Skin Deep

by Michelle Hanson

  I turned the knobs for both hot and cold, and a mixed rush of water flowed from the faucet. I stood in front of the sink, where a large rectangular mirror hovered over the dual vanity, and I watched myself as I pushed the lever on the soap dispenser. The syrupy gel gathered in my right palm, and I clasped my hands together as I placed them under the running water. Suds emerged from the pocket in between my palms and spilled over my knuckles as I lathered my hands.

  In one of two stalls behind me reflected in the mirror, I noticed a shadow under the door. The sound of a sandal scraped against the tile floor and echoed in the small bathroom. I watched two feet, complete with manicured toes, turn toward the back of the stall as flushing water roared.

  The stall door unlocked, and I brought my eyes back down to my hands and turned the hot water off. Cold water pooled in my palms, and I swiped my wet hand over the bridge of my nose, wiping the sweat from my face. The humid air quickly evaporated the drops of water on my face.

  A woman stepped out of the stall. She kept her head down, the soft light too dim to show her face. She had a small frame, and she gave off the impression that she was easily intimidated. An overwhelming feeling of familiarity swept over me.

  “Rachel?” I muttered when she lifted her head, and the dim light revealed exactly who she was. I looked over my shoulder to make sure the mirror wasn’t playing tricks on me. But there she was—standing right there. This was the first time I had seen Rachel Sanzone since that night.

  My vision began to blur as the room wavered in slow motion. I could no longer feel my heart beat, as if my heart had disconnected from every vein that held it in place. It fell from my chest and drifted deep into the contents of my rib cage. My eyes widened as I took in the image of the woman standing next to me. A thin film of surrealism glossed over her eyes, and she robotically took several steps forward. We stared at one another’s reflections in the mirror, wide-eyed and pale. Rachel gripped the counter to support her weight, her eyes still locked on me.

  “Sergeant Evans,” she gasped.

  In one motion, too quick for any radar gun to capture, a coat of armor wrapped around my body and prepared for a battle I didn’t know I was going to face. I knew being in West Joseph brought the inevitability of seeing Rachel. I just wasn’t prepared to see her right here, at this very moment.

  As the earth moved in slow motion, my chest caved in. I just stared at her. She looked exactly the same, although her beauty was mercilessly hidden behind her disheveled appearance. Her long auburn hair had been thrown back into a loose braid, and tendrils of split ends poked out the bottom. She was without makeup, her complexion pale, as if she had purposefully avoided the sun during the past twelve months. Her lips had grown into an almost permanent frown.

  I turned off the cold water and walked to the left side of the sink where the paper towels were. The towel immediately absorbed the layer of water on my hands as I tugged on it. It ripped from the roll, and I rubbed the dry part over my hands. I knew I should say something to her, but I didn’t know what. What could I possibly say to her that wouldn’t dredge up memories of that night? There wasn’t anything I could say.

  “Your book signing,” I finally said. “It doesn’t start for another four hours.” I didn’t understand why she was here.

  “I just got here… I need to eat before hair and makeup arrive,” she said.

  More silence fell over us. It was strange to look at her, as if I was staring at a figment of my imagination. A part of me urged my subconscious to wake up. Was this a dream? If it was, then seeing Rachel meant I would soon see him. Was he hiding in the other stall, waiting to make his move?

  “I hope it goes well.” I forced a smile. Maybe if I left the restroom before Lathan could make his appearance, this delirium would remain a dream instead of an aspiring nightmare. “It was nice to see you, Rachel.” I turned toward the doorway.

  “I never told you thank you,” Rachel blurted as my fingers tightened around the doorknob. I was almost out of here. Just ignore her and keep going.

  “I got your letter,” I said against my better judgment.

  “Yes, but I never did say, ‘thank you,’ in person.” Rachel’s voice shook.

