by W. Winters
With a prick climbing up my spine, I stare at the window, the gun slipping against my palms until I breathe out a frustrated sigh.
This is necessary. Getting used to being home alone after a break-in is something that simply has to happen. I’m not the only one who goes through this anxiety. There’s a break-in nearly every thirteen seconds, adding up to over two and a half million a year. So many people go through this. Still, as I set the gun down on the counter, remove my shower cap and stare at my reflection, I loathe that fear is leading my actions. I suppose the comparison isn’t quite the same. Two and a half million people don’t encounter serial killers … or get gifted flowers and forbidden kisses during their break-ins.
My gaze drops to my lips and I let my fingertips drift there. It’s not like I’d use the gun, I remind myself as I set it down and go about my routine.
I have questions and Marcus has answers. Answers Cody supposedly doesn’t have. Taking my time with my moisturizer and normal nightly routine, I let the accusations toward both Cody and Marcus build up in my mind. Right before shutting them all down again.
My bed creaks when I sit on the edge of it, spreading a sweet-smelling lavender lotion down my thighs and calves. The oversized sleep shirt I’m wearing is a soft cotton and I let myself breathe for a moment. Auntie Susan used to tell me, You have to give yourself grace; no one else will.
I can’t help the small whisper in response at the back of my mind: Cody would. Cody would grant me grace. Hell, letting out my frustration in a huff, I place the amber glass bottle of lotion on my dresser and know that he gave me more grace than he should have this past weekend. I don’t deserve it, and he knows that now. Yet he still wanted me and I can’t fathom why.
My mind is still a whirlwind of everything that’s happened in the past few weeks.
Pretending as if I’ll sleep at all tonight, I take the lightweight gun with me to the kitchen for a glass of water to bring to bed. This gun is coming with me everywhere. I have my firearms license and there’s not a chance in hell Cody would have let me walk out his door without it. The kitchen light is still on and the front door boasts a blinking red light, signifying the alarms are all set. If anyone were to try to join me tonight in this place, the alarms will sound and Cody will know instantly too.
I’m not blind to the fact that he’s circled the building multiple times. In fact, it warms something inside of me.
If anyone had told me years ago that he would look out for me like he has, I’d have told them to fuck off and stop filling my brain with white knight fantasies.
I didn’t get to where I am in life by relying on anyone else. Taking another sip of my water, I lean against the farmhouse sink.
This morning, naked in Cody’s bed, I came to a simple conclusion. I want to be in my own home and alone. No security detail, no prince in shining armor with a sad backstory. No nothing. I need to be on my own. How am I going to get better if I rely on Cody? I can’t and I won’t. Given this past weekend, I’ve obviously lost it.
Half a day on my own has already been good for me and clearing my head. The first half was spent arguing with Cody … again. The water rushes out of the faucet and I fill my glass before heading back to my mostly cleaned bedroom.
I spent the rest of the day unpacking and cleaning up the piles of paperwork, all while talking to my sister. We spent nearly three hours on the phone. First, I let her unload and then I did some unloading of my own, keeping out some small details. Like every piece about Marcus. Somehow, he’s become my secret and I don’t know what will happen if I tell anyone. Really I’m afraid of what will happen if I tell. I’ll lose him and quite possibly ostracize myself, lose my job … forfeit my sanity. No one knows I kissed him, and I’d like to keep it that way.
My phone buzzes on my nightstand, so I trade it for the glass of water and plop down cross-legged on the bed.
Mom is doing better.
I answer my sister quickly enough to hopefully put her anxious mind at ease: Good. I knew she would.
I’m still worried. Something’s just not right.
I hesitate, not knowing what to tell Cadence until I settle on: You’re a worrier. Mom is fine and she knows she can come to us if she needs anything.
My fingers reach up to the collar of my throat, to that dip where a thin chain would rest if I was wearing a necklace. It’s a nervous habit, but instead of touching metal it’s only skin brushing against skin as I assure myself, yes, she would. Mom would tell us if she needed us. She’d tell us if anything was wrong.
My message to my sister goes unanswered even though I’m aware she’s read it and so I start to doubt myself. Without waiting any longer for her to reply, I promise her I’ll be home this weekend and we can have a girls’ night. Just the three of us.
Her joke about me having time off over a reporter and bad press makes me roll my eyes, but more than that, I’m grateful for the distraction. I shake my head at the thought that all that’s wrong right now in my life is just bad press. What a pretty little lie.
The truth will come out and you’ll be back to your workaholic self. It’s the last text she sends before I plug in my cell and decide I really need to sleep. I’ve barely slept to the point where now my eyes are raw and dry. I got in a half hour catnap earlier but woke up with my heart beating out of my chest. If I can sleep tonight without waking up in a panic, I’ll count it as a win.
No sleeping pills, though; I want to stay alert. No, I think as I sigh heavily, I need to stay alert.
The moment I lay down, a satin wrap around my hair and the blanket tucked all the way up to my chin, my phone pings but it’s not my sister like I expect.
I’m only a phone call away. Cody’s message elicits a guilt that barricades my throat. I have to swallow it down before telling him I know and I’m here if he needs anything.
