AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Something I am very familiar with.
It was like she wasn’t surprised that we were here.
Had she lived ten years with that look, like she knew he would come back for her? Damn. What kind of life would that have been? She had to see that we were going to protect her. If the actual killer was still out there, I would not stop until I found him.I felt this inherent need to make sure this wouldn't happen again. She deserved to live in peace and safety, and I would do whatever it took to make that happen.
The house has a charming and comforting vibe. There is a sense of simplicity and connection to nature that flows from the outside in. The sweet aroma of banana nut muffins fills the air reminding me of my childhood. A dark wooden staircase with intricate black iron railings wound upward from the left of the entrance. To the right, under the stairs, is an arched opening leading to the kitchen. The dark cherry wood floors were spotlessly clean, and everything had its place. Her fondness for plants extended indoors as well, with houseplants dotting the rooms.
We follow her into the kitchen, passing numerous artworks of landscapes and ancient civilizations on the walls but noticeably, no personal photos. She gestures for us to sit at the breakfast nook facing the window with the deep red curtains still drawn. Silently she shuffles through the kitchen and returns with a plate of banana nut muffins and several small plates. She then wordlessly goes back into the kitchen, fetches three white marble coffee cups, and places them before us.
I take a deep breath, hoping to regain my composure before speaking. “I apologize for my abruptness,” I say, forcing a smile. “Please, have a seat.”
“Coffee?” She offers.
Everett and I nod appreciatively. “Thank you for the hospitality, Mrs. Monroe.”
“It’s Miss. I’m not married. And I would prefer to be called Ava. Mrs. Monroe makes me feel old.”
She pours us each a cup and gestures toward the coffee pot in the kitchen. “Sugar is in the jar, milk and creamer are in the fridge. You and your team can set up in any of the rooms downstairs. There are four guest rooms upstairs. All of you are welcome to stay where you can find space.” She says matter-of-factly.
I nod at Everett, signaling him to move forward with the set-up.
“Thank you for being so accommodating.” Everett grabs a muffin taking a big bite before he leaves the kitchen, leaving me alone with her.
I took a sip of my coffee and cleared my throat. “Ava, I first want to reassure you that the FBI is committed to protecting you and doing what we can to catch whoever is committing these murders so you can get back to living your life.”
She nods towards me in subtle acknowledgment, and a shiver moves through her petite body. She composes herself quickly, but not before I notice her uncomfortable shifting. I pretend like I don’t notice before continuing.
I pull my tape recorder from my jacket pocket and set it on the table. She watches my movements like a hawk, and I can tell she is on edge.
“I was hoping I could talk to you and hear your story about what you experienced in your own words. I know that there is a lot in your file, but I am interested in listening to your version of events and see if there is anything you may have remembered over the years that we don’t know.”
“I wonder if he is out there watching me now.” She says, barely above a whisper staring aimlessly out the window, gripping her coffee cup tightly between her hands. So tight that her fingertips are turning white.
I can see the weight she is carrying and likely has for so many years, and I feel sorry for her. Her eyes flash with pain, and her body is tense. I hate that my presence is causing such noticeable non-verbal cues to her uncomfortableness.
“I feel as if I should tell you that we are not sure that this is not the work of a copycat.”
“We or I?” She counters, lifting her eyes to look at me. Her gaze challenges me, and I feel my stomach jump in a way that I am not expecting and for reasons I don’t understand.
“There are some details from the most recent murders that match details from the first murders. It matches details that were kept secure and only given to those that had a need to know. The trial was a closed trial, and there was no media allowed in the courtroom. We have ruled out a breach in our secure files, so that leaves someone with intimate knowledge of the crimes committed. We have ruled out those directly involved in the trial, and David Commons is still sitting in prison on death row, so there is no way he is directly involved. However, we are running through his communication in and out of the prison with a fine-tooth comb. In cases such as these, killers tend to gain a fan club full of twisted perverts that get their rocks off, living vicariously through the murderers. We are checking to see if he was indirectly involved by giving intimate details to someone outside of the prison who is using that information to commit these murders. If that is the case, that means we did put the right man behind bars, but we are dealing with a copycat. So far, we haven’t found anything to indicate that Commons has been providing nefarious information to anyone.”
She chuckles and turns her gaze to me. “So, I am your last resort, then?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I think we are just exploring every angle. It is not our intention to cause you distress or interrupt your life. We are at a standstill, Miss Monroe and we really need your help to determine if we missed something the first time around. If there is anything you can remember that may lead us in a different direction so we can catch the individual terrorizing your town.”
“And what do you believe, Agent Buchanan?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. I am here on behalf of the FBI, and we are determined to catch the killer regardless of who it is.”
“So, you don’t have any thoughts? You’re just a tool for the FBI doing what you’re told?” Her eyes narrow, and she inclines her head, crossing her arms on her chest.
I am taken aback for a minute at her boldness. She says what she feels, and I admire her for that. No one has ever asked me what I believe, let alone challenge my professional response.
“That’s not it,” I respond.
“Then what do you believe, Agent Buchanan? Do you believe that these murders, conveniently in the town I disappeared to after my fake death, are just a coincidence? Or do you believe that your agency fucked up and used me to imprison an innocent man? Take your time, I have all the time in the world, or maybe I don’t. I guess that will be determined eventually.” She settles back into her seat and waits for my response. Her stubbornness both irritates and excites me at the same time.
I clear my throat again, and I smile.
