A Secondhand Life (The Killer Thriller Series Book 2)

by Pamela Crane

  Detective Evan Williams was the killer.

  Chapter 26

  The revelation jarred me from my semi-conscious state. An officer called to serve and protect the innocent was in fact the villain killing them. As my dream world collapsed around me, an overwhelming nausea hit me.

  “I’m going to be sick!” I yelled, bolting upright and heaving just as Avella thrust a garbage can under my mouth. When the Cheetos and apple I had eaten earlier emptied from my stomach, I apologized profusely. I was mortified.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” I stifled a sob while wiping orange-ish chunks of yuck from the corners of my mouth.

  “You must have experienced something pretty traumatic to provoke such a violent reaction. Do you care to share with me what you saw?” Avella offered gently.

  Was it even safe to tell her? I wasn’t sure. The last thing I wanted to do was put another person’s life in jeopardy.

  “I don’t know if I should. It has to do with the man who killed the girl whose heart I have … and he’s responsible for several deaths since. I mean, what if he goes after you?”

  Avella brushed away the worry with her hand. “Comes after me? Honey, I’m not concerned about that, and neither should you be. I can handle myself. Now, as your therapist I can assure you that anything you tell me will be held confidential. Okay?”

  I gave a barely perceptible nod of agreement.

  “The murderer … I saw him. I know who it is. But I can’t tell anyone, because he’s a cop.”

  “Oh, my. That does complicate things.”

  “What am I supposed to do now? No one will believe me if I told them how I found out who the killer is. I mean, ‘it came to me in a dream’ doesn’t exactly sound credible, does it?”

  “You just need to think things through, Mia. If this police officer did indeed do it, and most likely plans to kill again, eventually he’ll slip up. You know what—and who—to look for now. But before you go barking up the wrong tree, are you absolutely sure it was him? Is it possible that you might have mixed up the details within your dream state? Perhaps you stopped at a different point in time, not necessarily during the murder?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sometimes your mind can create things when in a lucid dream state. If you want to see something, you see it. If you want to do something, you do it. I just want you to be sure about what you saw and its accuracy before you pursue this angle. Accusing a cop of murder is a pretty serious accusation, so you must be sure. Does that make sense?”

  “Yeah, I guess. So it’s possible that because I’d already seen what the killer was wearing in a previous dream, maybe I projected that on Evan this time?”

  “Precisely.”

  I didn’t know what to do with that. I felt like I was back at square one. Although, hadn’t I always been at square one? Nothing I knew was based on evidence, only on conjecture and a bunch of subjective dreams. But there was more than just my dream to back up Evan’s inclusion on the suspect list—namely, my dramatic flashback in his office.

  So for now I’d have to widen my list of persons of interest to include Jeremy Mason, the creepy child molester; Derek Worthington, the incorrigible drunk and dopehead; and now Evan Williams, an upright officer of the law. It didn’t make any sense for Evan to have done it, but who was I to question the mind of a serial killer?

  For the remainder of the session I shared with Avella my grief over Amy’s death, heaping the responsibility on my own shoulders. If only I would have stayed … If only I would have confronted Jeremy … If only, if only, if only.

  Although the kindly doctor assured me it wasn’t my fault, that I was only doing everything in my power to help girls like Amy, her consolation felt empty. We moved on to discuss Brad, but the conversation only intensified the aching longing I felt. I loved him. I missed him. And yet I gave him up on my own accord to pursue … what, exactly? Misery?

  Again Avella listened with undivided attention, but her advice only reinforced what I already knew. I was playing with fire, and I ultimately held the power to change my fate. I could easily quit searching for the killer and resume my happy-go-lucky life again if Brad was still available—or even interested in me—by then. She obviously didn’t understand. I wasn’t in the driver’s seat anymore. Alexis was. My screwed-up life was merely collateral damage.

