Close to Home

by Nolon King

  Adam looked down at his tablet and considered erasing the rest. Maybe deleting them all. What good was his word porn doing him, sitting like liquid crystal evidence? Sure, he changed the passcode regularly. But what if one of the boys guessed it? There were ways to crack a tablet too, and if Selena was suspicious that he was hiding something from her, it wasn’t unthinkable that she’d do whatever it took to figure it out. Maybe even get that little shit Dane to help her. The nerdy kid probably knew a dozen apps that would do it.

  Adam tried to write something else, working himself into a sweat trying to shove aside the thoughts of her crimson lips, red streaks smeared on her alabaster skin, her naked body dripping with blood.

  But still they lingered. And still the words refused to come.

  He set his tablet on the nightstand and traded it for the remote.

  He turned on Netflix, scrolled to The Thick Red Line, and forwarded to his favorite part.

  Lily Templeton had a lot in common with the girl in the blood-red lipstick. Every time he watched this documentary, every time he saw Lily covered in blood, Adam imagined her.

  But neither the girl in lipstick nor Lily Templeton was anything like Selena.

  His wife filled him with a different sort of fantasy.

  Even after all these years, he was obsessed. That those feelings seemed to be fading filled him with an arctic sadness. And Adam knew only one way to warm it.

  Chapter Nine

  Levi was leveling up, loving it, and letting everyone know they were losers. “Wow. It’s like you’re all competing to see who can make me feel better about myself.”

  “I didn’t even know the game would let you do that,” Dane said.

  Pussabo clutched his controller like it might try and escape. He leaned forward, grimacing, almost grunting. His eyebrows bunched and his nostrils flared.

  Elliot pointed. “Pussy looks like he’s going to shit!”

  “I told you not to call me Pussy!” Then, “Eat it Levi!”

  Levi’s character exploded into a trillion tiny pixels and Pussabo started laughing.

  “Way to go Pussabo!” Elliot clapped, genuinely impressed.

  Pussabo said, “How do you like my Pussy Bomb now?”

  Elliot turned to Pussabo, puzzled. “I don’t think anyone has ever liked your Pussy Bomb. And I thought you didn’t want anyone to call you that? You literally just said, ‘I told you not to call me Pussy!’”

  “It’s different if I’m saying it myself. Like black people and the N-word.”

  “Wait,” Elliot said, deadly serious. “You’re not black?”

  “Fuck you! I told you I’m not black.”

  “But you don’t know for sure, right?” Elliot pressed.

  Dane said, “Leave him alone, Elliot.”

  Pussabo wouldn’t tell anyone what his name meant, or where his family came from, and the more they asked the more he clammed up.

  “Our ancestors moved around a lot,” he would say, and then nothing more.

  Dane found this a source of bottomless curiosity, as did Levi and Corban to a lesser degree. Elliot saw it as Christmas with unlimited presents.

  “Are we done yet?” Levi looked from the screen to his friends.

  “What?” Dane said. “You lost, so you don't want to play anymore?

  “No. I lost, so the game won’t be fun anymore, at least not for the next couple of turns. Pussy’s gonna be a dick about his win, and this room isn’t big enough for Elliot’s bullshit.”

  Elliot looked around the giant room. From the short row of old-school video game cabinets — Ms. Pac-Man, Elevator Action, and Bionic Commando — to the air hockey and ping-pong tables, to the soda fountain. “Are you kidding?”

  “Don't you want to go outside?” Levi asked the room. “We’re up here too much and it’s making us stupid.”

  “No. I want to stay here and play. I just won.”

  “Pussy’s right,” Elliot said. “He’ll probably never get another this chance like this. We shouldn’t take that away from him.”

  Dane said, “I think Elliot is allergic to the outdoors.”

  “I’m not allergic to going outside, I’m allergic to doing shit that isn’t awesome. HardCorps is awesome. We go outside and I’ll have to hear Pussabo bitch about losing his turn, and watch him miss another hundred shots.”

