by Leigh Lennon
Higgie has his gloves on, and shimmies on his stomach, leaning as far under the window as the little alcove is, as per Malia’s nine-year-old remembrance. “Anything?” I ask.
“Fuck, I can’t get to the back of the alcove. I’m trying to touch the foundation wall.” I let out a long gasp, taking in a calming breath.
“I have a better wingspan, shorty, so let me in there.” My patience isn’t something I have as I almost pull him from the opening, putting a set of clean gloves on.
“Hey, hold on one second,” he complains, but I’m already on my stomach, my arms to the back of the foundation wall, and I span them from one end to the other.
“You know,” Higgie begins, “if the murderer is the mystery man Malia tells us of, then maybe he knew about her journal.”
This is not something I want to think about, not when finding this journal is the one way I know I can stop this psychopath.
“Yeah, I’ve thought of that, too,” I admit, ready to call it quits for now. This whole floor is about to come up if there is any chance Annie’s entries can shed some light onto who killed her family.
“I’ll get more crowbars,” he starts. I’m dragging my hand on the earth below on either side and touch something that’s not a part of the foundation.
“Wait,” I demand. I reach as far as I can, and with a pinch of my thumb and index finger together, I pull something from the darkness.
I bring it toward me in the light of the room, and in a large plastic bag, I hold a pink and black polka-dotted journal with a large A in the middle of it.
“Hot fucking damn!” I shout. “Let’s do this according to protocol. Let’s log this into evidence, and then once we’re at the station, we’ll comb through it.” I’m not dumb. The DA could catch wind of my feelings for Malia, and the chain of evidence would be tainted. I want—no need—to do this the right way.
“Yeah, I hear you.” Tugging for an evidence bag we’d brought in with all the supplies to pull up the floor, I drop the journal in there, while Higgins secures the huge piece of evidence, in the hopes this is what we need to stop this fucker.
“They’re scanning the pages in now,” Higgins says over his desk, looking straight at me. My thoughts are on the journal, but Malia, too, and what we’d shared earlier. I’d gotten off the phone with the patrol unit of two men outside and the female officer in my home, and they assured me Malia is safe.
Vanessa walks up the steps to the homicide division, her hair down and eyes puffy. It’s in the love I once shared with her, I almost rush to her because this isn’t the well put together bitch I came to despise in the end, but the real woman, only she let me see.
“Hell, she looks bad, old man,” Higgie teases, but his tone is concern for the boss neither one of us like on a normal day, but this is not a normal day.
I follow her into the office and don’t bother to knock. “Van, you okay?” I’ve not called her Van since the night of our breakup, and tonight, I’ve already used it plenty.
She leans back in her chair, her eyes fixed on the ceiling when I decide to close the door behind me.
“You know,” she begins, “I’m known as the bitch with no emotions around here, and maybe I do this, to be a bit tougher because I’m a woman in a man’s job.”
She’ll get no argument from me. I always understood this double standard. A man is just a hard-ass whereas an assertive woman is an out-and-out bitch.
“I get it, Van. I mean, I don’t know what it’s personally like, but I get it.”
Her eyes turn to me, tears welling along the edge of them. “But I’m a person who hurts just like any of us. And this shit, the past couple of days, poring over Malia’s files, the Mastille family, and now this? Fuck. I want justice for Malia Strickland. I want justice for the Mastilles, and I’m readying myself for the other murder scene we have yet to know about.”
“I thought you didn’t like Malia?” I agree with everything she says, but I have to address the out-and-out bitch she’d been to Malia this morning.
She takes a long deep intake of air, exhaling it in the same breath. “I don’t hate her. I just know there’s more to your attachment with this case. And, sure, I know you never crossed the line by not writing her back or encouraging her.”
I still, but why am I surprised Vanessa went through my letters?
