A Secondhand Life

by Pamela Crane

  Mia Germaine.

  A pretty woman with an intelligent mind. More of a threat than I had anticipated when I found her lurking about, clearly investigating me. It wasn’t apparent at first as she smiled sweetly and played the part of an ally, but then I smelled curiosity—the whiff of dogged snooping. That’s when I decided she was my enemy.

  I couldn’t reveal myself to her just yet, though. The moment I popped my head up, it was over. And I wasn’t up for a game of Whack-a-Mole with Mia. For while Mia imagined she was holding the bat, it would be her head on the platter in the end. And I didn’t want that … yet.

  For now I would simply continue my work. Blissfully clueless, Mia would continue prying each coffin of information open—and each time she’d only find velvety emptiness within. My trail was well covered, and Mia didn’t have the investigative chops to find what she was looking for. Lucky for her.

  After our introduction, I had no desire to kill her, for she epitomized what I had spent decades trying to achieve with my message: Women renouncing materialism and adulterated sexuality, and instead pursuing wholesomeness and modesty.

  Yet to her detriment, Mia’s gifts of purity were being tainted, and her curiosity jeopardizing my mission. Left with no other option, I would send her a warning, and perhaps she would grant herself a respite from her newfound interest in my work. But I knew her type. Relentless. Determined. And thus destined to die. Yet everyone deserved at least one chance, I figured.

  Sitting outside her apartment complex window in my car, humming along to Roy Orbison’s “In Dreams,” my eyes held fast to the white-gray flicker of her television screen two stories up, followed by the occasional appearance of her silhouette as she paced to the kitchen or bathroom or whatnot. I imagined her curled up on the sofa, her feet tucked under her plump rear, while her baggy sweatpants and oversized T-shirt shrouded her toned, slender figure.

  Closing my eyes for a brief moment, I pictured her, fresh-faced and vibrant as her hair hung in a messy ponytail, the naturally curly wisps framing her face and accentuating her hazel eyes. Yes, it would be a shame to lose such a natural beauty, but it was a necessary evil if she didn’t comply.

  An idea occurred to me. Making a simple point could end the whole charade of girl-turned-detective. And I knew just the message for her.

  My Nikon D7100 camera was always at hand, so I felt for it along the floorboard of my backseat and grabbed the carrying case strap. After removing the camera and adjusting the focus, I took several well-timed pictures of her passing by the window, adjusting the zoom to capture a decent image of her face. It might be grainy or pixilated, but clear enough for her to recognize her own silhouette beyond the window blinds. Once I had a sufficient number of images, I slipped on my gloves and pulled out of my duffel bag an envelope with one word on the front: Truce.

  I carefully removed the memory stick from the camera, then dropped it into the envelope along with my letter explaining the situation. It read, in a fastidious handwriting I’d perfected that was not my own:

  Dearest Mia:

  I write this as a treaty between two individuals with a common goal—restoring the lost among us.

  Your investigation into my activities has recently come to my attention. While I appreciate your endeavors to serve what you call “justice,” perhaps your vision is blurred by a false reality that you’ve come to accept as truth. There is no justice, my dear, for the dead leave justice at the grave. And you, too, must leave it there.

  One of irony’s greatest accomplishments is that you cannot punish the wrongdoing of another without committing a wrongdoing yourself. Your wrongdoing, Mia, is interrupting the purification of a vanity-polluted society. Take this as a first and final warning. I will be watching. Continued prying into my activities will result in another loss of life: your own.

  Succinct and tactful, yet firm. Content with the wording, I tore off the adhesive strip and sealed the envelope shut. Overall, I felt my approach was both diplomatic and judicious. Certainly a woman of her caliber would appreciate that and abide by my wishes. And if not, well, she sealed her own fate.

  After checking and re-checking to ensure no one was watching, I slipped out of the driver’s seat, leaving my door cracked open, and jogged into the glass atrium containing rows of mailboxes. Finding Mia’s number amid the masses, I slipped the envelope inside and trotted back to my car to resume my watch.