  “You don’t have to.” Why couldn’t I open the door and end this conversation? Why did I have to put myself through this? Was it to give her closure? She was the only one of Lathan’s victims I could give it to.

  “I need to,” Rachel said. “I want to.” She swallowed hard as I imagined her coming up with the words she needed to say to me. She could write an entire novel about her experience, but she couldn’t come up with one damn sentence to thank me? “Do you have nightmares?” she asked. Her voice was weak and barely louder than a whisper. “I do,” she confided.

  I froze in place with my back still turned to her. I couldn’t answer her question. Doing so would only confirm I was just as much his last victim as she was. And I couldn’t be his victim. I wouldn’t let him have that over me.

  The back of my throat tightened, and I squeezed my eyes closed in a quick attempt to keep the tears from pouring down my face. The weight of her honesty crumbled the armor I had placed around me. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly as my eyes began to dry. I couldn’t do this—not here, and not in front of her. I held my breath in an effort to keep my emotions intact, and I turned my head over my left shoulder.

  “Congratulations on the book,” I said coldly. I gripped my hand around the metal knob and opened the door. I lowered my head and stepped into the barren hallway. The steel door closed behind me with a thunderous crunch and created a barricade between Rachel and me.

  I walked past blurry images of people sitting at their tables. I felt like a drunken fool leaving a bar. If only I was drunk, maybe that would make this feeling more bearable. I didn’t understand where this anxiety was coming from. My hands and legs tingled as my body fought to stay in control of my thoughts. Images of Lathan wearing Angela Truman’s face—mixed with images of Rachel shackled in the basement—erratically played in my mind, like a child playing with the television’s remote control. Each image flashed too quickly to actually know what was going on, but I could feel it. The images were so engrained in my brain that I could paint a picture based purely off memories.

  I opened the patio door and saw Cait. She had gathered both our trays and placed the crumpled food wrappers on the top. She was walking toward the trash bin.

  “Are you ready?” she asked. She was calm and completely at peace with her surroundings. She wasn’t trying to hide from her past. I envied the way she could just be in the world. Completely at ease, as if tranquility was in her blood.

  “Yes.” I forced another smile.

  Cait led the way from the patio to the car. I hadn’t realized how close we were to the bookstore until I noticed the line now wrapped around the building. Out of curiosity, I glimpsed at the people standing in line. I couldn’t help but wonder why they were so fascinated with a killer. What was it about Rachel’s story that intrigued them so? Was it the fact that good conquered evil?

  That was my hope, anyway.

  “There she is,” I heard a voice say.

  “Sergeant Evans!” a woman shouted.

  I looked more closely at the people in line. I couldn’t quite determine who had called my name, but I gave a general wave in that direction. As I unlocked the driver’s side door, I looked at Cait. Her eyes darted from me to the crowd, then back to me again, as a stunned smile crossed her face.

  I pressed the automatic unlock button, so that Cait could open her door, and we both got into the car at the same time. The heat trapped inside the car clung to us like plastic wrap, and I quickly started the car to turn on the air conditioner.

  “I had no idea it was like this for you,” she said as I navigated out of the parking lot, purposefully avoiding eye contact with anyone in line.

  “It’s a lot better than it used to be,” I replied. “It’s also the anniversary of his death. I’m sure
that has a lot to do with it.”

  “I wanted to ask you about that,” Cait said. “Do you think it’s more than a coincidence that the videos are being sent at the same time as the anniversary? Could they have anything to do with one another?”

  “These murders are just as violent as Lathan Collins’ were,” I said. “But the nature of the crimes, the location, the MO—that’s all different.”

  “Why do you think the videos are being addressed to you?” Cait asked.

  “Flu told you about that, huh?” I had hoped that piece of information would stay between he and I.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I think there’s a reason why they are. I just don’t know what it is.”

  “Me neither,” I admitted. I knew she was right. It was no coincidence these videos were being sent to me on the anniversary of Lathan Collins’ death. Unless another video arrived, I didn’t know if I would ever figure out why.

