  Sure, I’m not one to talk, with all of the anger I have inside of me but still, that Oliver Parsons isn’t a man to be respected. That one is too hostile, too haughty and too arrogant. He doesn’t appreciate the beauty of women like I do. He didn’t see Adeline for how magnificent she really was.

  Even though I didn’t set the fire, watching Adeline’s house burn, hearing the screams, and seeing the charred remains had been exhilarating. They’d deserved to die in pain, after all, the Walkers. They’d pushed Adeline out of town. They’d been fucking stupid, letting her get away. When I watched the blaze that night, I was in a dark place. She’d just gotten away, and I felt like my grand plans were forever foiled. I seriously considered tossing myself into that fire, letting all of the disappointment of my failure be singed away.

  But that wasn’t who I was, I’d reminded myself. I wasn’t a quitter, after all. I would roil and sulk in my failure and see it through.

  And then, as if some sign from God telling me I had to finish, Adeline had wandered into Smith Creek Manor. What were the chances? After all those years! There she was, mine for the claiming. And claim her I did.

  I reach under my bed to pull out the familiar, worn box. I open the tiny pine box, feeling the stack of letters underneath my rusty letter opener. A speck of blood rests on it. Adeline�
��s blood from that night, that beautiful night.

  Seven total letters rest underneath the opener, seven pieces of undelivered post. Letters from friends, from cousins, from acquaintances. Letters that had mysteriously disappeared thanks to my careful watch. I take out the letter addressed to Adeline Walker of West Green. I sniff the letter, the scent of aged paper and glue mixing into a riotously delicious cacophony. I savour the moment, raising the letter to my nose so slowly, so perfectly, that I wish someone were here to witness it.

  Opening my lips, I put the letter in my mouth, clamping my teeth shut. My tongue tickles the edge of the envelope as my teeth firmly chomp down. My job is done. Adeline has met her end. I’ve succeeded on my mission.

  All is well now. All is well.

  I tuck the letter back into the box with the six others and the newspaper articles. I slide the box back under the bed.

  Staring out the window on Floor Three of Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home, the sun beaming in spite of the strangling vines, I repeat my new mantra once more with a stoic reverence.

  ‘They’re all dead now.’

  They are all dead, indeed. A crooked finger on my weathered hand raises to my forehead, finding the scar with a masterful precision. I trace the jagged, raised line back and forth, back and forth.

  ‘Are you proud of me, Mum?’ I whisper into the empty room, my voice cracking with the warped nostalgia of too much time passed and too much of life lived.

  My finger traces over it one more time before I drop my hand to my side, place it in my pocket, and shuffle out to the corridor to live out what days remain. Whistling a haunting tune from long ago, I amble down the corridor, alone but satisfied for the very first time.

  Brilliant boy. Brave boy. Victorious boy.

  All is well indeed.

  THE END

  If you enjoyed The One Who Got Away you will love The Widow Next Door, another gripping thriller by L.A. Detwiler. Get your copy here!

  You will also adore The Murder House by Michael Wood, an addictive crime thriller starring the inimitable DCI Matilda Darke in the streets of Sheffield.

  And why not try The Stranger in Our Bed by Samantha Lee Howe, a similarly enthralling psychological thriller about the dark secrets festering within a seemingly perfect marriage.

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, I want to thank the entire team at One More Chapter/HarperCollins for working tirelessly to make the publishing of this story a reality. I especially want to thank Katie for believing in my stories and for helping me achieve my dreams of introducing my characters to the world. I am so blessed that my books have such a wonderful place to call home. Thank you to the entire team for making The One Who Got Away the best version it could be. A huge thanks goes out to Laura for giving such amazing suggestions during the structural edit and really helping me finetune the plot. Thank you to Hannah for guiding The One Who Got Away into readers’ hands and putting in so much hard work that happens behind-the-scenes; I am so lucky to work with you.

  Thank you to my husband, Chad, for being my best friend and my biggest cheerleader through this entire process. You encouraged me to step out of my writing box and tell the stories that haunted me most. I am forever grateful for your love, support and your ability to make me laugh even on the toughest days.

  I am also grateful to my parents, Ken and Lori, for fostering a love for literature and writing in me from a very early age. Your encouragement taught me to dream big and to work tirelessly to achieve those dreams. Thanks for all your love and support through the years.

  Thank you to my in-laws, Tom and Diane, for always encouraging me and supporting me. I am blessed to be a part of your family.

  A writer’s journey is never travelled in solitude. There are so many people who have supported me along the way. A special thanks goes to Jenny for being my beta reader for both of my thrillers and for being my listening ear when I need a second opinion. You have given me the confidence I need to pursue my goals, and I am forever grateful for all that you do. Thanks also goes to my fabulous co-workers who support me in so many ways, especially Christie, Kelly, Lynette, Alicia and Maureen. Thank you to Kristin and Ronice for always checking in along the way and for encouraging me to keep writing. A special thank-you goes out to Leah for helping me with my questions about all things British.

  Thanks also to Jamie for being the best friend a girl could have, and to Kay for being such a huge support from the very first book. I would also like to thank my grandma for being at every event and tirelessly promoting my works. Additionally, I am so thankful for my local bookstores who support the big dreams of a small-town, local girl. Thanks especially to Jennifer for always being so welcoming to me for book events.

  I want to thank every reader and blogger who has taken a chance on my works and read my stories. I couldn’t do this without all of you, and I am forever grateful to all of you for welcoming my characters’ stories onto your bookshelves.

  Thank you to my mastiff, Henry, for being my moral support and best friend. Whether it’s eating celebratory cupcakes or snuggling on the sofa on a tough day, you are so important to the entire writing process.

  Finally, I want to acknowledge my grandfather, Paul Frederick, for his role in The Home becoming a story. A World War II veteran who was married to the love of his life, Dorothy, for over fifty years, my grandfather has quite a history of stories to share. It was a visit with him last summer that sparked the idea for this entire book.

  Let me clarify that the nursing home he lives in is nothing like Smith Creek Manor, fortunately for us all. However, visiting with him one summer day and talking about all the friends and family he had lost over the years incited the idea for a book set in a nursing home. He made me think about how at the end of our lives, there are so many vulnerabilities, regrets and emotions swirling. It also made me realise how many fears could play out in such an unexpected yet potentially chilling setting. As many writers will tell you, stories often come from a place of mixing reality with a “What if?” question, and that’s exactly what happened with this book.

  About the Author

  L.A. Detwiler is the USA Today-bestselling author of The Widow Next Door and a high school English teacher from Hollidaysburg, Pennsylvania. During her final year at Mount Aloysius College, she started writing her first fiction novel, which was published in 2015. She has also written articles that have appeared in several women's publications and websites. L.A. Detwiler lives in her hometown with her husband, Chad. They have five cats and a mastiff named Henry.

  @ladetwiler1

  @ladetwiler

  /ladetwiler

  www.ladetwiler.com

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