Skin Deep

by Michelle Hanson

  “When will that be?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, the sound of tears glazing her voice. “I have to figure a few things out. I’ll let you know when I decide to come back.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

  Was I supposed to give her space? Did she want me to check in with her every day? She was part of my daily routine. I didn’t know how to get through the day without her being a part of it.

  “I need some time, Lena.”

  Before I could respond, her end of the line went dead. I sighed as the phone slipped from my hand and fell onto the couch.

  My face burned under the ache of my eyes as they filled with tears. The sleek outline of the phone soon blurred as I continued to stare at it. A trail of tears fell down each cheek. They dripped over my cheekbones, down my face, and slid along the curves of my neck. It wasn’t just because of the silence in the room that I was able to hear my heart break. It was also because the crack was so brutally deafening that it echoed through my chest and rang in my ears like a shotgun. It was all I could feel. My body numbed as the sting in my heart twisted and turned like a vine of thorns wrapped around a brittle trellis.

  I clenched my fists together as I brought my knees to my chin. I slowly rocked back and forth as tears poured from my eyes. Raking my hands through my hair, my body trembled, and my mouth filled with thick saliva. My nose began to clog, and I took a deep breath. I felt more than heartbreak over our inevitable break-up.

  I felt relief.

  I no longer had to play this charade. I no longer had to act as if I was happy and in love. She tried so hard to give me what I needed—what I wanted. But it wasn’t enough. I stayed with her because I was too much of a coward to face her. I could face a goddamn sociopath, but I couldn’t break someone’s heart, even if it was the kindest thing I could do.

  I was sure a part of her was relieved too. She no longer had to put me first. She was free of me and my fragility. I was no longer a cement block she had to carry as she swam to shore.

  I couldn’t let myself fall apart. Abi had been my protection plan for so long that I had lost my own sense of security. Whether I was with her or not, I was going to be okay. I had to be.

  A sharp pounding hammered through my head, and I dragged my hands and fingers across each cheek to wipe away the tears. I took another breath, my sinuses clearer, and I smoothed back my hair. Even if my world had crumbled beneath my feet, I had to be strong enough to stand.

  I picked up the remote control and turned on the television. An hour or so of mindless entertainment would help to clear my head.

  The flat, dry aftertaste from my tears saturated my mouth and fizzed on my tongue. I walked over to the living room window and pushed it closed. The musty, stale stench no longer lingered inside the living room, and the evening air had a sharp chill to it. I picked up my gun and walked into the bathroom.

  My gun had become a part of me as of late. I didn’t trust being alone in a room without it. Even if it was just a quick visit to the bathroom, my gun was in my hand. The hard metal clanked against the porcelain sink as I set it down. I stood in front of the medicine cabinet, and an unfamiliar woman stared back at me. She was tired and pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Defined lines were permanently etched in her forehead.

  When did forty land on my face?

  I opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out my toothbrush and toothpaste. The faucet erupted with water as I drowned the bristles. I smeared a thin glob of paste across the brush and started scrubbing. A blast of cool mint gel foamed over my teeth and tongue, and I spit the excess into the sink. I let the foam and running water swirl down the drain before I turned off the faucet.

  I placed the toothbrush back inside the medicine cabinet and picked up my gun. The faint sound of sitcom banter grew louder as I entered the living room. Before I could sit back onto the couch, a newsbreak interrupted the show. A sudden strike of cymbals clashed as the local reporter spoke.

  “A breaking story you won’t want to miss,” the newscaster said. She was dressed in a navy blue blazer and a white blouse with a ruffled collar. Her short, brown hair curled at the ends. “Local police officers have received several videos depicting horrific homicides,” she said as they cut to Pamela Westlake’s audition tape. It was the same video we had received.

  “No,” I mumbled aloud. How did they get this footage? “No….” I stood there, frozen, staring at the screen.

  “The videos are too graphic to be shown on television,” the newscaster said as the camera panned out to show another reporter beside her.

