A Secondhand Life

by Pamela Crane

  “But no leads otherwise?” I asked.

  “No, nothing concrete. But I’m going to find this guy if it kills me.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t,” Landon muttered.

  Evan smirked at him, then shifted his glare to me. “Well, I worry more about you, Mia. You’re getting a little too close to the heat. You could get burned.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Evan’s eyes were unblinking, his words deliberate. “It means: Stay out of police business.”

  “Are you telling me to back off? Because I’m not backing off,” I said through clenched teeth. This guy was really starting to get on my nerves.

  “Let me be clear, then. You’re out of your league and you’re going to end up hurt if you don’t back off. Leave the police work to the police.”

  I raised my hands submissively. “Message received.”

  It sounded like a threat to me, so I’d have to do my research discreetly, which made things a little more difficult. But I had an advantage. I had Alexis helping me.

  “I’m not trying to be a jerk, Mia, but you don’t know who you’re dealing with here, and I’d hate to see another innocent person die.” If it was an apology, I had to really read between the lines of his stern tone to find it.

  After an uncomfortable good-bye, Landon and I headed to the parking lot. A surge of hope rushed over me. The killer was still local, which meant he could be found. Sure, I was playing a dangerous game of hide-and-seek, but I was determined to win.

  Chapter 12

  Through slitted eyes I could feel his gaze burrow into me, awakening me from momentary blackness as I slipped in and out of consciousness. Watching me, yet somehow gazing through me. To him I wasn’t a girl, rather an object to torture. A wild animal … just like him.

  The sting of his handprints lingered on my neck. I wanted to reach up and soothe the ache, but I knew the slightest movement would be my last. Play possum, I repeated to myself. It wasn’t hard to do, since the blood loss made me feel too weak to move.

  The silhouette across the room moved, then swayed.

  I heard a groan, then a moment later he was hunched over, throwing up all over the floor. The smell made my nose wrinkle in disgust, but he was too occupied with his own sickness to notice my movement.

  When he was done retching, he ran to the kitchen, grabbed the entire roll of paper towels off the counter, and furiously started wiping up his mess, spreading bleach across the floor. I heard him yelp in pain when he slipped on the blood-vomit concoction and fell on his knees. He grabbed his right knee, giving it his brief attention as he pulled a shard of broken beer bottle out, then continued to mop.

  Even in my semiconscious state I heard sirens in the distance, and my hope for survival soared. With each second he wiped faster, then jumped up and shuffled to the kitchen. He pulled the bag out of the can and tied it shut. I was certain it was over, that he was gone as the sirens neared, until he looked back at me, watching me for a long moment. Willing myself to remain motionless, I held my breath.

  He hurriedly limped toward me, I assumed to finish me off, until … he didn’t.

  Instead he hobbled to the TV and viciously kicked it like it was the devil. He either broke it or the fall pulled the plug, because the screen went black before he gave me one last glance. I caught a momentary glimpse of short blond hair as he passed through the kitchen and ran out the back door, clicking it locked after he slammed it shut.

  When I knew he was long gone, I shifted my chin downward to examine my abdomen. So much blood! Oozing all over my blanket, soaking Bart Simpson, trickling to the floor. I briefly wondered how much blood I had left in me before my eyelids grew too heavy to force open anymore. Then I closed them in shuddering relief.

  **

  I woke up to sweat-soaked sheets the morning after that dream … rather, nightmare. My heart thumped painfully against my ribs, and my temples throbbed from the aftershock of what I had seen.

  Yet I wasn’t afraid … not like I was the first time it happened.

  Sadly, I was becoming numb to the anguish of Alexis’s torture. When the dreams had first started I couldn’t stomach them, couldn’t handle witnessing her murder, smelling the blood, sensing the fear. But with each sequence, that sickness fueled my lust for vengeance. Instead of being appalled by the scenes unfolding before me, I was subconsciously looking for clues.

  Somehow these dreams would lead me to the killer.

  I vowed to avenge this poor, lost life.