“Yeah, it was a bitch thing to do,” she starts, “but I was marrying you, and I was competing with this person who you put on a pedestal so many years ago. I know you, Wells. You didn’t realize you had, and fuck, you tried not to, but now that she’s someone you can be with, it hurts, the connection you share, while in the many years we were together, you never let me in this close.”
I open my mouth to speak, but she stops me. “You don’t need to say anything or even defend your actions. It’s why, however, I was a little on the defense today.” She reaches for a Kleenex and dabs her face. “Okay, now that my little meltdown is over, tell me, did you find anything with the letters?” And as is the norm with Vanessa, she’s back to her calm and collected self, ready to solve this case. But for once, it has been nice to see the human side of her she seldom shows.
“Fuck, Wells!” Higgins’ shouts are heard through Vanessa’s office where I push from my chair.
His face is ashen white, but he’s not tearing his fixation from the computer screen. Vanessa, in her clickety heels, is behind me.
“Tell me you found something,” she calls.
“Um, not yet. And certainly not a name. That would be too fucking easy, but read this.”
He highlights a section of Annie’s written words, ready for both Vanessa and me to devour this journal.
He’d gotten physical with me yesterday. And when he drove by the school, he saw me talking to Smith. He doesn’t understand Smith had been my best friend before we ruined it with dating. I’m trying to get Smith and me back to where we were before, and although I love him, I won’t turn my back on Smith.
Today he gave me this bracelet. But I want to break up with him. I can’t trust a guy who shoves me to the ground and leans over me with his fingers around my neck. It scared me. Can you love a man but hate his actions? I told him I forgave him, but I don’t know if I should.
Mom and Dad don’t know I’m dating him. I sneak out at night to be with him. But I’m not ready for sex, not yet. He’s pushing me, and this shouldn’t be a surprise. Everyone thinks he’s bad news. Everyone from the neighborhood kids to Ms. Becket, who’s the eyes and ears of the block, thinks he’s no good.
But I see him better than anyone else. He’s not had the easiest life. And I can say, I’m sheltered by Mom and Dad. They don’t let me see the bad in the world. I get it, but one day, I’ll have to decide what’s good and bad for me.
No one knows we’re dating, except Gracie, who knows everything about me. Malia saw my bracelet today when Gracie and I were doing our makeup. I told her it was from my boyfriend. She thought it was pretty cool, me having a secret boyfriend.
I often wonder what I would tell my little sister if someone physically abused her like he’d abused me. I would tell her to run and run fast. Why can’t I take my own advice?
AMS
Finishing this entry with her initials was not uncommon. But it was dated September 1st, only two weeks before her murder. It was odd to hear her inner struggles and her concern for Malia had she found herself in Annie’s predicament.
“Well, I’d say, once the DA gets ahold of this and turns it over to Smith Turner’s lawyer, all charges will be officially dropped,” I explain, not sure how to internalize the thoughts of a teenage girl just weeks before her murder.
No calls, no new murders, and with the clock past ten, I pack up, intent on reading the rest of Annie’s journals on my laptop at home.
“On your way out, old man?” Higgie asks, searching vendors for wooden beads or wooden beaded bracelets. Vanessa suggested it was homemade with beads the murderer bought. She claimed it was something many girls did
, and she explained further, the murderer could have had the same bracelet, something they made for one another.
“Yeah, I need to scour the files for people who lived close to them, to see if there is something we missed. There were no leads at the time, but maybe there’s something buried since she made it seem other neighbors knew of her boyfriend.”
“I’m not far behind you.”
My phone pings, and I’m filled with the warmest sensation with the name that comes up. I don’t open it, not yet, and respond to my partner across from me.
“You have your key?” He answers with a nod of his head. I give this kid the most shit, but besides Matt, he’s one of my closest friends even though we’ve only been partners for just a year. When you spend as much time with each other as we have, the friendship is expedited.
“Okay, I need sleep, so I’ll see you in the morning.”
His little laugh stops me. “What the fuck is that for?” I’m grumpy, tired, and hungry as hell.
