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I struggled to my feet, the haze of the wine gone, leaving me hungover and a bit numb. I trudged down the hall to the stairwell.
The detective remained silent until we entered it. “You knew the victim?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I helped her a few times with bringing in packages and stuff.” I paused before adding softly, “She was a nice lady. Her husband died two decades ago, as did her only kid. Car accident caused by a drunk driver. She was all alone in the world. Who would do such a thing?”
“There is no accounting for evil,” he replied.
I glanced at him as we hit the landing for my floor. “What they did went beyond evil. It was senseless and depraved.”
“Like most violent crimes. There are all too many cases that defy logic or reason.”
“Does this mean there’s a psychopath on the loose?”
“Yes.”
I winced as we entered my hall. “Way to reassure.”
“There’s no point in lying. Until the perpetrator is caught, there is a risk they will strike again.”
“But somewhere else. right? I mean, like lightning, murderers usually never strike twice in the same place.”
“Usually.”
“Why do I hear a but?” I muttered as we reached my door.
“Until we know what motivated them, what drew them to the victim, there is no way of predicting where they’ll strike next.” As I unlocked my door, he crouched and pointed. “These marks. How did they happen?”
I shrugged. “Dunno. I woke up to them the day after the bus attack. I’m assuming someone had a guest over with a dog.”
“The victim had the same marks.”
“Yeah, I don’t know what to tell you. I didn’t see what made them.”
I entered my place and hugged myself as I forced myself to head to my bedroom with its bloody mattress. I’d left the light on so braced myself as I walked in.
Only to gape.
The detective brushed past me as he entered. He looked around. “Where’s the blood?”
“I don’t understand,” I murmured. “It was dripping from the ceiling.” A glance showed it pristine, just like my rumpled sheets.
“Did you really see it, or did you dream it?” he asked.
“Ew. That’s gruesome. No. I saw it. I swear. I had to wash it off my face before I left the apartment.”
“There’s no blood here.” He pointed out the obvious.
“I’m aware,” I snapped.
“Then you’re also aware that this makes you look suspicious. How else would you have known Mrs. Fitzgerald had come to harm?”
“I heard thumping.”
“And?”
Knowing my innocence and proving it were two different things. “Listen, I don’t know where the blood went. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe I sensed Mrs. Fitzgerald was in trouble. The important thing is finding the perp, and it’s not me!”
“Says every suspect I’ve ever questioned.”
