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You are next…
I cup the necklace in my palm, stare down at the memory.
You are next…
I glance at the picture hanging on the wall next to the window. It is of me and my mother, one month before she was brutally murdered.
You are next…
I study the letters, one by one.
3:02
3:04
3:11
You are next
My heart thuds in my chest.
There is no question now. I know exactly what the letters mean. And I know exactly what I need to do.
5
Sylvia
It is a cold, wet day. Not rainy—wet. A thick, cloying cloud of moisture, a deceptive mist that tricks you into thinking you don’t need a raincoat but then saturates you the second you walk out the door.
A storm blew through sometime in early morning, stripping the trees almost bare. The streets are covered in heavy, wet leaves. It is the kind of day made for curling up on the couch with a cup of tea and a good book, not for pulling into the Thorncrest Police Station with a purse full of mysterious letters.
My windshield wipers drag across the blurred windshield, squeaking loudly against the silence. My stomach clenches. I feel like I’m going to be sick. I consider a quick run to the gas station bathroom across the street before going in.
No,I tell myself,you are not going to be sick. I know this because I haven’t eaten a thing all day. I’m just nervous.
Extremely nervous.
My palms are slick as I slide into a vacant parking spot under a sagging pine tree. I hesitate, considering the chance that a dead limb might fall on my new Jeep Wrangler that I can’t afford. And then I remind myself that a dented hood is the least of my worries at the moment.
My heart pounds as I force myself through the motions: Turn off Jeep, put keys in purse, check face in rearview mirror—gasp in horror. Thanks to the humidity, my limp, straight hair is now a puff of frizz, the strands neither straight nor sexy-beach-wavy, but more of psychopath-chic, like Doc Brown in Back to the Future. My mascara is smudged under my eyes, highlighting the dark circles I’d awoken with.
I take my time pulling my hair into a bun at the nape of my neck and fixing my face.
I am stalling.
I am a freaking wimp.
Banishing my nerves, I grab my purse and push out of the Jeep. I’ve already made my decision. I am already in too deep.
This is happening.
I slam the door, sending a blast of raindrops into my face.
A car drives by. I turn my cheek.
My heels echo on the wet pavement as I stride across the parking lot. Yes, I have totally done myself up for this visit to the police station. Conservative two-inch black pumps, dark skinny jeans, and a silk blouse under my favorite tweed jacket that I haven’t worn since being laid off.
It felt good, pulling myself together. Like I had a purpose.