  But another video would mean another murder.

  CHAPTER | SEVEN

  THE NEXT MORNING, three reporters huddled by their respective vans as I drove my car in front of the police station. One newscaster held a black umbrella over her honey-blond hair as the cameraman next to her was showered in raindrops. I recognized the reporter from the news channel that broke the story about the Casting Call Killer last Friday night. She was also one of the reporters who had lurked outside my house over the weekend.

  The cameraman had his hair slicked back into a low ponytail, although that might have been from the rain. He wore a plastic poncho over his jean shorts and yellow short-sleeved shirt, which fit cozily around his pudgy waist. The camera that rested on top of his right shoulder was also covered in plastic. He and the reporter stood close to their van, with CHANNEL 10 NEWS written in tall bold letters. The reporter had her face pointed toward the ground when I pulled onto the street. But with some sort of sixth sense, her head quickly snapped up when my car approached the entrance to the parking garage.

  It was my strict personal policy not to speak to the media. No matter what I said, they would twist my words into a misleading segment to boost their ratings.

  “She’s here,” the reporter said to the cameraman. That alerted the other two television crews to my presence. Channel 6 and Channel 4 also had a reporters and camera operators positioned in front of the station. They, too, wore the same plastic ponchos to shield their clothes and cameras from the light rainfall. It was Channel 10, however, that had relentlessly clung to my front yard over the weekend as they’d tried desperately to get an interview from me.

  “Sergeant Evans,” Channel 10 said as she ran to the front of my car. She stood in the street, a few feet in front of the car, and blocked my entry into the parking garage.

  The cameraman stood close by her. He closed his left eye as he looked into the viewfinder and pointed the camera at me inside my car. The reporter walked to the driver’s side door, her heels scraping against the asphalt, and knocked on my window. “Sergeant Evans,” she repeated, the microphone gripped tightly in her hands. “What are your thoughts on the Casting Call Killer?”

  The cameraman moved to the side, unintentionally granting me access to the parking garage. It was the first clear shot I had to get away from them. The other news crews waited alongside the sidewalk, where they were permitted to be. Channel 10, however, were the rule breakers—and ruthless at it too.

  I stepped on the gas pedal, and my car lunged forward. The honey-blond reporter tsked her teeth at the cameraman for moving out of my way. She followed closely behind my car as I entered the garage. I parked three rows over from the metal door that led into the station, and I shut off the engine. I was at least a hundred feet away from the door.

  My knuckles turned white as I gripped the steering wheel. I took three short breaths and breathed out slowly. A knot grew inside my stomach and traveled up my esophagus before it loosened. It broke into long tentacles that fastened along my throat and locked themselves around my vocal cords. I sucked in a deep breath, my vision clouded with dark specs, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

  Ten… nine, I counted to myself. My arms began to shake as my fingers stiffened. A layer of sweat built up between my hands and the leather steering wheel.

  Eight… seven… six. I breathed out and then in again. I forced my eyes open and peered into the rearview mirror. The black specs faded from my vision, and I focused on the reporter, who stood behind my car. The cameraman stood next to her.

  Five… four. The sea urchin unraveled its tentacles from my throat, and the strain behind my vocal cords eased.

  Three… two. I breathed out and glared at the reporter through the rearview mirror. I clenched my teeth, and my jaw pulsed with fury.

  One.

  With a body still full of rage, I opened the door and lunged out of the car. The door slam echoed through the garage, and I steadfastly walked toward the reporter, who was now moving toward the entrance of the station. She smoothed her hair back as she switched the microphone from her left hand to her right. She motioned for the cameraman to stand next to her, and they blocked the path from my car to the station’s door.

  “Sergeant Evans, can you tell us more about the Casting Call Killer? Is it just a coincidence these murders are surfacing on the anniversary of Lathan Collins?” Four silhouettes emerged from entrance of the parking garage. Channel 6 and Channel 4 must’ve decided to press their luck alongside Channel 10. “Sergeant Evans, do you have a potential suspect?”