  “Good point,” Levi said. “You know you we can’t stay in the game room during the barbecue, right?”

  “We have to go to that?” Elliot asked.

  “You’re going to be here anyway,” Levi said.

  “Yeah,” Elliot nodded. “Up here in the game room.”

  “Why are you being an asshole? We’re always hanging out in the game room. The barbecue will be fun. We can swim, and there’s going to be tons of food, and—”

  “There’s going to be old people.”

  Dane looked at Elliot, clearly disgusted. “Don’t be such a dick, dude. Levi’s parents are probably going to spend a lot of money, you know how it’ll go down. Think of it as an experience. You can come up here and play HardCorp any day of the week. We already do. Maybe Levi’s mom and dad want to show off their son’s well-mannered friends.”

  Elliot nodded at Pussabo while speaking to Levi. “You should definitely uninvite him, then, unless you’re hoping to look good in front of the neighbors. Like maybe they’ll think you’re one of those people who sends fourteen cents a day to Africa.”

  “I’ve never even been to Africa,” Pussabo protested.

  “That you know of,” Elliot reminded him.

  “Leave him alone, Elliot,” Dane said.

  The doorbell rang.

  But Elliot wasn’t going quit. “Maybe that’s Homeland Security. They got a tip on Pussabo.”

  “Shouldn’t you get that?” Dane asked. “Your mom is working in her office.”

  “No. I’m sure it’s just Amazon. She and my dad order crap, like, every day.”

  The doorbell rang again. Twice this time.

  “Shit. Okay, yeah, now I gotta get it before she comes out of her office, pissed as a bitch.”

  Levi ran downstairs, fast as he could. His hand was around the knob a split second before the third ring.

  He opened the door to a rumpled man in a pressed suit.

  “Yeah?” Levi said.

  “Hi. My name is Detective Rodney Sharpe, with the Almond Park Police Department.” The man opened his wallet and showed Levi his badge. “I was hoping I might speak with your mother. Is she home?”

  “Yeah, but she doesn’t like to be disturbed while she’s working.”

  “I understand,” he said to Levi like he was an adult who had to be negotiated with, “but can you please do me a big favor, and let her know I’m here? I won’t be long, and I think she’ll want to help me.”

  He opened his wallet again, and this time handed Levi a card.

  “Sure thing.” Levi opened the door all the way after taking it, then gestured the detective inside. “I’ll get her.”

  The moment Levi told his mother that a detective wanted to ask her some questions, she practically leaped from her seat to invite him in for coffee.

  While she fussed with the French press and made small talk with Sharpe, Levi made himself a chai latte from the Keurig, then a small snack plate from the fridge, and a larger one for the guys after that to buy himself even more time to listen. If the detective wanted to talk to his mom about the fire, that meant the police were thinking serial killer. Here, in Almond Park.

  A pointed look from his mother told Levi that his attempt at eavesdropping wasn’t going to fly. So he gathered the food and trudged upstairs, as slow as he reasonably could. But his mom and the detective nursed an awkward silence until he was out of earshot. He hurried back to the game room.

  “Holy shit, you guys, you’re not going to believe what’s happening downstairs.” Levi looked over to Elliot before he could deliver his punchline. “Shut up, I’m serious.”

  “What’s going on
?” Pussabo asked.

  “There’s a detective downstairs and he asked to talk to my mom.”

  Elliot couldn’t help himself. “About how hot she is?”

  “Fucking Elliot,” Dane said.

  “They must’ve found another scarf. There’s no other reason they’d want to talk to my mom.”

  “Shit …” No punchline from Elliot this time.

  “There can’t be a serial killer in Almond Park,” Pussabo said.

  “Where are they talking?” Dane asked.

  “In the kitchen.”

  “Don’t you want to know what they’re saying?” Dane looked from Levi to Elliot and Pussabo. “Aren’t you curious?”

  “I’m curious,” Elliot said.

  “I’m curious,” Pussabo agreed.

