When Morgan placed a supportive hand upon her leg, her instinct was to retreat, positioning her body further towards the other side of the bed, away from her, feeling much like a gazelle parading as a lion. She was scared, just like Morgan’s victims had been scared, and yet she had lost the right to feel that way the moment she helped her dispose of Edward Beckett. Perhaps she had been the lion all along, parading as a gazelle. She exhaled viciously and hit play on the podcast once again.
With no clear methodical reasoning as to the selection of victims, officials believe the killings to be opportunistic, only random to the extent in which the killer seized a moment of circumstance such as a potential victim being in a secluded environment with no witnesses. However, this begsthe question, if all the murders were simply random, with no preconceived intentions, is the suspect believed to always be prepared, or do they prepare their weapons and calling card prior, only to search aimlessly until striking at the correct opportunity?
Detective Bell of the NYPD had another line of reasoning. Whilst he is unavailable to make comments on this particular podcast, we retrieved a quote from an interview conducted just last week for the New York Times, September 11th. “I think this killer is the farthest thing from opportunistic. These kills aren’t random. There’s intent behind each victim. We just have to figure out what connects them all together. Whilst we are uncertain as to what binds them at present time, what I am certain of is that this killer lacks empathy, or remorse. They are likely psychopathic in nature, with deeply rooted familial issues. I would estimate them to be of a muscular build, and tall stature. They potentially live near a florist, or know a florist personally. I understand that this is little to go on, but please, if you know anyone that matches this vague description, please contact us as soon as you can. The sooner we catch this monster; the sooner we can prevent any further loss of life.”
Certain phrases stuck in the back of Lee’s mind, falling directly into the back of her throat as she attempted to inhale.Lacks empathy, or remorse. Psychopathic in nature. Catch. This. Monster.
“Were you ever going to tell me the truth about who you were if I hadn't found out myself?” Lee said, surprising herself at the area of intrigue as the words spilled out of her like discarded ink. She had a thousand questions at that time, and yet somehow, despite new information coming to light, the oldest question she’d had since this all began reared its ugly head. “Was this always going to remain a secret?”
Morgan went to place a hand on Lee again before raising it towards her own hair as if she had never attempted to do so in the first place, remembering the boundaries that her girlfriend had set only moments earlier. She sighed. “It’s not like pretending to like mushrooms, Lee. It’s like throwing a grenade into a dinner party and expecting the guests to stay seated.”
“Maybe that’s just it,” Lee said, a tear finally escaping as it rolled down her cheek. “I don’t have a death wish, Morgan. I can’t have my life blown up just because you want me to stay seated.”
The suspect they spoke of in the podcast murdered multiple people in ruthless fashion. The predator, never the prey. The woman they spoke of who supposedly showed no signs of empathy or remorse began to cry. “Do…doyouwant to stay?” she said, quieter than Lee had ever known her to speak, her fingers trembling against the fabric of the duvet.
Morgan's own tears only spurred hers on further. Through broken sobs, Lee opened her mouth to speak, closing it again when nothing but breathless sounds fell out. She placed her hands upon her legs, as if the act would somehow steady herself despite sitting down. Exhaling gently, she closed her eyes, opening them again only when she was ready to face Morgan directly. “I don’t know.”
“Well, fuck,” Morgan said, taking Lee by surprise at the brutishness of her words despite the situation unfolding before them. However crude, Lee could sense the emotion at the back of her throat—a sense of breathlessness, as if her own surprise was choking her. “I guess I’ll start packing my things.”
Morgan stood now, turning away from Lee before wiping her eyes on her forearm. The pair had been vulnerable with one another countless times before, and suddenly it felt as if Lee no longer had the luxury of sharing that vulnerability with her the second that she said “I don’t know.”
Covering the upper half of her body, as if feeling naked, Morgan Finch stepped out of the room, and only then did Lee let her emotions become all that she was. A guttural noise escaped her throat, as if her body was being torn apart like one of her girlfriends’ victims. Only, she wasn’t her girlfriend. Not anymore. What remained was her heart, like a hummingbird, breaking underneath the weight of it all, as she erupted into tears.
The first thing she wanted was for Morgan to re-enter the room upon hearing her cries; for her to wrap her up in her arms and comfort her. The second thing she wanted was for Morgan to walk out of the apartment entirely, if only so she didn’t have to relive this moment again by her re-entering the room, only to mourn the loss she felt for a second time.
What had once provided her with comfort, namely, her podcasts, had now ended her relationship, the thing she had been most certain of in this world. And, if that truly was the case, how could she be certain of anything ever again? She was sure of her relationship just as she was sure that the leaves browned in autumn, and apples were primarily either red, or green, only, she had just found out that colors were perceived based on the way that they reflected the light. Lee had been seeing the world in browns, greens, and reds, only to be told all of a sudden that colors were a perception crafted by the mind.