  I scoured my memory, bringing to recall every detail from the dream. My mind was slightly hazy at waking up so abruptly, but most of the particulars still stood out. I grabbed the pen and pad that never left my side. The pen tip hovered above the paper as I closed my eyes and imagined the location, the atmosphere, then Alexis.

  I first conjured the scenery.

  The smell of stale beer. The flicker of the television. The clink of bottles falling.

  Then an image popped into my head: the back of a blond head.

  Whoever it was had blond hair. I didn’t know many blond men, which could help narrow down my list.

  I continued to squeeze my eyes closed as I let the scene unravel moment by agonizing moment.

  I focused on the back of his head, willing him to turn around. In fragmented slow motion he turned toward me, yet the distance masked his features. The cut of his jaw blended into the cheekbones, creating a hazy blob of a face. As if zooming in with a camera lens, I examined harder, but the face was still a blur.

  Sighing, I gave up on the face and continued searching for clues elsewhere. His clothing—blue jeans and a blood-soaked shirt—were nondescript and forgettable. Just average men’s clothes. Typical black boots, wiped clean so no footprints would give him away.

  The bag of garbage hung over his left shoulder, but I caught something I hadn’t noticed before. His right hand reached into his pocket and pulled something out. Something small and shiny, but I couldn’t tell what.

  He exited my field of vision and slammed the kitchen door shut before I could get a better look.

  Then I heard a click.

  The sound nudged me from my trance. It sounded too real to be in my head. My eyes popped open, searching the room to see if something—a strong gust from the vent, God willing—had closed my bedroom or bathroom door, but both doors hung open. Had I actually heard something?

  Get a grip, Mia.

  My nerves were too shot to sit around anymore, so I got out of bed and paced the room, pooling my thoughts.

  I was looking for a blond, male killer. It wasn’t much to go on, but I hoped the rest of the pieces would come together soon.

  I figured a morning run might do me some good and help clear my head, so I changed into a T-shirt and shorts, stepped into my running shoes, and grabbed my keys. As I closed my apartment door behind me, I locked the deadbolt—a habit I had only recently developed.

  Click.

  That sound—that was what I heard in the dream.

  The killer had locked the door behind him … using a key.

  Oh my God, he had a key!

  What did that mean? He was someone they knew well enough to hand a key to. Landon had said that Jennifer had a series of revolving boy toys coming and going, but did they have keys? Doubtful she would give a one-night stand a key. So that eliminated them.

  The only remaining suspects were the uncle or a neighbor, assuming a neighbor had a copy of the key. Although, if they left a key hidden somewhere outside, anyone who knew of its hiding place would have access … which for a stranger would require some thorough surveillance. Either this person knew the family well enough to know where they kept the spare key, or the killer was that good at watching them.

  A shiver caused goose bumps to pop up on my arms and legs as I imagined a ghostly figure parked across the street studying their routines, their guests … their children.

  As my feet hit the sidewalk, my pace increased from a walk to a jog as my
black, pink-soled New Balance running shoes—in bad need of a good deodorizing—slapped the pavement in an easy rhythm. Passing the last row of gray apartments, I turned the corner and headed into a subdivision of cute houses with their friendly sidewalks and homey landscaping. I shook away a fleeting image of Brad and me as lord and lady of our own picket-fenced manor, lazily rocking on our wraparound porch, surrounded by tortoise-shaped planters spilling forth vibrant blooms.

  Brad had often spoke about getting married and buying a place together in the ’burbs—our own piece of paradise, he’d say—while I had continuously avoided the talk by throwing in a joke to change the subject. Why ruin a good thing, babe? I’d say. ’Cause your toilet-seat-up privileges will be revoked if we live together. And the moment a woman says “I do,” she becomes a nag. You sure you want that?

  He’d assured me that wouldn’t happen to us, but I was always afraid of taking that chance. Brad was perfect enough to ruin me, for sure.

  I had ventured half a mile into the subdivision when I finally caught myself daydreaming about Brad and mentally slapped myself.

  “Focus!” I scolded. “We’re probably done with, anyways. No point dwelling on it.” I hoped no one heard me talking to myself as I picked up speed.