  Her co-anchor sat upright, his gray suit jacket bunched around his arms. He adjusted his navy blue tie and charmingly looked into the camera. “It sounds like we have another Faceless Killer on our hands,” he said.

  “Tune in tonight at eleven o’clock,” the female reporter continued, “for more information on the Casting Call Killer targeting West Joseph residents.”

  “No….” I slowly shook my head.

  My gun hung loosely in my hand as it dangled at my side. My heart shot into my throat as a loud ring blasted from my phone. My eyes slowly unlocked from the television as I walked back to the couch and picked up the phone. I didn’t need to look at the Caller ID to know who was calling. The roar from my phone wasn’t a mere coincidence.

  “Evans,” I said into the phone.

  “What the Christ is going on?” Flu screamed.

  “I take it you saw the news?”

  “Now is not the time for jokes, Sergeant,” he hollered. “My office—first thing Monday morning!”

  “Monday is Labor Day,” I reminded him. I was supposed to have the day off.

  “Murder doesn’t take a holiday, and neither do you,” he said before the line went dead.

  CHAPTER | FIVE

  “EVANS,” I SAID when I answered my desk phone.

  “My office,” Flu said and hung up. He wasn’t in his office when I had first arrived this morning. Murder may not take a holiday, but apparently it was allowed to sleep in.

  His office was fifteen feet from mine, but that didn’t deter him from using email or the phone to summon me.

  I had spent the rest of the weekend barricaded in my house. The local news crew had anxiously tapped at my door to get my thoughts and comments on the person they had dubbed “The Casting Call Killer.” I had been able to avoid their attempts, but I’d had a close call this morning walking into the station. I had a feeling my luck would wear out, though—and sooner more so than later, they would eventually find me.

  It had been four days since we’d received the second video, and I had just opened the case file for the victim, Fionna Michaels. I pushed the chair back from my desk and sighed. Flu liked to start his Mondays with a bang, and I had no doubt something big was going on—especially after a phone-call summons like the one I’d just received.

  Vertical blinds covered the large picture window in my office. It allowed small slivers of sunlight to slip through the gaps. The sun peeked through, trying to warm my iced coffee. A ring of condensation soaked into my desk calendar. Among the miscellaneous pens and wadded pieces of paper filled with scribbles and reminders, my computer monitor rested neatly in the center of my desk. The Official Seal of West Joseph, Ohio, served as the desktop’s wallpaper.

  Three black filing cabinets, each standing five feet tall, rested against the wall to the left of my desk. On top of the filing cabinets stood stacks of new binders and manila folders waiting to be used. There was nothing personal in my office, aside from a coffee spill that stained the beige carpet tiles. A soft hum buzzed from the fluorescent light just outside my office door. The sound followed me the fifteen feet to Flu’s office, and I politely knocked on the closed door.

  “Yes,” Flu said. I turned the handle and walked inside. His layout was similar to mine, with the addition of a wilted plant on the vent under the window. And his furniture was much nicer than mine. In front of Flu’s desk sat two ch
airs clothed in maroon leather with brass nail heads along their perimeters. I was surprised to see that someone was sitting in the chair closest to the door.

  “Agent Porter, this is Sergeant Evans. Evans, this is Special Agent Caitlyn Porter with the Bureau of Criminal Investigations in Lyons, Ohio. She’s going to assist us with the video case,” Flu said. Lyons is an hour west of here, and Flu was notorious for mixing things up, especially partners, to keep perspectives fresh. But he’d never involved BCI before.

  “Special Agent Porter?” I said as I looked at Flu and then to the person sitting across from him. If it was who I thought it was, we didn’t need a formal introduction. Our paths had crossed many years before. “Cait,” I confirmed when I saw her, my lips slowly parted in disbelief.

  Her green eyes, thinly outlined in black liner, slowly looked me up and down as a smile stretched from her full lips, revealing a beautiful set of perfectly aligned white teeth. Her meticulously plucked brows matched her dark hair, which flowed flawlessly around her heart-shaped face and down to the middle of her shoulder blades.

