by Liz Schulte
Gabriel’s eyes drilled into me until I met his gaze.
I licked my lips. “What are you doing here?”
“I didn’t like the note you hung up on, but maybe you had other plans.” He rubbed his hand over his stubble in a tired manner. “What are we doing, Ella?”
“Is that really what you believe? That I had ‘plans’ with that creep?”
He looked at the ceiling. “No.”
I moved closer to him and spoke softly. “Are you trying to start another fight?”
He shook his head. “It’s not like it’s hard to do.”
I sighed.
“I want you to come home where I can watch out for you. Protect you.” His tone matched my own.
“I don’t need protection.”
“I never met anyone in more need of protection.” He tilted up my face. “I care about you.”
My heart fluttered a little, but I beat it down. I was still angry, damn it. “That’s no excuse for smothering me.” I stomped up to my room. Gabriel followed, closing the bedroom door behind me.
Sitting on the bed, I massaged my temples and waited for the inevitable “me or the book” talk, in which I would choose the book and lose Gabriel. The grief that comes with loss was already welling up inside of me.
“I love you, Ella,” Gabriel said, shocking me. “And I’m sorry if that makes me overbearing or protective, but I do. I know you don’t want to hear that. You aren’t ready, but I’ve been patient. I need you to stop pulling away from me. Regardless of what you want, your decisions do affect me, and they always will.” He pointed at the ground and his voice gained intensity. “Your staying in Jackson affects me.”
I blinked. His confession wasn’t at all what I expected. I didn’t know how to react. I stared at his shoes and tried to make my brain work.
“I just thought you should know.” He turned to go, and panic lurched in my stomach at the thought of him walking out of my life.
“Wait,” I managed to say. “Just wait.”
“I’ve been waiting.” His hand was on the doorknob.
Blood roared in my ears and my heart thundered. “Everyone I have ever loved has died.”
He closed the distance between us, and his hands cradled my face. Goosebumps spread over my arms. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I wish that were true,” I whispered, knowing everything in my past spoke contrary to his promise.
His lips brushed mine.
I wanted so much to give in and believe that, despite the odds, I would be happy—we would be happy. Fear paralyzed my throat and kept the words he wanted to hear from leaving my mouth. Instead, I kissed him without reserve and hoped I could hold on to him for just a little bit longer.
I lay in Gabriel’s arms, his thumb traveling up and down my spine. The hair on his chest tickled my skin with each breath, but it was a pleasant sensation, and my foot rubbed against the inside of his calf as my mind reeled over the fact that we really hadn’t settled anything. I could deal with him being in love with me, but I wasn’t leaving Jackson. I’d committed to helping Jennifer and I wouldn’t crush her. I let the quiet go on until it felt like my head would explode. “I’m staying until this is over.”
His hand paused for a moment, then resumed its motion. “How about a compromise?”
“What?”
“You stay here during the week, but come home on weekends. You’ll need the break. I don’t want this investigation to become your life.”
“What makes you think it will become my life?”
“Ella,”—he kissed the end of my nose—“you obsess over everything.”
“I do not.”
Laughter rumbled in his chest before I heard it. “You’re 40% curiosity, 35% stubbornness, 15% gumption, and 9% mad as a hatter.”
I rolled my eyes. “What about the last 1%?”
He smiled at me. “Perfect.”
I laughed and softened, kissing his chest over his heart. “If I agree, will you teach me to drive?”
“Of course, and I’ll come up as often as I can.”
“It’s a long commute.”
“Not unmanageable.”
“You know, despite my best efforts since I met you, you’re impossible to deter.”
“As are you.”
I laughed, though my mind had moved on to the case. I glanced at the file sitting on the nightstand, but I forced myself to stay still. This wasn’t the time to think about murder. I needed to relax.
Gabriel kissed the top of my head. “Have you looked at the case yet?” he asked, as if reading my mind.
“Not yet.”
“Let’s have a look.”
He climbed out of bed, pulled on his jeans, and headed for the bathroom. I slipped on his shirt and sat cross-legged under the covers with the file on my lap. The white pages inside were redacted and stamped with a blood-red “copy” sign across the top. I scanned the names and home addresses on the first page. On the second page, the incident report began:
“On April 12th, 2011, at approximately 10:45 p.m., the reporting officer received a phone call from Jennifer Nelson who resides at 12181 County Road 154 Jackson, IL 87548. Phone 555-555-5555.
Mrs. Nelson relayed the following information. At approximately 9:15 p.m., her daughter, Mary Nelson, age 19, called her on her way home from her boyfriend’s, Bryan Jenkins, home. At approximately 9:25, the call disconnected and contact was lost. Mrs. Nelson reported she waited approximately fifteen minutes and when Mary Nelson did not arrive home, she drove to Bryan Jenkins home where she questioned Bryan Jenkins about her daughter’s whereabouts.”
What the hell is this?” Gabriel asked, leaning over my shoulder.
“The case file.”