  “It’s not that easy. This is my mom’s jam, you guys. Even if the detective is just asking her a few questions over coffee, she’s probably going to act like she’s on TV. She’s going to go on and on about—”

  “So don’t you think she’ll want an audience?” Dane interrupted.

  “Maybe. But you never know. And if she doesn’t want anyone around while she’s talking to the detective, which is definitely the feeling I got while I was down there, then she’s going to be pissed.”

  “Then I volunteer as tribute,” Dane said.

  And so he did.

  Chapter Ten

  This was getting big, fast.

  One of the reasons Selena had pushed for their family’s move to Almond Park was that it felt so much different living out here than in the city. She lived and breathed true crime, wanted to understand it. Needed to understand it. But from a distance.

  But now it had followed her home.

  At least that’s what it looked like.

  “There’s no chance it was an accident?” Selena pushed the plunger down on the coffee. Decaf, per the detective’s request.

  “Sure, there’s a chance. But it’s hard to believe. The entire family was found poisoned. Right into their water supply. And—”

  “And there’s no accounting for that second scarf.”

  “Exactly.”

  Selena tried not to smile, tried to hide the rush of excitement at the idea that she might be the first to take a crack at a new serial killer. “Cream, sugar, agave? Anything?”

  “Just black.” Sharpe smiled and Selena slid his coffee across the counter.

  She hoped her glee wasn’t showing on her face — it was so horribly inappropriate — but she couldn’t help thinking how happy Sam was going to be. They could push back some of the episodes they’d already shot, as people would be hungry for an expert’s opinion on a breaking serial killer case. If the murders got national coverage, which they very well might, she would be the expert. Her instincts were crackling right from the start … from the moment she saw that first scarf.

  “So,” Selena said with cool professionalism. The police didn’t like to work with experts who fostered sensationalism; it made their job so much harder. “You’re here because you don’t have any leads, but the second scarf is too big a coincidence to ignore.”

  “Right.” The detective blew steam from the lip of his mug, then took a sip. “What do you think?”

  Having a potential new case — one she could really sink her teeth into — made Selena feel like someone had just given her fresh batteries. The details didn’t fit a normal serial killer profile. The modus operandi for the killings were completely different. There didn’t seem to be any connection between the two families. Or the scarves.

  This stuff was all so obvious. As she theorized to the detective, she couldn’t help secretly imagining the TV potential of the case. Being right in the middle of it as it unfolded. This thing could go in any direction. A movie was the obvious start, but studios had been playing that game since the eighties. A season-long anthology series on Netflix or one of the other streaming companies might be better. Something like The Thick Red Line.

  Should she hire her own documentary crew now? It would be so much better to get on-the-ground reactions in real time rather than in the aftermath. Surely that had never been done before.

  But then again, the world had never really seen a psychologist like Selena Nash.

  It almost felt like Fate was on her payroll, doing everything possible to make her a star. The timing was perfect.

  Sharpe cut her off as she launched into her theory about the six phases of the serial killer’s emotional cycle. “But serial killers are usually smart, right?”

  “That’s a misconception. The good serial killers are the smart ones.”

  The mug stopped halfway to his mouth. “The good serial killers?”

  Selena laughed: Silly me.

  “I mean the ones we remember. The ones we talk about. The ones who get books written, and movies made. There’s never going to be a TV show about a guy who randomly murders people and gets caught almost immediately. There’s no character to a crime like that, so there’s no reason for anyone to care. But the killers who plan and plot and perfect their delinquencies, keeping themselves from discovery for years, if not forever? Those are the impressive ones.”

  Sharpe listened intently, like she’d just recaptured his interest.

  “The average IQ is around one hundred, depending on which test is given. The average serial killer hovers below ninety-five. That sort of killer will probably strangle or stab or shoot their victims. No finesse at all. Next step up are the bomb makers and planners. Most come from unstable homes, obviously. But you always want to look for the kids who wet the bed or started fires. The ones who didn’t just kill small animals, but tortured them with no remorse.”

