Page 81 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

I sat down on the edge of the mattress. The springs gave a single, low groan beneath my weight.

On the wooden nightstand sat his watch, not the silver one he wore to the store, but an old, scratched iron one with a cracked leather band. Next to it was a small white bottle of aspirin and a pocketknife with a staghorn handle. The brass rivets on the knife were dull from the oil on his palms.

I picked up the knife. It was heavy. I turned it over once, feeling the rough texture of the horn against my skin, then set it back down exactly where it had been, aligning the tip with the edge of the aspirin bottle.

The bathroom was off the small hallway. It was narrow, the floor floor yellowed near the base of the tub. The air inside was still damp from his morning shower, the mirror covered in a thick, milky skin of condensation that was slowly starting to dissolve into clear, weeping streaks.

A bottle of his aftershave sat on the porcelain sink Old Spice. The cap wasn't screwed all the way. A single, amber drop had dried on the glass rim, looking like a tiny bead of resin.

I reached out and touched the glass bottle, my skin absorbing the coldness of it.

The shower curtain was a plain, clear plastic that clung to the side of the cast-iron tub. In the bottom of the basin, a few dark, coarse hairs from his beard were trapped around the chrome drain, curling against the white enamel like tiny, dead spiders. I stood there for a long time, just watching them, until the mirror behind me cleared completely, revealing the pale, sharp line of my own jaw in the glass. I stepped into the shower taking his shower gel and I smelled it. Just.Like.Him. Looking around I found another one and took it.

What? I didn't take anything of importance. I didn't move the towels. I didn't open his drawers. I just walked out, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind me with a soft, final thud that the valley fog swallowed whole.

The kitchen in my own cottage was exactly as I had left it. The manuscript sat on the table, its pages white and unblinking under the grey light from the window. The coffee in my mug was cold now, a thin, dark film forming across the surface of the liquid.

I pulled the blue jersey off over my head, the wool scratching against my cheeks, and hung it carefully on the peg by the door.

"You forgot something," Gerald said from the mantelpiece.

His voice was louder now, splitting the silence of the room like a dry twig. I froze, my hand still resting on the rough blue wool of the sleeve. I didn't turn around.

"I didn't leave anything there. I double checked before I left."

"No," Frank whispered from the window seat, his ceramic face dark against the glass. "Not there."

Gerald’s painted smile seemed to widen in the quiet of my head, small and sharp and perfectly cold.

"You forgot to feel guilty."

I let go of the sleeve. I turned around slowly, looking at the two of them sitting there in the grey light, their tiny, unblinking eyes fixed on mine.

"Oh," I murmured to the empty room. "That."

After all,...

The easiest homes to enter...are the ones you're invited into before anyone realizes it. People worry far too much about strangers breaking into their homes.

They should worry more about the ones they invite inside…

Elias

The gravel lot of the Blackridge Sheriff’s Department was packed with early morning mist that smelled heavily of wet pine and exhaust fumes. I killed the engine of the truck, the metallic tick of the manifold cooling down into the wet air. I didn’t get out immediately. My hands stayed wrapped around the steering wheel, my knuckles pale against the worn leather.

I was exhausted. My chest felt tight, the kind of heavy, shallow breathing that usually follows a double shift on a highway pile-up, but the exhaustion wasn't from lack of sleep. It was from the quiet.

My mind kept slipping back down the valley road. Back to the small wooden porch. Back to the exact second her face had tilted up in the moonlight, the oversized sleeves of my jersey bunching at her wrists like donuts.

Honey, what are you doing here?

The word still felt like a physical weight in my chest. And then the kiss. It hadn't been some desperate, cinematic lunging; it was a brief, surprising pressure against the line of my jaw, the cool skin of her lips hitting the rough patch of my stubble. My breath had hitched so hard my ribs ached. Even now, sitting in the damp cab of my truck with the heater dying, my thumb traced the line where her mouth had brushed my skin. I caught the reflection of my own face in the rearview mirror. The corner of my mouth was lifted in a small, stupid curve.

Focus, Reed. Forfucksake

I should've been thinking about the missing women. Instead, I kept seeing honey-coloured eyes and the way she'd laughed on her porch yesterday. Fuck. One dinner and my brain had apparently resigned from police work. Fuck. I invited her over because I thought maybe if I talked to her maybe I would stop feeling this sudden urge to grab her and kiss her until we’re both breathless now... I fear I made it fucking worse. I should never have driven over to her place and asked her to dinner.

I slammed my palm against the wheel, the sharp sting of the impact clearing the fog from my brain.