  At the end of hour two, I insisted on paying Avella, despite her initial refusal to take my money, and left the session feeling more confused than ever. If I could control the dreams, then how could I trust anything I witnessed in them?

  My fragile, fragmented state of mind was slowly deteriorating beyond recognition. Who was I? I didn’t know anymore. Just a shattered mess of unrecognizable shards.

  **

  In the twilight I couldn’t get a good look at the make and model of the car three vehicles behind me, but I knew it was following me. Ever since I pulled out of the Mexican restaurant adjacent to Dr. Weaver’s office complex, the car persisted to tail me, always leaving a short row of vehicles between us to block my view.

  My eyes continuously checked my rearview for a peek at his face, but a ball cap and sunglasses masked his identity. But even with the disguise, he was growing sloppy. Tailing me in public seemed highly risky for a suspected killer. It was enough to at least discredit the man if I could identify his car and report it.

  He must be getting desperate.

  I slowed down to let him catch up to me, but he would equally slow and hold back. Then I punched the gas through a yellow-almost-red light to lose him, but sure enough, he sped through the red light and kept close behind, always within sight.

  Anxiety rose with each turn I made as I frantically tried to lose him, and yet there he was, every time.

  About thirty minutes into the chase, I realized he wasn’t giving up. And the more he persisted, the more my fear transformed into rage.

  I had had just about enough of him—of his games, of his threats, of the power he held over life and death. It was time to lose this jerk and strip him of that power.

  For some reason, imagining that it was Jeremy or Derek or Evan gave me the fearlessness I needed to be strong. They were mere men. No longer obscure shadows in the night or whispers in the dark, but people … with faces. Faces that I would claw off if any of them got too close to me.

  I had a plan to trap and confront him, or else lose him. When the car continued its pursuit after four more turns and through two yellow lights, I steered into a busy shopping plaza, cruising past an Italian restaurant, then an Ollie’s Bargain Outlet, and at last pulling into a parking space in front of a martial arts studio. I waited for him to drive past, but he never did. Instead he turned onto the main road and blended in with traffic as he fled.

  Coward.

  I cursed at him through my windshield, and laughed to myself that I had won.

  Sitting for a few minutes, I waited to make sure my stalker was gone. Shoppers came and went in a faceless crowd, until one particular face coming out of a dollar store caught my attention. I rolled my window down and squinted to get a better look.

  “Landon!” I yelled out the window.

  But he didn’t seem to hear me. Or else he did hear me and was ignoring me after our little spat the other day.

  “Landon!” I called again when he got a little closer.

  Nothing.

  He was either really pissed at me or going deaf.

  He walked with a shambling gait, body bent, shoulders slumped. He didn’t look well at all; dark circles ringed his dull green eyes, only accentuating his pale skin. His hair looked unkempt, sticking out in all directions as if he hadn’t showered or bothered to brush it in days. I wondered if he was okay, but when I opened the door to walk after him, he glanced past me, then jogged the rest of the way to his car and zoomed out of the parking lot before I had a chance to see where he went.

  Upon getting back into my car, I reached for my purse to call Landon, but after rustling through all
the junk I carried around with me, I realized I had apparently forgotten my cell phone at home. Had I known I didn’t have my cell, I might not have acted so brazenly with the killer. Thank God for false bravado. I felt a belated pang of fear and shook it off.

  I considered driving to Landon’s house but thought better of it. Obviously he didn’t want to talk to me. Maybe he needed to sleep on it … because from the looks of him, it appeared he hadn’t slept in days.

  I hoped I hadn’t burned the last bridge of friendship remaining in my life.

  Chapter 27

  I’m not a cat person. But of all the species in the animal kingdom, they are among the few that I respect. While often misunderstood, a cat’s greatest traits are its sense of self-preservation and observation. Carefully plotting its course of action, a cat practices the genius of eternal patience before it pounces on its victim. Undetected, it watches the prey’s movements, waits until the perfect moment, then strikes. Rarely does it miss its mark.

