A Secondhand Life

by Pamela Crane

  “Don’t worry, baby. It’s probably nothing, but get checked out just to be sure. Okay?”

  “Yeah, I will,” I mumbled.

  But Brad’s offering was no reassurance, for somehow, deep in the recesses of my now-empty gut, I knew something was wrong. Something big. And it had to do with murder, a serial killer, and a dead girl.

  Chapter 3

  Sunday, April 6

  3:09 a.m.

  I was twelve years old. I sat in the backseat of our red 1989 Subaru station wagon, antsy to get to gymnastics class. I urged Dad to hurry, but he shushed me, assuring me we’d be plenty early.

  As he turned his head back to calm me, in that split second the side of the wagon imploded. I blinked and found my body contorted into a mangled cluster of limbs. My eyelids slid closed. A cool breeze chilled me as I was ripped out from beneath the crushing weight of metal. But as soon as I was released from the vehicular coffin, I found myself sitting in front of a television. Only it wasn’t my television. Not the one I remembered from my childhood, at least.

  Rabbit ears poked up from the TV, which sat on the floor. Next to my pile of Pogs, a line of bottles—various beers, but mostly Budweiser—lined the coffee table in front of me, blocking my view. I kicked several over onto the hardwood floor, stained and scratched with years of abuse, though I was sure there was nothing left to spill. Wherever I was, I felt at home, and after a commercial break for Super Soaker, I was ogling Luke Perry and despising Jennie Garth, both at the same time. It wasn’t fair how perfect her life was—gorgeous and rich. A combo that none should be worthy of, for it was too much power for one person to properly handle.

  I possessed neither beauty nor riches. Instead, I was homely and poor—a typical girl from the ghetto.

  The recliner was a scratchy wool monstrosity upholstered in green plaid, so I wrapped my legs in a soft knitted blanket, creating a leg cocoon. Cuddling into the nook of the cushions, I let my imagination wander into the pleasures of angst-soaked high school TV melodrama at its most outlandish and idealized best/worst—depending on your point of view.

  Donna’s blond hair was styled in cute braided pigtails, so I decided to braid my own. I fingered my hair, twisting it into two braids. Satisfied with my new look, I envied the latest fashion trends that Mom’s minimum-wage-plus-tips job would never be able to afford.

  My bag of Doritos crinkled as I placed a cheesy chip in my mouth. I shivered from a brief wave of cold, the last vestiges of winter’s chill. The back door creaked shut, but I ignored it, too engrossed to care if it was Mom arriving home from the bar with a new boyfriend on her arm. Sober or drunk? It was better I didn’t find out.

  When I heard a shuffle behind me, I twisted my neck to glance behind me but saw nothing. As I turned back to the television, a grip tightened around my mouth and I couldn’t breathe. The fingers locked down too hard for me to open up my jaw and bite my way to freedom. I tried to inhale through my nose, but his hands covered my nostrils. Shaking my head frantically, I leaned forward, but he was too strong. He jerked me back and held me still. Then gripped harder.

  Seconds were passing. Precious seconds of air bidding me farewell.

  I whimpered, hoping my unspoken message would reach my attacker:

  Please let me go. Please let me breathe.

  Still, no air.

  I began blacking out, my eyes watering, wondering if Luke Perry’s face was the last I would ever see.

  As an ebony cloud shrouded me, my mind screamed for help. Then a picture flashed before all went black. A familiar face.

  It was Gina Martinez.

  I needed air … needed air … needed air …

  **

  “Help!” I cried, gasping as I bolted upright in bed. My lungs couldn’t get enough oxygen as I sucked in lungful after lungful. In an effort to calm down, I examined my bedroom. The teal walls, the tastefully simple décor, and my digital clock revealed the ungodly hour of three thirty in the morning. Sure enough, it was my apartment, and I was alone … or so I hoped.