  Sharpe’s expression hadn’t shifted; he still seemed interested. So Selena went on with the lecture.

  “Setting a fire and poisoning a family are two very different crimes, tied together only by the scarves. This isn’t a cheap thrill. Neither one of these crimes is reactionary. Both took planning and execution. So this isn’t a person with anger issues. Or at least that’s not all there is to it. This is obviously someone smart.”

  “Do you think the killer lives in Almond Park?”

  Selena had been waiting for him to ask. She narrowed her eyes at the detective. Leaned closer. “I do. I had a suspicion after the first one, of course, because getting into a house seems pretty intimate. But now there’s been two, one here and another at Valley Estates. It seems almost personal. It feels personal.”

  The detective considered. “You mean like a vendetta?”

  “I don’t know what I mean. Yet.”

  Selena could no longer pretend that she wasn’t playing for the cameras that would soon be following her everywhere, documenting her brilliant cat-and-mouse game with the killer.

  They spoke of motives and hallmarks and sprees, but despite its darker shade it had still turned to small talk. Sharpe promised to stay in touch, and asked Selena to contact him if she had any more insights into the killer’s mind.

  She walked him to the door, then returned to the kitchen, where she heard a quiet squeak from the living room. The sound of sneakers on a hardwood floor. She peeked around the doorjamb to find Dane standing awkwardly near the bookshelf, pretending to look for something to read.

  He’d been eavesdropping.

  He turned, as if surprised to realize she was there. “Hi, Mrs. Nash. I was just—”

  “—curious about the murders.” She smiled. “You understand that you can’t talk about anything you might have accidentally overheard?”

  Dane flashed her a smile of relief. “Of course. I just … I want to better understand what you do.”

  Selena walked to the wine rack, pulled out a bottle of pinot, and poured herself a generous glass, all without saying a word, curious to see how far this might go and knowing it couldn’t possibly be far.

  Dane was only a kid. But he was also curious. She had always been a teacher for him, ever since the boys first brought him home. There was no reason she couldn’
t also instruct him in the back-and-forth between a man and a woman. It didn’t have to be anything untoward.

  She looked at Dane. He was still looking at her.

  “The show is over and you’re still here.” She took a sip. “Your friends are all upstairs.”

  “I don’t really feel like being bored, Mrs. Nash.”

  “Call me Selena.” She smiled and took another, longer sip. “Are you saying that my son is boring?”

  “Not at all. But they’re all upstairs playing HardCorp and telling the same old jokes. Especially Elliot. Down here I’m learning something new. With you.”

  “What sorts of things are you learning?”

  “It’s like we talked about before. The thin line between life and death. You spend so much of your time there. I bet it gets hard to breathe sometimes. I bet it feels good to talk out loud, especially with someone who’s interested in what you have to say.”

  “And why is this so interesting to you?”

  Dane shrugged and leaned away from the counter. He looked thoughtful, not unsure of what he was going to say so much as perhaps questioning whether he should actually say it.

  “Go on …” she prompted.

  He hesitated, then seemed to force the words from his mouth, as if he had to get them all out before regret came to claim or retrieve them.

  “I’ve been thinking about it. As a career. I know it will drive my dad nuts. He really wants me to go to Stanford, and that’s not really why I want to go there. But every time Levi or Corban talks about your work, or this sort of stuff comes up, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “You’re thinking of becoming a homicide detective?” She deliberately misunderstood. Wanted to hear him explain why he was interested in what she did.

  “I guess I don’t really know much about it yet. Maybe a criminal psychologist, or a profiler. I don’t know about writing books, like you do. But I know that I’m interested … and that you’re interesting.”

  Selena felt herself flush. Not because she was sexually attracted to Dane. But because he looked at her with a little bit of awe in his eyes. He listened to her more deeply than Adam had recently. Maybe ever. He wanted to know what she thought. He admired her intellect.