“Let me see.” I handed him the folder. After a couple moments, he gave a derisive laugh. “Fagan’s wasting your time, El. He didn’t even give you as much as we already know. Where are the pictures, the interviews? And what’s with this blacked out bullshit? We’ll try the FOIA avenue.” He threw the file down on the bed.
“We don’t need to.”
“How exactly are you planning to investigate going on this?” His face twisted slightly. “You aren’t giving up this easy.”
I waved my hand dismissively. “I made a deal with Fagan tonight.”
Gabriel’s head tilted. “What sort of deal?”
“He’ll set me up a workspace at the station and give me full access to the file.” I looked at my hands, contemplating how much of the rest I wanted to tell him.
“And what does he get?”
“Editorial privileges on my book, if I don’t solve the crime,”—Gabriel’s eyebrows shot up—“and I have to do a signing at the local bookstore.” I left off the part about the public appearances because I knew he wouldn’t like it, and I didn’t want to fight again.
“I can’t believe you agreed to that. Any of it.” He made a face. “You’ll let him change your book? You wouldn’t even let me read your book before it was edited.”
“He can only request changes to parts involving him, but I’m not including him in the story anyway.”
“Then you got off pretty easy.”
“I guess so.” I glanced at the clock.
“And your stress?”
I thought about the weird voice asking for help earlier, but dismissed it. The last thing I needed was to tell him I was hearing disembodied voices or seeing faces in mirrors. “Other than fighting with you and dealing with that tool-bag, Fagan, I’m fine.”
“Well, Sherlock, you’ve got quite the case before you—the curious incident of the girl in the night.”
I shook my head. Figures he’d be a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle fan.
****
We left before Martha served breakfast, but when Gabriel dropped me off at the station on his way out of town, the desk sergeant hadn’t spoken with Fagan yet. He said the sheriff should be there in about an hour, and I was welcome to come back or to wait. I walked to a busy nearby café and sat
down for breakfast. I ordered and people-watched from my position of obscurity, just the way I liked it. A group of old farmers sat around a table drinking coffee and talking about the almanac. A few other tables had occupants, but there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the clientele.
A jittery young woman slid into my booth. I stared at her. She was thin with brown, lank hair, and had a couple sores on her face. Her eyes shifted from me to the table to the door to the waitress and back to me.
“You’re here about Mary, right?” she whispered, leaning in.
“Yes. Why?”
“I knew her. What they say happened… it isn’t the whole story.” The bell of the front door jingled and a cold gust of wind swirled through the café. The girl jerked her head to look at the group of young men who’d just entered, and she shivered. Her fingers tapped on the table. “Can you meet me later?”
I looked at the young men too. They never once looked in our direction. “I guess. Where do you want to meet?”
“Liberty Park by the benches.” The door chimed again and Sheriff Fagan wandered in. She got up, letting her hair fall to the sides of her face as if the greasy curtain could hide her.
“What time?”
“8:00 p.m. I have to go.” With that, she darted toward the back door, her gaze locked on the ground, the sleeves of her too-big coat hanging past her knuckles.
Sheriff Fagan turned from the counter as if on cue and flashed me a megawatt smile. The door chimed again and Martha walked through. Was this the only restaurant in town or what? She gave a big wave and started in my direction, until she saw Fagan following the waitress my way. She winked at me. The waitress slid my oatmeal and side of bacon onto the table, and Fagan took the seat across from me. I scowled at him.
“Good morning to you, too.” He seemed amused. “Sergeant Jeffries said you already stopped by this morning. Eager to test your sleuthing?”
“Eager to find Mary’s killer.”
He shook his head. “You’re quite the spitfire. I’ve been reading Dark Corners.”
I waited for the point.
“That man with you was the detective who helped you, isn’t he?”
I took a bite, uncertain what he was getting at. Working with Fagan wasn’t going to be fun. He was pretty much just a frat boy on a power trip. “He is.”
“Is he helping you with this case, too?”
“No. He has his own job.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.” He snagged a piece of my bacon, and I contemplated stabbing his hand with the fork sitting next to my bowl.
He leaned back in his booth and smirked. “So do you still live in the haunted house?”
There was nothing that irritated me more than people mocking me about the ghosts. I’d had enough of it for a lifetime. I took another bite and spoke with my mouthful. “When I have to be around people like you, I miss the ghosts.”
“You know, I’m not such a bad guy. We could be friends. I can make your time in Jackson much more pleasant.”
“I’m used to unpleasant. It doesn’t bother me at all.”
He laughed. “We’ll see.” He stood up. “I’ll have the interview room waiting for you, but by all means, take your time. We don’t rush here.”
Fagan picked up a to-go cup of coffee and strode out, smiling and saying good morning to everyone he passed. I glanced around. Martha was gone too. I finished my breakfast in peace, then headed back to office.
The windowless room Fagan put me in was barely larger than a broom closet, but it did have a two-way mirror, three folding chairs, and a plain table stacked with several banker’s boxes. “Are those all for the case?” I asked.
“Of course,” he replied.
“And all you gave me initially was a pathetic little folder?”
Fagan ignored my comment. “Nothing in this room is allowed to leave. If I catch you breaking the rules, I’ll arrest you. If you have any questions, you know where my office is—don’t involve the other officers.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Good luck and leave the door open.”