  A few minutes passed, and I decided it was time to retreat for the evening. I had been running on fumes lately, suffering from an exhaustion I didn’t recognize. Usually the thrill of the chase invigorated me, but with Amy still alive, worry consumed me.

  Tonight I would finalize plans for her impending death—again—and ensure nothing got in the way this time.

  Chapter 19

  I admit I am a lot of things. Argumentative. Adventurous. Yet emotionally guarded. But fearful was not on the list today.

  If anything, the letter I held in my hand made me more angry than afraid. I had spent the past few weeks wary of every little thing. Checking my rearview mirror for someone following me wherever I drove, sprinting to my car at night, regularly scanning the grounds outside my apartment windows, and searching the shadows … but not anymore.

  The threat I received only fueled my intensity to find the killer. Before today, it was merely a guessing game if I was on the Triangle Terror’s radar or not. The idea of the unknown scared me more than the known. Now that I knew he was watching me, I knew to look for him. He was there—always there—and thus I knew where to find him.

  Perhaps I was the bait needed to catch this guy.

  And with my current mindset, I was willing to take that risk.

  Of course, the risk could cost me my life. While I understood that, the enormity of the threat didn’t penetrate me like it probably should have. Lately, all I had to live for was avenging Alexis. Brad and I hadn’t spoken for God knows how long, my job was unsatisfying, and I had lost any interest in bettering myself.

  I used to hike, meet up with Jackie for lunch to catch up on the latest gossip, enjoy happy hour after work, lose myself in a good book. The details that previously constituted my full life were whittled away, one by one, as I immersed myself more and more in finding this killer. I was barely eating and fitfully sleeping in my loveless, empty, pathetic life. But I couldn’t return to my old life until I caught him. It was no longer a choice for me. It was a compulsion.

  Come and get me, Triangle Terror. I have nothing to lose but my mind … and it’s already halfway gone.

  My hand quivered as I clutched the piece of paper, wrinkling it as my fist tightened. I stood in the breezy entrance where rows of metal mailboxes lined one wall and a stairwell consumed another, wondering if he was watching right now through the glass door as residents ambled in and out. I checked the parking lot, but the coward was probably hiding in his car, too afraid to face me. That’s when I decided to call his bluff … and haughtily piss him off.

  With resolute steps, I walked out of the mailroom and down the sidewalk, toward the parking lot. When I found a place that seemed fairly out in the open, I held up the letter above my head and tore it in half. But once was not enough. I slid the halves on top of each other and ripped it again, and again, and again, until it was nothing but a pile of tiny scraps in my palm. Then I let go.

  As the shreds fluttered to the concrete curb, I regretted not saving the intact document for the police to check for fingerprints. Although, I doubted the killer was careless enough to leave any, so it probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway. At least I made my point if he was watching.

  I wasn’t scared.

  I pocketed the memory stick for now. I’d look through it later. I had somewhere to be that I hoped ended this charade once and for all.

  **

  With help from the front desk, I discovered that Amy Watson was out of ICU and moved into room 301, but it took some coercing, and name-dropping, to convince the officer on duty to let me into her hospit
al room. While allowed visitors, all had to be ID’d beforehand. I hoped my little white lie—that my “good friend” Detective Evan Williams had requested that I come down and interview the girl since she wasn’t talking to the cops—didn’t catch up with me before I was able to extract some details from her. If Amy gave me any worthwhile information, Evan could thank me later.

  When I passed through the heavy door, the first thing I noticed was all of the flowers and gifts. Either this girl was beloved, or her family was overcompensating. More than twenty colorful floral arrangements filled the room, overflowing from the mint-colored corner table onto the floor. Stuffed animals and baskets brimming with goodies took up the rolling table positioned at the foot of her bed. It was enough to become a hazard as I stepped over a basket left at her bedside while tripping on another, nearly face-planting into the electric bed from which Amy watched me with some wariness.