  Once it captures the animal, the cat has enough sense to wear it out in order to avoid sustaining injuries. Methodical, deliberate, and vigilant, the cat is a respectable animal with impressive instincts. It’s these attributes of the cat that inspire me.

  The curvature of the wall hid me from outside observers as I swiftly pushed an old credit card up along the bronze strike plate to unlock Mia’s front door before slipping inside. Cheap apartment complexes, this being one of them, were notorious for poor security.

  I was careful not to turn on any lights, in case someone noticed my hooded figure through the window.

  I expected Mia home at any moment, so I hurried to the bedroom. Her bed was a rumpled mess of pillows, sheets, and comforter, which would make it all the more difficult for her to notice my message. It would only take a minute to make the bed, and I quivered with excitement at the thought of her realizing someone had been here … in her room … touching her things.

  Once her bed was made and the pillows fluffed, I placed the letter on the soft bedding, smoothing it with my gloved fingertips. I checked the time.

  8:43.

  I had less than a minute before she arrived, and I would be waiting, watching, and, much like the cat who takes pleasure in his taunting, I’d be enjoying every minute of it.

  **

  It was 8:45 when I carried my purse and Styrofoam to-go box of enchilada leftovers into my apartment and set them on the dining room table. An ideal evening was all planned out—chocolate chip cookies and a romantic comedy in my Netflix queue.

  Without turning on the lights, I navigated through the dim living room into my bedroom, where I flipped on the light switch. Stepping out of my clothes, I tracked them along the pale blue carpet, dropping various articles as I went until I was naked. As I stood at my dresser, rummaging through my lounging clothes for a T-shirt and sweatpants, I noticed my bed.

  The covers were neatly made.

  And I knew for a fact that I had been too flustered that morning to make my bed.

  My heart thudded harder, and suddenly I felt vulnerable. I hurriedly threw on my clothes and warily approached the bed. In the middle of the bedspread was a handwritten note. It looked much like the one I had torn to shreds on the sidewalk.

  I picked it up and read the overly neat, almost prissy script:

  My dear, obtuse Mia:

  I warned you, and yet you neglected to obey me. I gave you three strikes, and still you insisted on continuing your forbidden extracurricular activities. So it comes to this.

  Your life is no longer my concern. While killing you would stop your pursuit, I would take little pleasure in it. It would only serve to end your antics, but perhaps there is another way.

  I’ve decided to take the life of someone you love.

  Brad Thomas.

  You, my dear, are an open book. It isn’t difficult to track your affections. You really ought to be more careful where you leave your cell phone. If someone were to get a hold of your contact list, they might know how to contact your friends, your mother … or your lost lover.

  This is no longer a threat, Mia. This is a promise. Brad is next. So I urge you to bid him a proper good-bye before it’s too late … unless too late has already arrived.

  Chapter 28

  I’d placed a dozen or so frantic calls to Brad’s cell phone, showed up at his apartment to find no one home and the lights off, and his car was nowhere to be found. I checked the restaurant, but he had called off work. Was Brad okay?

  Short of breaking his door down or reporting a missing person, I didn’t know what to do. Contact the police department—which perhaps had the killer working for them—about the letter? Call my mom? I had no one to turn to, and I was petrified of making the wrong move, which clearly I had already done.

  Brad was right. I had bitten off more than I could chew, and yet he would be the one to pay the price. The irony was bitter.

  After losing track of time searching for Brad everywhere I could possibly think of, I eventually made my way home well after midnight. I was exhausted—mentally, physically, emotionally. Helplessly frustrated, I attempted to distract myself from my anxiety with a movie, but I couldn’t pay attention. Anxiety over Brad’s safety consumed me.

  It was after four in the morning when I finally dozed off, warding off nightmares of Brad’s murder from corrupting my sleep …

  **

  Today’s newspaper sat on the coffee table, and I wondered how we could afford the daily News & Observer but not cereal for breakfast. Heading to the kitchen, I found a stale piece of bread and slid it into the toaster while I rummaged among plastic containers of crusty leftovers in the fridge looking for butter or jelly.