  The dream had felt so real, like a memory, yet so foreign, like it belonged to someone else. I had never been allowed to watch Beverly Hills, 90210 at that age, and I hadn’t bothered to catch up on the show as an adult, so how did I know those characters? And where had I been? It felt surreally like home … but certainly not my home. Mom never drank, and she kept a pristine house, even during her mourning. And despite her full-time work, a chef-approved dinner was served every night, dishes and kitchen clean before bed. The Rolodex of my mind ticked through my childhood friends, houses I’d visited. Nothing clicked.

  Was it some long-buried memory, or a figment of my imagination? Then I recalled the last image I had seen. Gina Martinez, the girl who had been murdered two days ago. Was it her house? How would I know that? I’d never met the girl.

  I wanted to forget it all and go back to sleep, but I couldn’t let it go.

  After nearly an hour of lying in the dark, afraid to close my eyes for fear of returning to the nightmare, I decided it was morning enough to start my day. I threw on a pair of sweats and a UNC sweatshirt. I brewed a cup of chocolate mint tea and sipped the sweet warmth, staring into the emptiness. My eyes darted at every shadow. Every sound sent me jumping.

  I could tell already that it was going to be a long day. And worst of all, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was going to die. More than a feeling, in fact. I knew it. The nightmare fueled this premonition.

  When the tea couldn’t sooth my frazzled nerves, I picked up my cell phone and texted Brad.

  Babe, u up? Need to talk.

  A minute passed before my phone beeped in reply.

  Up now. Wzup?

  Can i come over?

  U serious?

  As a heart attack. Pls?

  Is this abt yesterday?

  I’ll explain when i get there. So can i come over?

  Of course, babe. Door’s unlocked.

  I grabbed my coat and keys and double-locked my door on the way out. I rarely locked the bolt and knob, but I wasn’t taking any chances. As the cool early morning temperature helped clear my head, I realized something.

  I needed air.

  **

  When I arrived at Brad’s, the lights were off and he was still in bed. I snuck in, bolted the door, and slipped under the covers, spooning next to him and hoping to subtly wake him. I needed to talk through my thoughts.

  My restless shifting around must have worked, because soon his brown eyes groggily opened.

  “Sorry to wake you,” I said.

  “Liar,” Brad teased. “So what’s the problem? You need some of my lovin’?” he said with a coy grin as he nuzzled my neck.

  Refusing to feed his advances, I went on talking. “Something is wrong with me.”

  “Mmm, nothing’s wrong with you, baby. You’re perfect.” He kissed my jaw, tempering my urgency, but I leaned away.

  “Brad, this is serious. I need you to listen to me right now.”

  He shifted upright and circled his arm around my shoulders.

  “All ears. Is this about what happened yesterday?”

  “Sorta …”

  He sighed heavily. “What’s going on?”

  Where should I begin? I could find no logical beginning.

  “Remember how when we were watching the news yesterday I got sick?” Brad nodded, silent. “Well, I went to bed thinking about that girl, Gina, and her death. I ended up having a horrible nightmare and she was in it. I think my dream is trying to tell me something about her murder. Like I might somehow know who’s murdering these girls.”

  Even as I said it I winced at how ridiculous I sounded. As if I had some prophetic ability to see things, to reveal things that the cops couldn’t. But the look of incredulity on Brad’s face pissed me off. I was the only one allowed to think myself crazy.

  “What’s that look for?” I growled.

  “You realize what you’re saying, right? That you are connected to these murders.”
>
  “No,” I corrected, “not connected to them. Let’s call it a”—I fumbled for the right phrase—“supernatural hunch.”

  “Supernatural, as in … what exactly?” he queried.

  “I dunno. Something beyond the natural, I guess.”

  “That’s pretty crazy stuff, Mia.”

  “I know it sounds nuts, but … well, I can’t explain it. Something in me knows who’s behind this, and I need to follow my gut on this. This could save lives, Brad.”

  “And how do you propose to do that—to catch this killer?” His sarcasm was biting.