  I ignored her questions as I walked past the cameraman. I was less than seventy feet from the station’s door. Once I was there, I would be safe. I only had to make it seventy more feet. One foot in front of the other—keep my head down, keep walking.

  Sixty more feet.

  From the corner of my eye, I noticed a silver Lexus pull into the garage. The dark, tinted windows hid the driver as the car turned down the center aisle to park in a vacant spot.

  “Sergeant Evans, Channel Six news—should the citizens of West Joseph be worried?” asked a reporter with long red hair before she shoved a microphone in front of my face. The cameraman for Channel 6 stood directly in front of me; the light on top of his camera shone in my eyes, making it impossible to see the door.

  I looked at the ground. Six pairs of feet huddled around me. I looked up. Bright lights from the three cameras blinded my sight. I clenched my hands into fists, and I continued to move forward. I could make it fifty feet with my eyes closed if I had to. My neck stiffened, and the knot in my throat returned as I took another step. My foot collided with the cameraman in front of me. He wasn’t going to move. The news crews tightened their huddle around me, and my lungs collapsed inside my chest.

  I took a deep breath, but there was nothing to breath. There was no oxygen around me. I was in a vacuum, surrounded by these vultures. I couldn’t breathe. I opened my mouth to tell them to go away, but nothing came out. My throat tensed as I choked on the barbed wire slicing into it.

  “Sergeant Evans,” Channel 10’s voice echoed in my head. The bright light turned my vision from white to black, and then to red. “Can we expect a more thorough investigation than the Lathan Collins case?”

  The entire world stopped. The six people around me slowed to a dead halt as that question haunted my mind. The woman’s voice dropped to a low pitch, each word coming out slower than the last.

  I swallowed the barbed knot stuck in my throat and cocked my head in the direction of that vile excuse for a human being. I stared into the light that shone in my face. I didn’t need to see her to know where my fist was going to land. My fingernails dug into my palms as I tightened my hand and brought it back before I shot it forward with all my might.

  A sudden force closed in around my shoulder and bicep, blocking the punch before it could land on that beast’s face. “Lena, don’t…” I heard someone whisper into my right ear. I tried to break from the grasp around my arm. Heavy pressure seized my shoulder as my arm was brought down my side. “You’re harassing an offic
er,” the voice said as I was pushed forward.

  I clenched my body. My abs burned as I tried to break from the person’s grasp. The camera lights that were once in my face had been turned off, and the news crews backed away as I was pushed through their suffocating huddle.

  Forty feet.

  Now thirty feet.

  The door was just thirty feet away.

  “It’s me, Lena. They’re going. They’re gone.” I recognized the voice now.

  “Cait,” I whispered.

  “Keep walking,” she said.

  My muscles relaxed as the strain through my body eased. I took a deep breath. I could breathe again. The oxygen had returned.

  Twenty feet.

  I looked back and saw the news crews being escorted from the garage by a uniformed officer. They were so willing to cooperate with the officer’s request. Where was their compliance when I was alone?

  Cait loosened her gripped around my arm once we reached the metal door that led into the station. I fished for my badge inside the front pocket of my black trench coat and swiped it over the key pass. A low beep chirped and the metal door unlocked. Cait pushed the door open with her free hand, and I walked into the stairwell with her close behind me.

  The door closed quietly behind us, and I stood in the center of the stairwell as I peered up the staircase. The floodlights reflected off the metal handrails that hugged the cement walls. My head ached as I tried to blink away the assault from the camera lights. White spots clouded my vision as I concentrated on the stairs. The fragmented spots slowly blurred together, allowing the sharp lines of each step to come into focus.

  “Are you okay?” Cait asked as I stood in place. I tightened my body again to keep the uncontrollable shake from taking over.