I add in a thank you, although it doesn’t offer me any peace. I shouldn’t be thanking him for my independence.
It’s not like we’re more than fuck buddies and I almost tell him that, but my wretched heart hurts daring to think the words, let alone say them. I don’t want anything more, and neither does he that I’m aware of. So all of this … the protection he’s given me … it’s just him being kind and doing what he knows how to do. I appreciate that.
I appreciate you, I write to him because that’s all I know how to say right now. It doesn’t explain why the back of my eyes prick with unshed tears and I suddenly feel so alone.
Lying on my back and staring at the spinning ceiling fan, I come to the only conclusion my exhausted mind has to offer: I think I’m falling for him and that’s terrifying. In all of this mess and turmoil, my heart is apparently in chaos too. Last night, I slipped deeper into his arms than I ever have before.
He’s only a phone call away and he’s texted me that twice already tonight. That’s good enough for now.
I swear I try to sleep. I forced my eyes closed, my bed is warm and cozy … I even got up around 2:00 a.m. for a drink of chamomile tea that I sucked down as quickly as I could so I didn’t have to have my eyes open for too long. All the effort to sleep doesn’t work; sleep evades me.
The alarm clock reads nearly 4:00 a.m. as I sit in my bed, reading through a folder of evidence. If I can’t sleep, I can at least work.
Ross Brass is the one case I chose. Even if his charges were dropped, he’s a suspect in another case. There are more murders with his signature and now an APB is out. But he’s in the wind.
It’s the case that makes the most sense for me to look into. With nothing but time on my hands and a stain on my reputation, both because of him, I want this bastard behind bars for more than one reason. It’s not a vendetta, though, it’s simply my fucking job.
It’s not the case that’s opened on my laptop laying only a foot from me on the bed. The dim light of it calls to me to come back to it even though I’ve read through it a dozen times already. There’s not much there, to be honest. Twenty years ago, detective work wa
sn’t what it is now. The lack of forensics and technology and protocols … it all adds up to incomplete files, scanned papers that are more incoherent thoughts and assumptions that aren’t backed up than anything else.
What is known is that there were three men, at least, who kidnapped, assaulted and sexually abused a number of boys ranging from six years to ten years old. Two men were found dead at the scene, where the remains of the missing boys were found buried along with evidence that they were fed to the dogs roaming around the property. The third man was badly injured by the dogs; with his throat ripped out, he died in the hospital hours after discovery. One boy was alive when police arrived, only to die shortly after in the care of medical professionals who simply couldn’t treat all his injuries.
The case is a horror story and a tragedy that kept mothers awake at night. It destroyed a small town in northeastern New York and I can’t even imagine what their families went through.
Including Cody, given that Christopher was only identified by teeth buried in the black dirt and the little boy who survived said he was alive only days before. A week would have made a difference in a life. A single week. The lead detective on the case retired shortly after and one note I haven’t forgotten is in the files. A note stating that he suspected one of the men nearly a year before they were caught, but nothing came of the home search.
A photograph stares back at me as I drag the device into my lap and lean against the headboard.
Christopher Walsh was one of the sixteen boys over the course of four years.
There’s no one to question now, only ghosts.
Yet questions pile up in my mind, refusing to let it go, because deep down inside I’m vaguely aware there’s something here that I’m supposed to know.
The creak of the floor is synonymous with a number of things. The first being a striking fear that runs through me, followed by a chill that rolls down my spine. The second and most obvious is an unsolicited exhale and the memory of the last time I saw Marcus.
His mouth on mine, his body so close I can still feel the heat of him. The detailed reminder that comes with a whisper of his kiss against my lips washes away so much of everything else in this very moment.
Still, my gaze shifts from the darkened corner where a man obviously stands, to my gun, very much in clear sight on my nightstand.
With my pulse both heating and racing, I struggle to move. Another creak of the floorboards shifts the shadow and I stare into the darkness.
“It’s only me,” he speaks, breaking the silence.
My question is merely a murmur. “Should I close my eyes?” I don’t know how I’m able to breathe, let alone whisper the words.
I can’t see a damn thing but I swear I know he’s smiling when he answers me, his voice gruff as if he hasn’t spoken in a long, long time. “It depends on two things.”
The thumping in my chest is harder and my body hotter in every way possible, to the point that I desperately need to move out from under the covers, but my body is far too paralyzed to do so.
“What two things?”
“Can you see me?”
A hesitant exhale accompanies the headshake I offer as an answer.
“Good.”
“And the second thing?”
“Is that gun for me?”
Lie to him, my inner voice hisses, but the truth comes out instead as I say, “Yes. You or anyone else who broke in … but I figured it’d be you. How did you get in?”
There’s a hint of something in my voice I can’t quite place. My gaze follows the slight shift along the dark shadow.
“Because you’re scared?” he asks and ignores my questions. A hardness as well as curiosity are present in his tone.
“Yes,” I say, offering the word but I’m not sure he heard it so I nod and with it, my arms finally move. Even that small a change seems too much and I do everything I can to be as still as possible.
It feels as if my body is trembling, but when I peer down, I’m still as a statue.