  “I don’t know yet. I guess I’ll figure it out as I go.”

  “As you go? Are you kidding me? Mia, this isn’t Nancy Drew. You’re talking about a serial killer and actual murders here. You could be killed! Stay out of it. You have no business playing detective.”

  “And you have no business telling me what to do,” I retorted. Sure, I sounded childish, but I couldn’t think of anything more adult to say. My ire was rising to the point where I couldn’t keep my thoughts—or my words—straight. Or it could have been the meager three hours of sleep making me nonsensical. Either way, Brad was pushing my buttons and I didn’t appreciate it.

  “Mia, I just want you to be safe. I care for you. Please promise me you won’t pursue this.”

  “I can’t do that,” I said matter-of-factly.

  “If you can’t assure me that this is over, then I can’t guarantee that I’ll be around to watch you get hurt.”

  Whoa. Brad took the argument to a whole new level, and he definitely wasn’t playing fair anymore.

  “Are you breaking up with me?” I asked point-blank.

  “That’s up to you, Mia. If you don’t let this go, then I guess you’re forcing my hand. I don’t want to break up with you, but I can’t sit idly by watching you chase danger like it’s a toy.”

  “Whatever.” With that, I scooted to the other side of the king-sized bed, as far away from Brad as I could get without falling off, and pouted until the sun peeked through the cream, metal blinds, casting the bedroom in hues of orange.

  Maybe my mom was right about me all these years—I had indeed inherited my father’s stubborn streak.

  Chapter 4

  Sunday, April 6

  12:42 p.m.

  I watched from the Starbucks window, observing how the people flowed with antlike organization. A line through the door, a line at the register, a line through the drive-thru … all following one another, all mindlessly moving from point A to point B. Who among them valued life, cherished each moment? My speculation: none.

  That’s what was wrong with people these days. They didn’t cling to the joys of life until they were gazing down at their own funerals from heaven, or perhaps upward from hell, wondering where all the time went. They lay waste to their lives until the end comes—that’s when they mourn over their regrets.

  The children are our only chance. Start by changing their attitudes early on and you kill the root problem. Remind them to embrace each moment … yet I knew how stubborn adolescents could be.

  Gina Martinez had been stubborn. She spent her last moments fighting, screaming, crying … what a waste. Apparently my message wasn’t clear enough. I’d keep working on it, though. It had taken me years to perfect my message, and still I had so far to go. I wondered how many lives it would require.

  Twenty years, and still they were ignorant. They thought Violet Hansen was my first victim … the blind fools.

  There had been many others before the blue-eyed brunette was stumbled upon by a group of kids at the American Village Park where I buried her beneath a shallow bed of leaves. It would only be a matter of time before they connected the dots to reveal two decades’ worth of victims. Though I couldn’t boast and take the credit. For it wasn’t my work, but the work I was sent to do.

  One by one, I would help the young girls of America see the truth.

  A black Lexus pulled up to a parking spot in front of my window view. A gorgeous yet overstated car. Was someone compensating for something? Probably a workaholic, neglectful husband trying to keep his wife faithful by buying her expensive toys. We’d see just how devoted she was …

  A girl stepped out of the front passenger seat, then entered the coffee shop with her mother trailing her. The girl was probably twelve years old, though she wore the trampy clothing of a woman, revealing far too much leg. A hooker in training, apparently. Her mother was no better, showing boob job cleavage and pants suctioned to her jacked-up rear. They were both in need of some truth.

  The girl’s natural red hair was pulled into a ponytail, and her cheeks and nose were dusted with freckles. She was every bit the image of fleeting innocence.

  A perfect illustration.

  Chatter about the Triangle Terror infiltrated the conversational din, and a grin crept along my lips.

  “Oh, it’s just awful what he’s doing to those poor girls,” a white-haired lady whined to a mother of two across the aisle. “What has this world come to?”

  “I’m afraid to let my kids out of my sight,” the mother replied, clutching her toddler to her side.