“Are you sure you’ll be sleeping?” At his reply, he has already ducked when I grab for the closest thing to me, throwing a pen his way. I leave without anymore interaction.
Hurrying down the stairs, I hold my phone until I’m in the peace and quiet of my car, but it dings again.
I settle in, turning the car on, to feel a little of the A/C relieve my sweaty head. It’s not hot, but it’s not cool either, or maybe it’s the thoughts of Malia that make me all hot. I don’t think long about this because I already know the answer.
Malia: Did you find it?
Malia: When will you be back?
Quick and to the point. She hasn’t hounded me. Fuck, with Vanessa, if I was ten minutes late, she’d be on my ass, and, hell, she’s a cop and knows everything that goes into the job. I can’t compare Malia to Van because she’s nothing like my ex, and honestly, it gives me false hope. Like Malia and I can be something.
My phone connects with my car's Bluetooth, hitting her number. She picks up on the first ring.
“Hey.” She’s a little out of breath.
“Hey, sweetheart, what are you doing? You sound breathless.”
She snickers on the other end, without a reply.
“What’s all that about? Why are you laughing?”
There’s a long pause when her voice is ragged again. “Not much, just sitting here thinking of you.” Her pitch sounds both husky and winded at the same time when she doesn’t give me anything else to go on.
“Sweetheart, what the hell are you doing? Are you running a marathon?” I ask again.
“Um…” She takes a second to continue her thought process. “I just…” She trails off, and I wait for her to finish. “Am thinking of…” She trails off yet again and puffs out the last word, “You.”
“Mal, sweetie, are you doing what I think you’re doing?”
“You calling me Mal…” She stops, and I think I hear a mewl on the other end. “I like that…” Her pause is brief this time. “You giving me a nickname.”
“Malia, sweetheart, you never answered me. What are you doing?” My cock instantly rears his head against my jeans, and it’s painful how erect it truly is. And with each thought straining through my mind, it gets harder and harder.
“And what, Wells…” Again, there’s a mewl through the line. “What do you think I’m doing?”
“Fuck, woman, this isn’t fair.” I can’t let her tempt or distract me.
“No, Wells, none of this is fair.” Her breathlessness is gone, and she’s changed her tone to one of confrontation.
“Fuck, Mal, say the words. Tell me what you’re doing. I need to know, and you’re right, sweetheart, none of this is fair, especially to you.” There’s a silence on the end, and I wish I wasn’t still a couple minutes from my home, where I could push through my front door, dismissing the uniforms, to plunge my hard cock into her tight pussy. “But I need to know. I need a visual. What the hell are you doing?”
She begins to laugh, out-and-out hysterics on the other end. “Well, if you must know, I’m eating chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream. It’s one of my favorite things in the world but may not be my favorite.” She begins to laugh again, filling the line with loud enjoyment. “Wow, Wells, tell me where your mind was. In the gutter, apparently.”
The girl got me good, so fucking good, and at the same time, she has proved her point. I want her, I want her so much, and now, besides recognizing this fact, I’m also horny as hell.
Chapter 18
Malia
I’d not planned to mess with him. The female cop who had insisted on watching me the entire time in Wells’s house walked out to chat with the other uniformed officers. I picked up the phone, and I was in the middle of a bite when he asked why I was breathless. I went with it because, honestly, it was funny as hell.
“You’re in big trouble, young lady.” His voice lowers, but the same sultry tone I had with the thoughts of him imagining me playing with myself is just as much of a turn-on for me as it evidently was for him.
“I sure hope so,” I reply, licking the rest of the frosting and ice cream from my spoon. It’s crazy, and maybe some would say wrong. I want him, and the timing couldn’t be worse. Hell, there’s a crazy man staging homes to look like my family’s murders. But in all of the tragedy, it doesn’t make me want him less.
“You’re not very nice, I hope you realize this,” he says, and this time, I can imagine he’s ready to reprimand a suspect. Or even better, maybe punish one of our futuristic kids.