  “You’re popular, huh?” I teased with a laugh as I managed to wind past the obstacle course and approach her.

  “I guess,” Amy replied with a shrug as she touched a button on the side rail and raised herself to an upright position. “The nurses told me they’re going to have to throw most of this away if I don’t do something with it. But I’m not really hungry.”

  Other than the tubes connected to her arm, she looked amazingly well for a person who had nearly been killed. Despite the harsh white overhead lighting, makeup brightened her eyes, lips, and cheeks, and a cute ponytail lolled against her starch white pillow. Save for the pale blue hospital gown, she looked ready for a night on the town.

  “Hi, Amy. My name’s Mia. I’m a friend of one of the cops investigating your attack. He told me what you’d been through. How’re you feeling?” I probed, sitting on the corner of the bed at arm’s length from her.

  “I’m fine.” Then she stopped. “I’m sorry, but what are you here for?” She eyed me skeptically. “The guard only told me that you were sent to talk to me. But I’m not allowed to talk to strangers, and I don’t know you.”

  I had figured she’d be reluctant. The last time she trusted a stranger she was stabbed. I had to be tactical in my approach.

  “I’m not here to ask questions, Amy. Just here to help. I knew a victim who was killed by the man who attacked you. Her name was Alexis. She is—was—a good friend of mine. I never got to say good-bye to her. I just wanted to let you know that I’m here for you if you need to talk to someone. Totally confidentially. That’s all.” I rose as if to leave, but Amy’s hand on my forearm stopped me.

  She pursed her lips and examined me. “I heard there was another girl—but she didn’t survive.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s right. But there was more than just one. Several. And one was my friend.”

  “I’m sorry.” She paused a contemplative moment, then spoke again. “I’m afraid if I tell what I know that he’ll come back for me.”

  “Is that why you haven’t given the police a description of what he looks like?”

  “Sorta. That, and I can’t remember a lot of it. I’m scared to remember, if that makes any sense.”

  “Of course that makes sense, honey. But we can’t catch him if you don’t try to remember what he looks like.”

  “Do you think he’ll come after me if I tell?”

  “I won’t let him.”

  “Promise?”

  I crossed my heart with my fingertip. “Cross my heart. Just between us girls.”

  “So your friend, Alexis, was she my age?”

  I nodded. “Yes, she was twelve too. Loved 90210 and Funyuns. And had a great sense of fashion.”

  “Ew, Funyuns? They are so gross, and smelly. Cheetos are better.”

  “I agree with you. Never been a fan of onions. But I could go for some Cheetos, now that you mention it. Do you want me to run down to the vending machine and get us some?”

  “No need,” Amy said, reaching down with a weak grunt into one of the baskets on the floor. She pulled up a bag of Cheetos, already open and half empty. Her free hand tenderly touched her stomach as she winced.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  She lifted her gown to reveal a large bandage on her abdomen. “Still hurts a lot,” she explained, tucking the gown back under the covers. “I’m not really supposed to eat this stuff, but snacks help when I can stomach them,” she said cheerily. “The doctor said it’s better than nothing. C’mon.” She waved the bag at me.

  “Aw, thanks for sharing. I’ll bring you another bag later to restock your supply,” I offered with a smile.

  “That’s okay. I have plenty of food that I’m not allowed to eat.” I laughed at her joke as she gestured to the cream-colored tray next to her IV where a stockpile of chips and cookies peeked from a grocery bag. “I’m hoping I leave here before I get a chance to finish eating it all.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be out in no time, Amy. You know, you remind me of Alexis. She was really pretty and super sweet.”

  Though the rouge hid it, I could tell she was blushing at the compliment. But it was true. I imagined that Alexis was just like this girl—full of life and beauty. My heart broke for Alexis all over again, and for this girl who would probably never fully emotionally recover from what he did to her.

  “Thanks. I’m sorry you lost your friend,” Amy said with sincerity, adding conversationally, “So, uh, do you have a lot of friends who are kids, Miss Mia?”

