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The man’s hand that was holding the penis had black painted fingernails. One of those fingernails was ragged and chipped, as if the man had taken to biting that fingernail in particular.
“What the fuck?” Lock asked, frowning hard.
I surrendered the pictures as he shouldered me over and swiped them from me, looking over his shoulder as he too went through the photos.
When he got to the last one I’d looked at, he froze, then brought the picture up closer to his face.
“Lock…” I said.
“Son of a bitch,” he cursed, dropping the pictures as if they had suddenly formed into something poisonous.
That was when I saw the background of the last picture.
It wasn’t just the bedspread that had been in all the others. It was a picture.
A picture of a woman, dead in a car. And the man coming on the picture.
I felt bile rise and threw my hand over my mouth to keep it at bay.
It didn’t work.
I made it into the bathroom in time to lose all the contents of the sandwich I’d eaten before Lock had arrived home from his run.
I’d gone on that run with him, but like instructed, I’d turned around after a half a mile and run back home.
I’d been so hungry that I hadn’t been able to wait until he’d finished all seven of his miles, though.
Which led us to now, me emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet bowl.
When I was done, I flushed, washed my face, and rejoined Lock in the kitchen.
He was on the phone with whom I assumed was his dad.
“…No. It was addressed to both of us. All of the pictures are nearly identical except for the last one. It shows a picture of the accident. The one that that young girl died at,” Lock continued.
When I arrived back in the kitchen, his eyes immediately shot to me, assessing me.
I gave him a weak thumbs up, and he nodded once, gesturing at the chair that was sitting next to him.
I was thankful to see the pictures gone.
However, just because they were no longer there didn’t mean that I couldn’t still see them. They were permanently seared into my brain.
Who would do a thing like this? Who would take a picture of themselves masturbating to something like that?
That was sick.
“No,” Lock continued. “There’s a postage stamp on the envelope. One for twenty-five dollars. Like he bought it and attached it to the envelope so he didn’t have to go into the post office and mail it. There’s no way to track that.” He paused. “Yes. Both of us handled it, but I wouldn’t say we handled it that much. There might be some prints they can pull. Yes. Yes. We’ll be down there in about thirty minutes. Meet you there.”
When he hung up, my eyes lifted to meet his.
“We’re going to the station?” I asked.
He nodded. “They need us to give our fingerprints so they can rule them out. Hopefully the sick bastard made a mistake and didn’t wear gloves when he put those pictures in the envelope.”
I shuddered and stood up, heading for the bedroom to collect my shoes.
When we arrived at the police station twenty minutes later, Downy was already there waiting for us.