“Just making my point. Again, I’m not sure where your mind was, but maybe it’s time you admit what you want.”
There’s silence on the line, and I pull it from my ear to make sure we are still connected.
“So,” he begins, and I know he wants to end the subject. “Did you get some dinner?” His concern for me, in the way his tone fluctuates, has me swooning where I’m lying across the large overstuffed chair with my feet dangling off the side.
“Yeah, I ordered pizza. Kenzie had some, too, so if we’d been poisoned, we’ll both die.” I think it’s funny, but when Wells doesn’t join my laughter, I know he isn’t entertained.
“That’s not funny, Mal.” There is it again. I love sweetheart falling from his lips, but hell, Mal is more personal. And this is what I want from him, personal.
“So, are you going to tell me what you found?” I ask, and the hitch in my voice or maybe the crack in the tone tells him the sudden shift of subject has me nervous as shit.
“We’ll talk, sweetheart, when I get home.” Home, it’s the one thing I’ve never been able to call my aunt's house. It had been the closest thing since the murders, but creating my own family is all I want in this world with the man on the other line.
“Okay, how far out are you?” The knob turns, and when I think Kenzie is coming back in the house, it’s Wells, and he has a large goofy big-toothed grin on his handsome face.
“You’re a jerk.” I stay in the large overstuffed chair because I want to throw my arms around him as I’d imagined as a young girl—picturing my future.
“Ah, that’s nothing compared to what you did to me.” He’s slipping out of his work boots, coming straight over to the couch, kitty-corner from me, and as close to me as he can get.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I retort, switching the subject. “So, the uniforms are going home?” I ask, using the same cop lingo as him and Stewart.
“Well, they are leaving soon, but the upper brass are putting uniforms with you twenty-four hours a day, regardless if you’re with me or not.”
I catapult from my comfortable position, sitting as close to Wells, as I can get without leaving this chair.
“What has happened to warrant this, from this morning?” My pulse races, as I feel my face redden, and a sheen of sweat ascends on my forehead. He doesn’t look away, taking my hand in his. “Wells, please don’t sugar coat it.”
With his free hand, he rubs the back of his neck. �
�We believe the murderer snuck into your house and wrote a message. And in that message, we think there’s another set of victims who have not been called in or found yet.”
I narrow my eyes, and confusion clouds my mind. Taking my free hand, I steady myself, though, I’m sitting on my own.
“What do you mean?” I begin. “You think he’ll kill again, then get out there and solve it before he kills another person.” It’s my demand, and he sits motionless. “Fuck, Wells, why are you still sitting there? I don’t want to be the reason another family is gone.” I fall to my knees and start swinging at him. He kneels next to me, taking my beating, his hands soothing my back.
“Mal, sweetheart. Is this what you think? The murders are your fault?”
I can hear him, his words penetrate my mind, and my thoughts, but the anxiety is overtaking me by the second. I attempt to stand, and I’m rattling something off, I can’t make out, but I still absorb every little lull Wells pours on me. “You can’t leave; I won’t let you,” he whispers in my ears. Is this what I’m saying—that I want to leave? I’m so out of it. I have no idea what’s coming from my mouth.
My senses are on overdrive. His every touch is intensified as if he’s in my skin. When the sound of the door slamming registers, he has me scooped up and in his arms.
“She okay?” It’s foreign to this scene playing out between Wells and me, though I’m positive the voice is Stewart.
“Yeah, just having a hard time…” His voice trails off, and kisses assault my skin. Again, the sensation is intensified by a thousand. I love his lips on me, though it’s for all the wrong reasons. People are dead because of me, people who will never have a love for another as intense as I have with this man.
But he’s not finished telling me about the other family and why he can’t save them. “No!” I scream because I won’t be the reason for another death. “You gotta go save them.” This part is coherent, and I know I’m urging him to go save lives at this moment.