I walked into my closet, and he went back to his office, which was directly across the main room from me—I could even see his desk. Great. I took the lids off the boxes and looked inside. They were filled with plastic bags and files. I pulled out the thickest of the batch and settled into a chair. The lengthy police report pretty much stated what I already knew.
The only new information was about who found and reported the car. It was a farmer named Otis Akins who’d been out plowing a field when he saw smoke. He called the fire department, and they put out the flames, probably destroying any evidence that might’ve survived the fire in the process. Then the police arrived and that was when they discovered Mary. I read the section about the condition of the body twice before it sunk in.
“The body of a female, bound by the wrists and ankles with restraints, was discovered in the trunk of the vehicle. The majority of the flesh had been flayed from the body. Identification was not possible. The car was registered to missing person Mary Nelson.”
I tried to picture the horrible scene in my mind. The actual photographs followed the page, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to look at them yet. Why the hell was her skin flayed? Ew. I turned the page, knowing I had to look. A glance at the first photograph made me close my eyes. Blood everywhere. What I assumed was her face looked like ground meat oozing fluids. She was barely recognizable as a human. No hair or flesh that I could see remained on the body. I shut the folder. Enough. I had enough.
I stood up and left the room, stomach churning. I swallowed against the lump in my throat and headed outside, forgetting my coat in the interview room. Who would do that to another person? Who and why? I dug my cell phone out of my pocket and called Gabriel, then paced with my arms wrapped around myself.
“Troy.” His voice calmed me slightly.
“I can’t do this.”
“What happened?”
“I looked at a crime scene photo.”
“Yeah, they’re hard to look at. You have to push away thoughts about them being of another person and look for anomalies. You can do it, El.”
“It was worse than I thought. She didn’t have any skin.” I fought to keep from becoming hysterical. I wanted a drink, but knew it wouldn’t help.
“She what?”
“All of the skin was removed from her body.”
“Jesus. Did they find it?”
“I don’t know. I quit looking. I had to get some air.” I rolled my head skyward. I needed to pull myself together.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said slowly. “But I know you can do it, if it’s really what you want.”
I took a few deep breaths. “You’re right. I’ll be okay.”
“Of course you will, Sherlock.”
I rolled my eyes. “Stop calling me Sherlock.”
He laughed. “Feeling better?”
“A little.”
“Okay, I have to go. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
I stood in the freezing wind and took a couple more deep pulls of icy air into my lungs. I could do this. I closed my eyes and let the image of the picture come back. The memory of the coppery scent of blood washed over me and my knees trembled. This was nothing compared to what I had been through. It was just a picture. I went back into the station. Fagan stood in the doorway, staring at me with an arrogant smile.
“Giving up so soon?” he asked.
“Not at all. I had a phone call.”
I brushed past him and made a beeline for the room, where I sat back down in my chair and stared at the closed folder. It’s just a picture. You’ve written worse. I opened it back to the page I was on. Looking past the blood was hard, since the majority of the photograph was red, but my eyes scanned the edges looking for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing. I moved on to the next picture and the one after that and the one after that. Nothing. Damn it.
My cell phone m
ade a plopping noise like water dripping. Bryan, the boyfriend, had finally texted back. He was free now, if it worked for me. I cleared off the table and put everything back in the boxes, then put on my coat. Bryan was the last person to see Mary alive, and therefore my number one suspect.
Bryan waited outside the bed and breakfast, shoulders hunched, hands jammed in his coat pockets. His shaggy dark brown hair fell in his eyes and curled at the ends. Thick eyebrows stretched across his face like caterpillars, and his dark eyes glanced at everything but me as I walked up. He was a few inches taller than me, with the slender build of someone who’d recently grown but was still filling out.
“You must be Bryan,” I said as a greeting, forgetting to smile. I always forget to smile.
“You the writer?”
I nodded.
“You don’t look like I pictured you.”
He hadn’t even looked at me, so how would he know? “How did you picture me?”
He shuddered as if a shiver ran down his body. “More tough. Not so… you know, pretty.”
“You’re quite the charmer, Bryan,” I said in a deadpan voice—at least I didn’t roll my eyes. “Let’s go inside.” I didn’t give him the choice. I wasn’t going to stand outside and freeze my keister off. Bryan loped behind me as we walked into the bed and breakfast. “Martha, I’m back.” I called to no reply.
I led Bryan to the living room and invited him to take a seat. He chewed his fingernails, which were already down to the nubs.
“What do you do for a living, Bryan? Or are you in school?”
“I work construction with my dad.”
“Do you like it?”
He didn’t reply and resumed biting his nails like they were his last meal.
So the kid wasn’t going to make it easy. “What happened the night Mary disappeared?”
Bryan flinched at the sound of her name. “I don’t know.”
“You were there, Bryan. What happened that night?”
He didn’t speak. Anger and bitterness shone in his eyes.
“I’m trying to help you—actually, no, that’s a lie. I don’t care about you. The only thing that matters to me is Mary. I’m trying to help her.”