  I chuckled. “Not really. No, Alexis was a childhood friend. She died about twenty years ago.”

  “Are you saying this guy has been killing kids for twenty years?” Her eyes widened, and for the first time I noticed how green and vibrant they were.

  “Yeah, Alexis was his first victim. But I’m sure you don’t want to hear about that. Do you want to talk about something else?”

  “I guess. But I just don’t understand. How did they not catch him yet? Do you think he’ll come after me again? My mom and the cops say he won’t, but I don’t believe them.”

  It was the third time she touched on this fear, but I couldn’t lie to her. “Do you want the truth?”

  She nodded warily.

  “To be honest, Amy, I don’t know. But if we don’t find him, yes, he could come back for you. That’s why any information you can provide will help us find him and put him behind bars so he can’t hurt you again … or anyone else. I’m not asking you to tell me anything right now, but just think about it, okay? I know you’re afraid, but you’re the only person who can help us catch him.”

  Amy sat in pensive silence, her mind churning through scenarios, weighing her options, until she spoke again. “I want to help. I just don’t know how.”

  “Do you remember what he looked like?” I verbally nudged, hoping a little guidance would jog her memory.

  “Just a normal guy. White. Not tall, but not short either. Like my dad’s height.”

  Not tall but not short—which meant what exactly? I hadn’t realized just how simplistic life was from a teen’s perspective.

  “What about his hair, or eyes?”

  “I’m pretty sure he had short hair, but he was wearing a hat both times I met him, so I don’t know what color. I don’t remember his eyes. Said he was a talent scout. Friendly guy. And he didn’t look old enough to have been killing people for twenty years.”

  “How old did he look?” I asked.

  “I dunno. Not that old. Younger than my mom and dad, I think.”

  A child’s perspective on age was certainly subjective and didn’t give me much to go on. Especially since men aged differently than women. Men grew more “distinguished” while we women simply grew old and wrinkly.

  “Maybe around your age?” she suggested.

  I wondered how old Amy thought I looked. Probably ancient. Especially with the dark circles under my eyes that I woke up to every morning for the past month. I decided to leave that question unexplored.

  “Okay, that helps. Um, did he have any defining or unique characteristics? Like a crooked nose, a mustac
he, or a scar or anything?”

  “I’m not sure … I don’t think so.” Amy closed her eyes as if concentrating, then suddenly started shaking her head as tears swelled beneath her eyelids. “I can’t—” A tear trickled down her cheek. “I can’t do this.”

  “Hey, it’s okay.” I reached over and hugged her, rubbing her back and smoothing her hair. I tipped her chin up to meet her gaze, then wiped a stray tear away. “Sweetie, it’s okay. Just relax and let’s talk about something else, okay?”

  She gave me a weak “okay” and rested her head against my shoulder.

  It was clear that the trip down memory lane had become a bit much. I could relate. I knew the panic she felt. Alexis made sure of that. The emotional turmoil, the physical anguish, the hopelessness as death encroached. It was a terrifying experience, even in a dream. I couldn’t imagine how much worse it was firsthand.

  Amy needed time, and I’d give it to her. I just hoped she’d eventually grant me entrance into her inventory of memories. I needed to unlock that vault of information.

  We sat, her head resting on me and my arms encasing her. Then she looked up at me.

  “Do you think I’ll be scarred for life?” She touched her stomach where she had been stabbed.

  Probably, sweetie, but not that kind of scar, I wanted to say, but didn’t.

  I tugged the neckline of my shirt down, revealing a stark white line starting just above my heart that my tattoo failed to cover. “This is a scar I got from a heart transplant when I was about your age. This injury was way worse than yours, and it’s faded a bunch over time. And I don’t think it looks that bad, do you?”

  “No, not really. I can see it, but mine’s smaller.”

  “See? You probably won’t have a scar at all.”

  “Cool ink, too. It’s pretty.” She pointed to the rose blossoming along my chest.

  “Thanks.” I touched the ruby-inked petals and felt a memory burden me, then flit away.