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“Alright,” he says. “Now, this might be nothing, so I don’t think there’s anything to panic about yet. I just thought maybe you should know."
“Tell me already and stop beating around the bush.”
“Ok, so the picture of the threatening note you sent me? I noticed it had a slight engraving at the corner, although I couldn’t tell what it was. I sent it to one of my image guys and they were able to blow it up, and it looks like there was an insignia there that was scratched off.”
“Insignia of what?”
“This is the interesting part,” he says. “At first, I couldn’t really tell because it was so faint. We used some software to narrow it down and found out that the paper was taken from a journal book used by members from some secret writer’s association.”
“This guy’s a writer?” I ask.
“Something like that,” he says. “They call themselves free thinkers, but really they’re a bunch of a-holes who sit around and pontificate on life and stuff. Usually, they also have pretty controversial stands on things. But the association was shut down like twenty years ago when one of the members ended up shooting his ex-wife. Guy was previously seen as an upstanding member of society and he just snapped one day.”
“You’re saying this guy is a violent maniac? A killer?” I sit up straighter.
“Not exactly. See, that man was arrested already and put behind bars. Then there was another man who was a suspected member of the organization who ended up kidnapping this girl and keeping her in his basement for weeks.”
“This is an association of people who hate women,” I say, figuring out his angle.
"Right. Or at least, whatever ideology they teach breeds resentment toward women,” he concludes. “Whoever we’re looking for may feel some ownership toward women, and in particular, your woman."
Fuck. I get out of the car and start pacing, heart racing with the possibilities. This guy is even more of a psycho than I thought.
“So what?” I ask, anxiety brewing inside me. “Is he just going after random women and killing them?”
“I don't think so,” he says. “Thing is, it has to be someone who has fixated on your woman. He sees her as his. It’s probably someone she has dated or come in contact with in some capacity."
Fuck, that makes it too broad because just about anybody could have seen her and fallen in love with her. With a woman like Delilah, it would be hard not to go crazy over her.
I crack my brain to think about it before it occurs to me.
The professor.
I remember the resentment he had on his face when I told him to stay away from Delilah, even though he cloaked it with confusion.
The more I think about it, the more I figure that the man knew exactly what I was talking about.
And the book on his table,Feminism and the Destruction of the Modern Man.
Fuck.
“Oliver,” Ben says. “Are you still there?”
“The professor,” I ask. "Could he be the one we're looking for?"
Ben is silent for a few seconds. "Possibly. He moved to town about ten years ago, which would be far after the society's disbandment. But he doesn't have the kind of history that suggests—"
“Thanks for the info.” I hang up without further ado, panic hitting me in waves. Fuck. What if we were right the first time and it’s actually the professor doing all this? What if my scaring him only made him angrier?
And then I remember with horrific clarity.
Delilah is having dinner at Rena's.
Rena and the professor got back together.
"Fuck!" The sound explodes out of me as once again, I'm dialing Delilah's number frantically. The call goes straight through to voicemail. I get back in the car and leave the driveway like hell is on my heels.
There's no one on the road, and I make the forty-five-minute trip in thirty. I remember the route to the apartment pretty well, and the whole time I’m trying to second guess myself, thinking about any other scenario than what I fear has happened. But I have a gut feeling something is wrong and it urges me to go even faster.