  With my head back in the zone, I began formulating possible scenarios about how the Triangle Terror and Alexis knew each other while my blood flow revitalized my brain.

  If indeed Alexis’s killer and the Triangle Terror were one and the same, I had to compare facts. Just like Alexis’s murderer, the Triangle Terror also got in and out of homes undetected. How? It couldn’t be possible that all of his victims left a key under their doormat. Somehow he appeared trustworthy enough to gain entrance without breaking in. I needed to find out how.

  As I trudged up a windy hill that circled back toward my complex, I decided that I needed to pay Alexis’s uncle a visit. It had all started with Alexis; she was the first victim for a reason. Someone close to the Worthington family had to be her killer. Someone they trusted … which meant I could trust no one.

  Chapter 13

  23 Miller Bend Road

  Hillsborough, North Carolina

  Tuesday, April 29

  When Amy Watson opened the red front door to her cookie-cutter house, looking five years older than her actual age with her skimpy clothes and heavy makeup, I knew I had picked the right girl. Luckily she hadn’t recognized me from Starbucks when I “randomly” approached her at the mall two days ago posed as a talent scout. While it had required some of my best stalking skills to find alone time with her over the past couple of weeks, eventually the perfect moment arrived.

  Sunday afternoon her mother dropped her off at The Streets at Southpoint, a popular mall that satisfied the needs of the shopaholic upper class with its luxury stores nestled side by side along a fake indoor “street” to give the appearance of trendy outdoor shops.

  Because of its upscale market, it had a feeling of “safe” to it, giving parents security in letting their children wander off in unchaperoned herds. As if the rich weren’t capable of heinous acts! All the same, the parents’ naiveté spelled their children’s doom.

  Today, standing confidently on Amy’s front porch stoop, I came prepared. I adjusted my ball cap emblazoned with the Ace Talent and Modeling insignia—the acronym ATM in fancy lettering. Understated yet witty. It was the same hat I’d worn at the mall, and as long as I kept my chin down, no mall camera should have gotten a good angle on my face.

  Despite my lack of practice, it was so easy to play the talent agent role—one I had pulled off only once before—as I preyed on her vanity. What young girl didn’t want to be a famous model or actress these days?

  “Hello,” I introduced myself as Amy stood in the doorway, “I’m Gary Billing from Ace Talent and Modeling. We met a couple days ago at the mall.”

  She looked at me stupidly, her head cocked. I smiled ingratiatingly and repeated, “Gary Billing. The mall. Ring a bell?”

  I watched her memory jog to catch up, then recognition dawned on her face. “Oh yeah … the agent, right? Uh, hi.”

  “You filled out a form with your contact information. I hope you don’t mind my dropping by. Are your parents home?” I asked, already knowing the answer was no. I had watched them both leave for work that morning and knew their schedules didn’t bring Mom or Dad home for another hour and a half. Two working parents made my choice of victims so much easier.

  “Sorry, but they’re both at work.”

  “Hmm,” I contemplated aloud, “well, I wanted to talk to them about your modeling potential and doing a photo shoot. We’re looking for fresh faces to represent, and you have the look we’re searching for. Height, build, facial qualities, and sense of fashion … you could be a star if you got serious about it. Is that something you would be interested in doing—modeling?”

  Another question I knew the answer to. We had briefly touched on it at the mall when I had first approached her with the proposition. Even then I watched her self-esteem blossom as she was singled out among her friends for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

  She nodded eagerly. “Yeah, of course I’m interested! What kind of modeling? Like, could I get on TV?”

  “Mainly print ads, but we also represent actresses as well, so that’s a definite possibility.” Oh, how fun it was to feed the ego, knowing that moments later it would be crushed. “I’ll need to speak with your parents to go over the terms of our contract and to arrange a portfolio for you, but I can leave them my contact information to get in touch. Do you mind if I come in and jot down some information so they can contact me?”

  “Sure.”

  Silly, silly girl. It was pathetic how simple it was to manipulate people these days. Feed the ego, harvest wealth.