Perhaps this was how things would always be from now on, because the thing she had been most certain of in this world was dead and buried, and an inescapable reality had emerged in its place—the unrelenting, black and white truth.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Morgan Finch was the sickly-sweet candy Lee Holmes couldn’t help but indulge in—had indulged in for the last five years, even if the prospect of rotting her teeth, or worse, her insides, lay still at the back of her tongue, waiting to rear its ugly head. Her good judgement of character had been predominantly right about Morgan all those years ago, beside the campfire. It had told her that women like Morgan were like the first sip of coffee in the morning. Eventually, what once was a pleasant treat would soon become her reason for waking up, her vice, even if the taste began to wane.
Only, even now, as the prospect of losing that initial sip of her morning wake-up call began to slip out of her fingertips, she acknowledged that the taste had never diminished. Morgan Finch was still the same enticing mouthful she had always been, and she still needed that vice more than ever, if not, more so, which made the loss all the more somber. It seemed like now, as an eternity without Morgan was spanning out before her very eyes at the back of her mind, she would be adopting a new wake-up call entirely; one that rotted her teeth and her insides all the same, only, without the pleasing taste to accompany it.
Lee Holmes had become conscious of her entire body the moment that Morgan had gazed at her with the same pair of green eyes she had become used to over the last five years. The same pair of green eyes that did little to hide the hurt before she tore her gaze away and made her exit. Lee became entirely aware of the way she exhaled, the way her arms hung at her sides like two limbs that were simply thrown there haphazardly, as if they were never meant to be there in the first place.
Perhaps leaving Morgan was like taking her advice in a morbid way. Staying now, all things considered, was like getting comfortable, and getting comfortable meant getting sloppy.
Opening her mouth now, Lee uttered a sound that was so quiet she wondered if any noise had even come out of her at all. If it had, Morgan Finch made no effort to decipher it, as she re-entered the room without a sound and made her way over to the closet, presumably to retrieve some of her things.
Lee wondered at that moment how Morgan was able to move at all, to be able to do anything except sit and feel her arms at her sides, wondering how they even got there in the first place. Her own body felt heavy, and mismatched. She thought that should she even attempt to move her own feet at present time, it would be like walking on the moon, each step uncertain. Everything had all become uncertain as far as she was concerned. Each and every moment that had followed since Edward Beckett.
She had helped Morgan then if only to maintain the relationship that they had with one another, and oddly, she found herself not regretting the act in the slightest. She only regretted having been in the apartment in the first place to witness it, perhaps. She wasn’t sure at present time what was worse, obliviousness, or oblivion.
Watching everything unfold made Lee instinctively think about the concept between linearity and fate. Namely, if human beings were destined to walk along a singular proverbial line of life, stage by stage, step by step. She had always hated the idea that people had no choice or say in their actions, because it excused people from the worst, and negated any sense of accomplishment at their best. And yet, as she sat there, now, in that very room, the concept no longer seemed so distasteful.
It no longer seemed distasteful because if she truly was destined to live a predetermined existence then her entire life up until that point had simply been inevitable. The things she had seen, and, worse, the things she had done, were fated to happen all along. It also meant that she was powerless to prevent breaking up with Morgan. It conveniently wiped her slate clean whilst acknowledging that each and every action she committed to were nothing more than automated lines upon a chalkboard.
Her once-girlfriend, now friend, or even acquaintance, it seemed, packed a suitcase in silence, placing each folded item of clothing with gentle precision. Morgan Finch didn’t do anything with care, or diligence, unless it was murder, and so Lee Holmes made the rapid assumption that she was stalling. It wasn’t a particularly naive plan, because the longer she spent packing, the longer Lee had to doubt herself, and truth be told, she was doubting.
If watching Morgan made it harder, she would retract herself from watching her entirely. Lee Holmes lifted herself from the mattress and stepped outside into the hallway, and as she did so, she was met with the vicious reminder of why they had ended up here in the first place. Rows and rows of hyacinths lined each wall, lighting up their surroundings with a vibrant purple hue. It wasn’t the calling card necessarily that put the nail in the coffin so to speak, it was the notion that Lee had been sleeping next to a stranger for the last five years of her life. A stranger that hadmurdered multiple people before they had met one another, and long after simultaneously.
Even when shehaddiscovered Morgan’s truth, she only received tiny strands of honesty. Those tiny strands didn’t include the fact that Morgan Finch was a killer dangerous enough to make podcasts about. That she was dangerous enough to have her own nickname. Morgan was the monster under the bed, not the one you went to bed with.
Everything made sense now—the reluctance from Morgan to move to a smaller town, away from New York, presumably because it would be easier to get caught. The way that Morgan shifted the conversation whenever her mother attempted to invite herself over.The apartment is too tiny for guests. We’re currently renovating.Lee Holmes couldn’t escape the fact that she herself could have invited Diana over when Morgan wasn’t there and she would have been none the wiser. Diana herself could have shown up unannounced and seen the incriminating flowers; tiny petals revealing the machinations of Morgan Finch. Her entire future was balanced upon the precipice of chance.
Perhaps she liked it that way, but Lee Holmes did not.
