Next Girl to Die

by Dea Poirier

  It takes a few minutes to finagle the door open. When I finally succeed, I breathe a sigh of relief. At least one thing can go right. The darkness in the basement is palpable, the kind of darkness you have to wade through. It doesn’t help that the air down here is thick, moist, as if the night is pooling around me. I shut the door and reach for my phone to light the way. As I click the button on the side and try to tap on the flashlight, nothing happens. Of all the times for my phone to go dead.

  I grumble as I shuffle across the concrete floor toward where I think the stairs are. A few feet in, lost in darkness, something clicks, hisses.

  It’s just the furnace.

  I stop to listen, but the whoosh of blood in my ears is too loud. I can’t hear anything else. I start to walk again, but that’s when I hear it. A footstep behind me. For a second, I hesitate, unsure if I heard it at all. Until I hear another. I run, hoping to God I find the stairs. Fabric rustles behind me. Fingers graze against my back. A scream bursts from me, so loud my throat aches. Large, rough hands twist into my hair and yank me back with a yelp.

  “You kept me from killing tonight, cunt.” His voice is rough, a snarl, edging on inhuman. “You aren’t leaving me any choice.”

  He twists me around, and when I smell sugar on his breath, I know he’s facing me. His hands smell like rum and grease. If there were any light down here, I’d be able to see him, to make out every line of his face.

  I try to force myself backward, away from him, but his hands grip me too tightly. My arms come up automatically, and I try to wedge my elbows into his chest to free myself. He groans, and for a moment, I think I’m free. But his hands circle my throat, and his thumbs press hard into my windpipe. Pain spreads through my throat as he presses harder. My hands dig into his arms, and I kick, trying to force him to release me. An ache awakens deep inside my lungs as my body begs for air. If I can’t breathe soon, I won’t have the strength to fight much longer. Panic roars in the back of my mind. If I let him kill me, all those other girls will never get justice. He digs his thumbs deeper, and bile creeps up my throat in response. As I struggle, something primal fuels me. If I don’t get free, if I don’t get away from him, I’ll die.

  With fury and desperation giving me much-needed strength, I dig my nails into every bit of flesh I can reach. I kick and punch until finally his grip falters. I won’t let this asshole kill me. I’m not going to die like this. I gasp, and my throat burns as I force a breath into my aching lungs. I turn away, hoping to get to the stairs, but it’s too dark; I can’t tell where in the basement I am.

  There’s a rush of movement, and his chest presses to my back. Large fingers lace into my hair, and I claw at them, praying I can do something, even if it just means getting DNA beneath my fingernails. My mind screams for me to get away, to fight. He holds me tighter, his huge arm wrapping around my throat. He’s going to strangle me like he did the others.

  I kick backward over and over, but he only holds me tighter in response. I bring my elbow back and hit him hard in the side, and his grip loosens enough for me to get away. I run from him, my arms outstretched as I search the darkness for the stairs. Though I’m tempted to reach for my gun, I can’t shoot down here—I might hit the oil tank and blow us both to bits. He moves behind me, but thankfully he seems as lost in the darkness as I am. A cough sputters out of me, and my heart seizes. The noise will lead him right to me.

  The brush of my fingertips against the banister is the most wonderful thing I’ve ever felt. I wrap my hand around the hard wooden handrail and pull myself toward the stairs, pounding up them to the first floor. I throw the door open, letting the light stream into the basement, before I unholster my gun. When I go back down to search, he’s gone. All that’s left is a set of keys in the middle of the floor.

  CHAPTER 30

  Once my hands stop shaking so much, I call the station. When Jason answers, I give him a brief rundown of everything that happened and ask him to get Vince and Allen sweeping the streets for my attacker. He tells me he’s grabbing the equipment to swab my nails for DNA. After ending the call with Jason, knowing he’ll be at my house in a few minutes, I call Sergeant Michaels. I explain the attack and let him know the guys will be looking for my attacker. Sergeant Michaels informs me that he’s heading over to my place to look for evidence while Vince and Allen sweep the streets. After I hang up with Sergeant Michaels, I’m still on edge. Sitting on my porch, surrounded by the night, I’m nervous that my attacker might still be lurking. Out here, though, I’m not boxed in. Out here, I can run.

  Before Jason or Sergeant Michaels can arrive, I dial Noah’s number.

