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He always said that right after he said he was sorry. Always. The deep-down gut feeling just won’t let that go. The detectives working the case left a synopsis that sends a chill down my spine.
They suspected a young boy at first, or a very uneducated adult because of the grammar and spelling. As the crimes increased in intensity and number, they were able to narrow down the criminal profile. It was textbook how the crimes progressed.
Now he’s a serial killer. And a shadow who’s followed me for years.
The beer slips from my hand, luckily landing with a clank and then bottoming out on the tabletop. With a glance over my right shoulder, then the left, I pull my shit together.
My brother would have been that old then. My brother would fit a description of a young white male in his early twenties.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” I say then clear my throat, sitting at the very end of a bar in Delilah’s hometown. “I was just starting, only a month in. And I thought …” I pause to take in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of pale ales and IPAs from the draft the bartender pours. The mug is tilted and the foam spills over to the sound of another classic rock song coming on.
“At first I thought I … I didn’t know what to think. It was a hunch and I thought maybe I just wanted him to be alive, you know?” The men in the back make a ruckus when someone hits the dartboard. We’re surrounded by clatter and barflies, but I’ve never felt more alone.
Until Delilah leans forward, her hands wrapped around an untouched glass of white wine. She peeks up at me and then scoots closer, her right side brushing up against mine.
“You wanted him to be alive.”
“It was more than that … the way he said things … they were different for me than they were for the other notes and they hit on memories.
“It was like he wanted me to know, but he never outright said it.
“I thought it was all in my head … that the suspect was a surrogate or worse, was playing me.”
“I was there,” Delilah whispers, his gaze turning to the sweet liquid in the wineglass. She runs her finger around the rim of it. “You never told me.”
“I didn’t tell anyone,” I say and my excuse sounds just like what it is. An excuse. Her small hand is gentle as she rests it on my thigh and rubs back and forth in a soothing motion. Her lips part but she doesn’t say anything. Neither of us does for a moment until she takes a sip of wine and then leans closer to me.
“You were hurting, you were scared and didn’t know who you could trust or if what you were doing was the right thing.” She adds to my excuses, my reasoning for going along with it back then.
“Maybe it worked like that at first. But then … he’d … he’d set people up to go down and give me leads on them.”
“You worked together?” she asks and I nod. The truth is begging to be spoken aloud finally. All those cold cases. All those men who disappeared. I knew it was coming. I knew Marcus wanted to interfere and I let it happen.
Instead of bringing any of that to light, I lift my beer to my lips and take a swig.
“I should have told you.” I nod my head, agreeing with myself. “We were partners.”
“I could have told our superiors. It sounds crazy, Cody. You sound crazy even now when … when I believe you,” Delilah says and glances at her wine, then back at me. Her plump lips are a dark shade of red that complements her warm umber skin.
It hurts to watch her, knowing she’s conflicted and that she’s hiding from me. She doesn’t know I know. I can see how much it kills her. Every time she slips beside me, letting her gentle soul be seen, she pulls back, stares at her wine and the sadness overwhelms her.
It’s not fair to her that it happened this way.
“I was afraid to trust him at first …” I trail off, remembering the instincts pulling me in all directions. She’s got to be going through the same. I can be there for her, though.
An older man rises beside us, making his way to the back probably to relieve himself. With him gone, there’s no one surrounding us. The place is only half-full and most of the people are at the other end of the bar where the flat screens are playing football.
“I know … I know he kissed you.” I let the confession slip out without looking back at her. Even though I can feel her gaze pierce into me, begging me to look back at her, I continue, wanting to get it all out so we can start over. So we can start fresh now with no secrets or lies between us. “I know he traded … he plays games …” I suspected something was up when I started to receive fewer texts from him, but the ones from two days ago when she never texted and her father was found dead spelled out everything.