  As the toast popped up, I checked the time. I was already late for school, since I had spent the better part of the morning trying to wake Mom up from her alcohol-induced stupor. Most kids probably would have called the paramedics, but I had learned over time that it was a waste of effort.

  I smothered the remaining tablespoon of butter on my toast and sat at the table, nibbling bland bites with nothing to wash it down. Upstairs I heard Mom retching in the toilet, then five minutes later her bedroom door closed. I knew I was on my own getting to school today, so I grabbed the phone and dialed.

  “Uncle Derek?” I asked when he answered.

  “Yeah, kid, what’s up?” he slurred.

  “Can you take me to school today? Mom’s out of it.” While the sight of him creeped me out, and being in close proximity to him within a moving vehicle made me nervous, I had gotten used to his ways over time. I couldn’t change my life, couldn’t get away, so I might as well face it. At least that’s what my dad always said about having a tough life. Though I never told Dad or Mom about Uncle Derek’s secret, I figured the logic applied to that too.

  Forty-five minutes later Uncle Derek honked outside, and I ran up to his Ford Escort. A burly man with a long, grizzled white beard already occupied the front seat, so I climbed in the back. The passenger almost reminded me of villainous version of Santa Claus.

  They were in the middle of a conversation, so I didn’t bother to say hi as I slid across the plastic bench seat.

  “Derek, I just think you’re pickin’ the wrong place. I’m pretty sure the owner’s got guns there. It’s a death sentence,” Seedy Santa whined. “Are you sure this is the place Dan told you about?”

  “Hey, dude, shut your pie hole,” Uncle Derek said, nodding over his shoulder at me. “My niece be in the car. We don’t talk business with her eavesdroppin’, got it?”

  “She’s just a kid. She don’t know nothin’.”

  “Yeah, well, we don’t need her spoutin’ on about it, y’know? Besides, I already got everything figured out, and Dan’s already got all the details planned.”

  The two men fell silent, and I wondered what they had been talking about as the car bumped along the concrete. Knowing Uncle Derek, it wasn’t good, and I worried how my dad was mixed up in it … especially with guns involved.

&n
bsp; Uncle Derek was cooking up something, and it tasted sour.

  **

  I came to from the hazy dream and my first thought was of Landon. While it was barely five o’clock in the morning, I had a hunch that he would be awake. After being snubbed by him at the shopping center, I sensed it was time to talk things out—now, regardless of the hour.

  I texted him a brief good morning and waited for a reply.

  The beep came back less than a minute later.

  Hey.

  Can you talk?

  The next sound I heard was my phone ringing. I picked up on the first ring. “Sorry if I woke you,” I said meekly.

  “Nah, I was awake already. Not sleeping much.”

  “I saw you at the Willowdaile Shopping Center and you looked kinda tired. Are you okay?”

  “What? You saw me? When was this?”

  “Just yesterday. I tried to get your attention but you ignored me. Are you angry with me? I feel horrible about the way I left things at the police station.”

  “Please, don’t worry about it. And I’m sorry I didn’t see you at the shopping center. I must not have heard you. But I’m not mad. Things feel a little … I dunno, tense between us, though. But I’m over it.”

  “I’m glad,” I said with a sigh of relief.

  “So, what are you texting me at”—he paused, then resumed—“5:13 in the morning about?”

  The idea of confessing the dream involving his Uncle Derek oscillated in my mind. But if I even mentioned the words “Uncle” and “Derek” in the same sentence, it could be disastrous to our friendship. On the other hand, somehow I felt like it was important. It involved his dad, after all … and perhaps it had something to do with his father’s incarceration. It was a wild guess, but it seemed to fit together.

  I decided I’d let Landon decide if he wanted to know.