“Don’t be afraid. I don’t have any desire to hurt you.” The recognition of his voice, of the event that transpired in Cody’s kitchen loosens my coiled muscles. Again I peer at the gun before turning back to the darkness in the corner. He must be leaning against the wall.
“Does that mean I don’t have to close my eyes?” I ask him.
“You really should.”
My throat is tight as I swallow and the sound it makes is audible and wretched.
Marcus only chuckles, and then tsk-tsks me. “I said don’t be afraid, Delilah.”
“How long have you been here?” I ask him, focusing on my alarm clock that now blinks 12:12 in a harsh red, mocking me. My phone never alerted me that the power went out.
“Maybe a half hour … That seems about right.” Gesturing to the blinking clock, the man I believe is dressed in all black, or at least dark colors, only responds, “It had to be fast not to set off the alarm. Don’t blame yourself for not noticing right away. You were so caught up in … a case? I presume?”
I still can’t make out his features, but I know he has a hood above his head. Something that could easily block his face if he wished. His outline is defined with broad shoulders and the height of a tall man. Every other detail, though, is hidden from view.
So I keep my eyes open and ask again, “How did you get in?”
“The same as before. Does it matter?” he asks and I shake my head although it feels deceitful. Of course it matters. Every detail matters.
“I have a question for you,” I say and the words come out unbidden.
“I have some for you too, want to trade?” Amusement laces his response and I can’t ignore the stir in the pit of my belly.
There’s a touch of menace in his question but I gather my strength and my sanity, refusing to fall deeper into the hole I’ve found myself in.
“How did you get in before? The power didn’t go out then.” Although the second statement is firm with resolve, the moment it slips from my lips I question its truthfulness.
His tone reflects boredom and that strikes a chord inside of me as he turns his back against the wall, no longer looking at me. Instead he stares at my door and all I’m offered is a silhouette. “I know your security code; I know the brother of a man who was on your security detail who was preoccupied with … a more pressing matter. Another was busy with a broken light in the parking lot. Distractions. I get in with distractions and contacts and information that’s easily traded.”
With his tired and clearly disappointed response, he inhales deeply and I ask another question, some mundane part of me still stuck on the how or possibly not yet willing to dare ask about the why.
“Who told you the code?”
With another tsk he reprimands me, much more seemingly entertained. It’s then that I find I’ve repositioned myself to face him squarely. With his head still firm against the far wall of my bedroom, he turns to look at me and for a moment, I see an outline of his face.
The way he turned and a hint of light from a passing car down the back alley behind my apartment aid me in the moment.
There are details of plump lips and a sharp jawline. Not the hideous face of a killer I once placed on him years ago. I dare to think that he’s handsome even. But just as quickly as the light fell on his face, it’s gone.
“I have a question for you first.” A hum of what could be laughter is caught between his lips as he straightens to ask me, “Why didn’t you tell him?”
“Tell who?”
“I don’t want to play games, Delilah. The kiss.” The singular word is hissed although there’s no anger that lingers. Not even a threat lays on the word, yet it sounds worse than sinful. “You didn’t tell Cody about our … moment.”
“I—” It’s a struggle to identify why, caught in his gaze I can’t decipher. The moment after between Cody and I … I should have, but I lied. “I didn’t want to upset him.”
“It’s not because you’re ashamed?” he as
ks.
“Maybe partly,” I say and the heat of anxiety dances along my skin with the admission. It doesn’t escape me that this man could do awful things to me if only he wanted, and yet again, I find myself glancing at the gun. I’m dealing with a sociopath; at least that’s what his profile determined years ago. I’m well aware of the risks. A smidgen of fear trickles down my spine at the thought of disappointing him … but I imagine it would be much worse if I lied. Something in my gut refuses to let go of that hunch.
It’s Marcus’s sudden movement that prevents me from lingering on the horrid possibilities. With an easy stride he takes up residence by my vanity in a tufted chair that’s far too small for him. It’s almost like a throne he’s outgrown.
“It’s been a long day and I’m sure you have more … interesting questions than the last one you asked?”
His statement lingers in the warm night air as the heater kicks on and I can’t remember what I asked him last, only that my first question bored him. “I’ll give you one more question. Only one. Do you still want to know how I knew the code? Or is there something else burning inside you’d rather have answered?”
His posture isn’t expectant as he waits for me, but it’s in this moment I decide to take advantage of the opportunity to ask him what pricks at the farthest spot of my consciousness. The article about Cody’s brother and the other boys that would still light up on my laptop screen if only I brought it to life will haunt me if I don’t ask.
“Do you know about …” Hesitation wraps itself around me and I have to clear my throat before continuing, “What do you know about Christopher Walsh or the other boy who died … the one named Marcus?”
“Hearing that name …” His tone is dampened with sadness. “I know everything about it. More than any one person should. I know the men didn’t suffer enough. They never do, though? Do they? It’s not about them suffering.” He adds the last bit almost as if it’s a reminder for himself. “It’s about ending what they’re capable of.”
“You were there?” All the questions I want answered could fill a vault and I edge against the warmth of the comforter, closer to his now hunched figure. But all that anticipation is quickly put out like the flame of an extinguished candle.