  “Cait Porter,” she said, extending her slender, olive-skinned hand—and ignoring the fact that she knew me just as well as I knew her. We briefly locked eyes, and I debated whether to play along with her charade. But I had to. I couldn’t make a scene in front of Flu.

  I slipped my hand into hers, and the warmth of her fingers absorbed into my skin. She was dressed in a black suit with a BCI pin fasted to the collar of her white blouse. Next to the pin, a visitors’ badge adorned the lapel of her tailored blazer, which fit snugly around her flat stomach and formed neatly against her small breasts. Her pant legs brushed together as she uncrossed her legs and stood from the chair. We were nearly eye-level, each of us five-foot-seven, and we locked eyes again.

  A sudden burst of skipped heartbeats fluttered from my chest as she squeezed my hand in hers. I was already warm from the sun soaking into my back via Flu’s large window, but a surge of unceasing warmth rushed from my head down to my toes. I lightly bit down on my lower lip, a smile broke through, and I let go of her hand. Cait clasped her hands together and took her seat. I bowed my head and slipped past her to the vacant chair. For a few seconds, I had forgotten Flu was even in the room.

  “Agent Porter specializes in cybercrimes,” Flu said as he passed Cait a two-inch thick manila file folder. I had the exact file already sitting on my desk, so I didn’t need to ask what was inside. Information on the first and second victims, along with screenshots of their audition videos, filled each page. “We don’t have much on the case and could really use someone with your expertise,” Flu said, appealing to her ego.

  “Thank you,” Cait said and graciously smiled. “Perhaps Sergeant Evans and I can go elsewhere to get started?”

  “Certainly, certainly,” Flu said. “Evans, go over the files and videos with Agent Porter,” he ordered as he looked at Cait. “We’ll get you a temporary badge so you have more access to the building,” Flu said and gestured to her visitors’ pass. She nodded and stood from the chair.

  A light breeze flew through my hair as I quickly led “Agent Porter” the short distance between Flu’s office and mine. She nonchalantly walked into my office, and I closed the door behind her. She had always been better at keeping her cool than I was.

  “It’s been a long time, Lena,” Cait said as she leaned her backside against the front of my desk.

  “A very long time,” I confirmed as I tried to mask how completely dumbfounded I was to see her. “Almost twenty years.”

  Cait and I met in the police academy. We’d been paired up during self-defense training. We flipped and rolled one another so far down the mat it was no surprise we ended up in bed together. She was the first woman I had ever been with. In my heart, at least at the time, I had wanted her to be my last.

  Back then, when I was with Cait, every part of my body ached for her. It was my first introduction to lust, and I craved her as much as any addict craved their drug. Simply watching her walk into a room was enough to make me buckle at the knees. Whenever I stood next to her, my heartbeat pulsed between my legs, and I instantly shuddered whenever her skin grazed against mine. Kissing her became a compulsion, and one that I welcomed. I wanted to be saturated in her—consumed by her. If I could have devoured her whole every time I tasted her, I would have. That’s how much I’d wanted her.

  After the academy, Cait and I were assigned to different departments, but our relationship stayed the same. For six months, we feasted off the hunger of being in love, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy her appetite. Cait quickly bored of the lesser criminals in West Joseph, and she transferred to the BCI. She didn’t tell me she was leaving. One day, she was just gone. And all that remained of her in West Joseph was a broken heart trapped inside my chest.

  “You look good.” She smiled. “West Joseph is treating you well. And ‘Sergeant,’ that’s impressive.”

  “Not as impressive as ‘Special Agent.’” I stared at her, and an uncontrollable twitch curled my lips into a smile. “Cybercrimes… that’s fitting for you.”

  She confidently nodded.

  “I’m sorry about what happened,” she said and lowered her head. She could have been referring to her moving to Lyons without telling me all those years ago, but something in my gut knew better than to believe she would actually apologize for such a thing. “Last year… with your case?”

  Apparently she knew about Lathan Collins.

  “I should have called,” she said.

  “I stopped expecting a call from you twenty years ago,” I said, letting my resentment accidentally come out. I sighed as I composed myself. “We hadn’t seen each other in a long time. You didn’t need to.”