  I had become a celebrity overnight. But hearing about my achievements wasn’t what brought me here. More important matters beckoned me.

  I stood up from my table by the window, discarded the rest of my black coffee, and headed for the register, pretending to examine the pastry selections.

  “Amy,” I overheard the mother say as they approached the cashier, “order what you want.” The two ordered their beverages, then Amy’s mother pulled out her wallet.

  I made my move and rested my hand on the counter. “Actually, allow me.” I delivered my most charming smile, a surefire winner. None had been able to resist it yet. I visibly eyed her up and down, resting my eyes on her chest for appearance’s sake. No one suspects a typical pervert of murder, after all. It’s always the nice, normal, charismatic guys—the Ted Bundys—who are the crazy ones.

  I tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. “Hi, I’m Jude. And you are?”

  The mother looked at me warily. “Married,” she said, flashing her wedding ring. At least two karats adorned her finger.

  But I was easily five years her junior, so that gave me an advantage against money.

  “Mmm, that’s too bad. Well, still, let me treat you both. I insist. Two pretty ladies like yourselves shouldn’t have to pay their own way.”

  Amy’s mother laughed. “Quite the gentleman, huh?”

  “I like to think so,” I said.

  “Well, thank you for the coffee, Jude.”

  Judging by her emphasis, I knew she suspected that wasn’t my real name. Clever woman. Apparently she knew this game all too well.

  “You’re quite welcome. Oh, and I didn’t catch your name,” I prodded.

  “That’s because I didn’t give it to you.”

  Oh, this woman was good. I was immediately hooked.

  No matter. I’d find out what I needed to know in due time.

  “Well, then, if you’re ever not married, I hope to run into you again.” With that I winked, collected my change, and left. Yes, I would definitely be seeing her again … at her daughter’s funeral.

  **

  On my way to the parking lot I slowed my gait as I passed their car. The interior was immaculate, not a car one would throw dirty cleats in. I found nothing noteworthy inside, but the back window gave me just what I needed. An Orange High track team bumper sticker. I might have to make it to a few track meets this season.

  I typed the license plate number into my notepad on my cell, along with the name “Amy,” and headed for my car, intentionally parking across from the main entrance to Starbucks. My silver Honda Accord was perfectly forgettable and blended nicely with the thousands on the road. I sat behind the wheel, turned on some Journey, and tapped my hands against the wheel to the beat of “Don’t Stop Believin’.” I waited, keeping an eye on my rearview mirror for their exit.

&nb
sp; Thirty minutes into my vigil the two ladies walked out the door, a bounce in their step, to-go cups in their hands. They got into their car and drove through one light, heading for the main intersection. I wondered how long I’d be following them, especially on a Sunday—shopping day. As most men can attest, it was grueling lingering about while women shopped.

  As luck would have it, twenty minutes and six turns later they pulled into the driveway of a reasonably unpretentious two-story home in a generic subdivision. I pulled my car over to the side of the road as they headed into the garage.

  The home was normal enough. No apparent bells and whistles. Hell, it didn’t even look like they had a security system. I typed the address into my cell’s notepad and made a mental note of the surroundings. Trees lined both sides of the yard, obscuring nosey neighbors’ views of the house. I looked for motion lights and saw none. The backyard was small but separated from rear neighbors with another line of trees. How much more perfect could it be? I admit, I had a knack for picking the right girls at the start.

  It was turning out to be a perfect Sunday, brimming with opportunity.

  Chapter 5

  I spent the rest of Sunday alone. I wasn’t sure where things stood with Brad. After our argument the night before, we both needed a break to cool off, to think things over. Although, my mind was unwavering in its determination to figure out what was happening to me. I only hoped he’d get on board.

  I hiked the day away on Little River Park’s trails, using the solitude that nature offered to indulge in some much-needed contemplation. The chaos of home was too distracting. There, laundry, dishes, and work beckoned my attention. Here, I was free to think and let go of the burdens of everyday chores.