  At this point the door swung open, granting me entrance. I sauntered past Amy into the living room like I owned the place. She trailed me, awed by my poise and supreme confidence, sitting catty-corner to me on the sofa when I dropped onto the love seat. I opened my briefcase and pulled out a handful of brochures. I handed her one.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  The glossy, professionally designed brochure depicted several famous faces that Ace Talent supposedly represented, along with a list of what Ace clients could expect. I owed Kinko’s a hearty thanks for making my ruse even easier to pull off.

  “This is some general information about the company, how you can prepare for your career as a model—or actress—and some things you’ll need, like a portfolio. Feel free to look through it and let me know if you have any questions.”

  As Amy flipped through the colorful brochure, her concentration presumably on the glowing reviews for Ace Talent and Modeling Agency, I planned my attack. I waited until she got comfortable, and I knew I had about two minutes’ worth of Amy reading to get into position. I had timed it several times, adjusting the length of the brochure to buy me exactly the minutes I needed. Murder was a meticulous craft.

  Once I knew she was fully absorbed, I made my move.

  “Do you mind if I get a glass of water?” I asked.

  “Sure, I’ll get it.” Amy shifted to stand, but I urged her to stay seated.

  “No, you get acquainted with that brochure. I can find my way around the kitchen. I’ll be right back.” I rose and headed to the kitchen, quickly circling back around through the dining room and across the entryway, but this time with gloves on. I peered in, and sure enough, she was engulfed.

  She never saw me coming.

  Never noticed my approach behind her.

  With a swift movement I grabbed her neck, squeezing hard as she reached behind her to claw at me. I basked in the beauty of the moment. Her gurgled screams. Her hysterical kicking. Her terror as she attempted to twist her neck free while I wrung the life out of her. I held my grip for one eternal minute, then another, until her arms and legs slackened, then her head drooped to the side. With one hand holding firm to her neck, my other yanked out the con
cealed knife hanging inside my belt and jammed it into her side. She flinched and groaned—still alive, but barely. And not for long.

  The knife sliced through her abdominal tissue up to the hilt, tearing the muscle beneath it. She reflexively tried to push my hand and the knife away, but it was too late. The damage had been done. She’d bleed out all over her forty-dollar Hollister T-shirt before help arrived.

  Every moment I savored … her whispers of breath, the death that glazed over her eyes, her innocence at last returning. I was saving her from the impurities of the world, from the malicious bite that the media—that false prophet—had taken from her flesh. Death nipped at her, and it enthralled me, because it was only through me that she could be saved.

  Moments passed, then minutes … I’d spent too much time, I knew, but I couldn’t pull myself away from the sweet indulgence of watching her die. I waited for that climax, that pinnacle of satisfaction. Then it came, and I knew I had stayed too long.

  I had one thing left to do, then my work would be done.

  I walked to my briefcase, opened it, and retrieved a sealed packet, inside it a pad saturated in rubbing alcohol. With careful, delicate strokes I wiped all remnants of makeup from her porcelain skin, revealing the youth concealed beneath caked-on foundation and blush. In several dabs she returned to her childhood. The sight made my heart flutter. I tossed the pad on her lap as a screw you to the police, tucked the knife in a plastic bag to clean later, and shouldered my bag. As I headed to the door, I heard a thump. I turned around to find her fingers twitching.

  She was still alive.

  I wasn’t finished after all.

  Her chest rose with ragged, wheezing breaths.

  Just as I stepped toward her, I heard the expensive-sounding thunk of a luxury door closing outside—too close for comfort. I ran to the window and peered out.

  A large man in a tailored suit walked around the front of his black Mercedes. Her father was home … an hour too early. I wouldn’t have time to snap her neck, but I hoped the blood loss would finish her before an ambulance arrived. I ran to the kitchen, looking for the back entrance. Spotting the door, I hastily opened it and bolted out, being sure to silently close it behind me. I squatted along the back porch in wait, then slowly crouched my way along the back of the house, before turning the corner and running the rest of the way to my car, with my briefcase bouncing wildly against my thigh.