  “But I wanted to,” she said. “I didn’t know if you’d want to hear from me… or if you’d even remember me.”

  “I’ll always remember you,” I said. And that was true. I could never forget my first love.

  She bowed her head as an apologetic smile spread across her lips. “I don’t want our history to cause a problem,” she replied.

  “It won’t. We’ve both moved on,” I declared. “Have a seat, Agent Porter.” I gestured toward the chair behind my desk. Cait sat behind my desk and set the case file Flu had given her to her next to my laptop. I stood behind her and leaned over her shoulder. The warm fragrance of her perfume nipped at my nose as I opened the folder on my computer that contained the two audition videos. “This is the first video we received, two weeks ago,” I said.

  I had recently watched the video of the second victim, Fionna Michaels, in the briefing room with Flu and the rest of the department. But it had been a few weeks since I’d watched Pamela Westlake’s video.

  I stood next to Cait with my arms crossed over my chest as the file began to play. Pamela sat alone in front of the camera as she reviewed a few sheets of paper she held in her hands. Her dark brown hair fell softly around her oval-shaped face, and she nervously pushed loose strands behind her shoulder as she continued to read quietly to herself. Her glasses reflected the glaring lights shining on her from behind the camera. She was in the same room that Fionna Michaels would later be filmed in.

  The narrow glass-block window, located on the far wall where one of the two archways was sealed off, was completely dark. This video must have been shot at night. Pamela adjusted her glasses, the glare from the lights followed in her lenses, and she set the papers on her lap. She peered into the camera, and she smoothed her hair around her face, massaging her scalp to add more volume at the roots. Her lips were heavily coated in a dark shade of peach, and the bright lights behind the camera highlighted her flawless tan skin.

  “You may begin,” the same distorted voice said. Pamela shifted her eyes to the left and smiled at the man off camera. She looked down at the papers on her lap and closed her eyes as she quietly mouthed a few words to herself.

  “Okay, I’m ready,” she said. “I won’t be home until late tonight. I have to study,” she s
aid without looking at the script.

  “You’re always studying. I never get to see you,” the distorted voice answered.

  “I have one semester left, and then I’ll be finished with grad school. I’ll see you tonight.” She paused as she adjusted in her seat. A dark figure, who wore a black mask over his face that looked more like a pillow case with eye holes cut out, stood next to Pamela. She looked him up and down, and although there was tinge of fright locked in her eyes, she remained seated.

  She jumped slightly when the dark figure put his left hand on her left shoulder. She looked into the camera and then off to the side where the distorted voice was and nervously smiled. The right side of her lips curled upward and her eyes darted from the lens to the man next to the camera.

  “In the next scene, you’re walking alone on campus. It’s dark out,” the distorted voice said.

  “Is this when he grabs me?” Pamela broke from character and gestured to the man standing behind her.

  “Yes,” the distorted voice quickly answered. “The scene ends with your throat being slit. Can we play that out, please?”

  “Okay.” Pamela sighed. A rustle could be heard off camera as Pamela nodded and stiffened her posture. She brought her chin upright, exposing her long, defenseless neck, and she closed her eyes as the masked man gripped his left hand around her chin and quickly slashed her throat with the knife in his right hand.

  Pamela sputtered and coughed as blood poured from her neck. It spewed from her mouth like oil erupting from a well. The slash mark looked like a gruesome grin, and the masked man let go of Pamela’s head. She clutched at her neck as blood seeped through the cracks between her fingers. It gushed over her hands and down her arms as she gasped for air, and tears trickled down her cheeks. Her pale blue shirt soaked up the blood like a lobster bib absorbing butter. The ends of her hair, now saturated in blood, created a sharp ombre effect. Blood pooled on the sheets of white paper on her lap. She sank back and slid off the chair, and her knees cracked as she landed hard on the ground. She swayed back and forth, the once rich color in her face faded into a pale white, and she slumped forward. Spurts of blood splashed around her and landed on the lens before the video cut off.