by Billie Reece
Taking a sip of coffee, I glance over at her kind and gentle round face. I don’t question how she knows that. Detective Uzzo and Suzi are longtime friends. I’m sure Uzzo told her. “Yes,” I say.
“Make sure you take care of yourself,” Suzi tells me as she continues to knit. A retired teacher and a widow, she happily spends her days knitting and gardening—and subtly reminding me to take care of myself.
“I will. I know my limits.”
Suzi doesn’t respond to that, just nods, and for a few seconds I stare at her long wavy hair with its swirls of auburn and white. Creamsicle. That’s what it always reminds me of.
“Did you know children are born with mirror neurons?” she asks. “It helps them socialize and usually the neurons fall away. But some people, like you, keep them or they come back after a traumatic event, like what happened with you and your sister. Sometimes this makes it difficult to know the real you because you’re constantly reflecting those around you. It’s also what makes you good at connecting with killers.”
Vincent has said as much so I keep looking at the side of her face, waiting for her point.
Suzi glances up then, smiling. “I always want to know the real you, Caroline. Always.”
I nod, needing to hear that more than I realize. “Thank you.”
“I meant it.”
She goes back to knitting and idly I watch her as my mind tracks back to three months ago and my nervous breakdown. Vincent was helping the state with a case in West Tennessee surrounding a couple who held their six children captive in a basement. They tortured and eventually killed all six kids ranging in age from two to fourteen. I couldn’t take it. The bodies of the children. The torture they had endured. I snapped. I completely crumbled. Seeing adult dead bodies is one thing but seeing those small bodies tapped a part of my psyche that I never want touched again.
The purr of a motor fills the quiet morning and it doesn’t surprise me in the least when Vincent pulls in, effectively disrupting our time.
Suzi doesn’t glance over at his SUV when she asks, “Shall I go?”
With a sigh, I nod. “Probably for the best.” Though neither Vincent nor Suzi have said it, I get the feeling they don’t care for each other. I think Vincent feels Suzi is replacing him, both as a parent and a confidante. And Suzi feels Vincent has too tight of a hold on me.
With that Fallon would agree.
The thing is though, Vincent knows my darkest secrets. Things I would never tell Suzi. And Suzi knows my current thoughts. Things I don’t want to share with Vincent. Like the fact I’m questioning my major in Criminal Psychology. I don’t want to get my masters. And I’m not sure profiling is the career I really want.
Vincent. Suzi. It’s a balancing act, for sure.
The one thing I do know is that I love the normal conversations that I have with Suzi, like about her granddaughter or her pet pig or plants that grow in different environments. I can’t recall the last time I had a normal conversation like that with Vincent.
Standing, she wraps a long green scarf around her creamsicle hair, tucks her knitting down inside a wicker basket, gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze, then walks down the front porch steps. With only a nod of acknowledgment to Vincent, still sitting in his SUV, she cuts across the dried winter grass heading for the trail.
Vincent hangs up with whoever he’s talking to and, before he’s even closed the door of his sleek SUV, he’s saying, “You’re not returning my texts. Is that your way of telling me you don’t want to be involved in this case?”
“No, that’s my way of telling you my phone is inside and I haven’t heard your texts.” Really, it’s my way of stalling. I don’t like what happened last night and I’m still not sure if it was a nightmare or a hallucination.
Propping his loafer on the porch, Vincent leans in. “I was hoping we could talk through a few things.”
“Okay.”
“What’s your take on the honey and charcoal?”
I give myself a second, not allowing my brain to go back in time, to focus on the here and now. “Someone who believes in natural remedies. Our killer is justified in his own way.”
“I thought you said he wanted to be caught.”
“You know as well as I do that we’re in the beginning stages of this. I’m bound to change my mind as I work through things.”
“A killer who is a naturalist.” Vincent takes his gray flat cap off, trailing his fingers over his cleanly shaved head, thinking through things. “Okay, going with that, a naturalist would—”
“Use everything.” I sit up in the rocking chair, feeling that surge that comes with knowing I’m heading down the right path. “Three dead girls with only the third returned. We’re not sure the first two girls are connected to this case.”
“Yes, but it’s a working theory.”
“Then going with that and the naturalist idea, I’m not sure we’ll find the first two bodies because there’s nothing to find.”
Vincent wedges his hat back on. “Go on.”
“Three similar girls over the past three months, meaning Caucasian and roughly the same age, sixteen or so. Before that, nothing. Or at least nothing we know of yet. So the killer, The Organ Ripper, is either new to the area or his prior victims aren’t on our radar yet. We’ve already established the cuts were made by someone with skill and, now going down the line of a naturalist, I don’t see it being a medical doctor or a nurse. Alternative medicine maybe…” I take a sip of my coffee, rolling it around in my mouth, thinking for a second.
Vincent takes a step back, folding his arms and looking down at his loafer, also thinking. “As you said, the three girls are similar and that would hold significance to The Organ Ripper. But the returned girl wasn’t raped so defiling isn’t what this is about.”
“He’s trying to replace something lost or something he is about to lose. We’re likely looking for someone with a daughter around the same age. With the cannibalism aspect, he’s either eating the girls himself or he’s feeding the girls to his daughter.”
“This case may be over with before it even starts.”
“Let’s hope.” I grab my coffee mug and go to get up when the sound of a familiar engine rumbles in the distance.
I glance toward the horizon to see Fallon peak the crest. The morning sun backlights the black Camaro’s silhouette as he cruises down the hill, making his way toward us. He’s only been gone a few days but still my heart flutters. I smile and wave like he’s been gone weeks or even months.
A few minutes later, he pulls in beside Vincent’s SUV and cuts his engine. Opening the door, he runs his fingers through his shoulder-length blond hair and swings his long leg out to stand. Tossing his aviators onto the dash, he unzips his brown leather jacket and his eyes stay level on mine as he carefully approaches.
Vincent extends a hand to shake. “Fallon, it’s been awhile. How you holding up? School going good?”
Fallon nods, his eyes flicking between us, curious.
“I’m doing another case,” I answer Fallon’s unspoken question.
“You aren’t ready for this,” he tells me, kicking into protective mode. “Need I remind you what happened three little months ago?”
Vincent holds up his hand. “It’s just this one.”
Fallon scoffs. “And then it’ll be another and another and another.”
“The price of my imagination,” I say, making a lame joke.
Fallon just looks at me. “That’s not funny.”
I sober. “I know it’s not. I have to. It’s likely cannibalism.”
Fallon sighs. He looks at Vincent. “Promise me you’ll watch her.”
“I promise,” Vincent says.
Read Caroline’s story in MONSTER.
Copyright © Billie Reece 2020
The right of Billie Reece is to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1976.
All rights reserved. No part of this publicati
on may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Steven Novak