  “Hey,” he says groggily when he answers the phone. “Still awake?”

  “Can you come over?” I ask, my voice strained, scratchy from being choked. A dull ache throbs where I was strangled, and the flesh stings, like it’s been rubbed raw. There’s going to be a hell of a bruise.

  “Is everything all right?” he asks, and he’s suddenly gone from half-asleep to completely awake.

  “Yeah,” I say, but my voice lacks the conviction it needs. “I just need you here.” I don’t want to tell him what happened over the phone. He’ll be less worried if he can see me, see that I’m okay.

  His mattress groans, and fabric rustles in the background. “I’m on my way,” he says before ending the call.

  Noah’s out front in ten minutes, unfortunately before Jason. I stand on the porch and hold my hands up to keep him at bay. “I need you to not touch me until Jason gets here,” I explain.

  He stares at me, his brows knitting together. “What happened?” He takes a step closer, and his eyes tighten. “What the hell happened to your neck?” The protective anger in his voice makes me think he’s going to hunt down the guy who did this and kill him himself.

  Now that he’s here, some of the tension in my shoulders drops. But I can still feel the panic lingering just beneath the surface. “When I got home from the station, someone was waiting for me in the house. He attacked me.” We spooked the killer, and now he’s going to focus on me. I’m the obstacle keeping him from killing again. The thought makes panic tighten around me, but at the same time, if he focuses on me, maybe it will distract him from killing anyone else. I should have gotten in his way sooner.

  “Who was it? I’ll fucking kill him,” he growls, clenching his hands into tight fists. “It’s not safe for you to be here alone.”

  I ignore his safety comment; he’s just protective because of the shock. “I don’t know. It happened in the basement. It was dark. I didn’t see who it was,” I explain. He must have been waiting in the house for me to get home. Was he going to come up while I was sleeping? The thought makes bile creep up my throat, but I swallow it down.

  Jason walks up the path and calls out behind Noah. “Everything all right, Claire?”

  “Yeah, it is.” Noah turns to face him. “I’m Noah.”

  “Ah, yeah, I’ve seen you at the station. Good to see you, man,” Jason says with a nod. “Wish it were under better circumstances, though.”

  Jason has a messenger bag slung over his shoulder as he walks up the steps. His eyes narrow on my neck, and I wave him inside. I sit on the couch, and Jason tosses the bag on the coffee table.

  “I’m going to scrape beneath your fingernails, swab your cheek, and then check all the doors and windows for fingerprints, if that’s all right,” Jason says.

  I nod.

  “Can I get you anything?” Noah asks as he hovers near me.

  I shake my head. “No, thank you.”

  Jason gets to work, gathering the DNA beneath my fingernails while Noah stands nearby, arms crossed, like a sentry. Normally I’d hate his hovering, his need to stand guard. I’m not a damsel in distress. But right now, I love that he’s close. I love that he’s here. Jason tries to make small talk, but I’m so drained after the long night that there’s no way I could keep it up even if I wanted to.

  “Did they take your fingerprints when you started?
” he asks as he bags the evidence and swabs my cheek. After he’s got that, I point him in the direction of the keys I found. Those will need to be fingerprinted too.

  “I transferred them from Detroit.” It’s common to give DNA and fingerprints when starting at a new station. As careful as we are, shit happens; sometimes someone will inadvertently leave a print at the scene.

  Sergeant Michaels pulls into the driveway, pops open his car door, and clicks on a flashlight. As he walks toward us, the beam of light bounces on the ground. Once he gives me a long appraising look, he says, “I’m going to check out back.” I don’t have a chance to say anything before he disappears along the side of the house.

  “Good, I’m glad you had your fingerprints transferred,” Jason says as he takes a step back and grimaces. I know he’s going to deliver bad news. “Because of the backlog, it’ll likely take us a bit to get the results back. There’s only one lab, and they handle everything for the smaller towns. The only other lab is in Bangor. We’ve never been able to get them to process anything for us. They’re too bogged down with their own shit.” He shakes his head and turns his attention back to me. “You probably shouldn’t stay here. You might want to stay at your mom’s until we catch whoever did this. I’ll prioritize this as much as I can, but they’ve got a rash of killings up there that’s bogging everything down.”

  “She’ll stay with me,” Noah says automatically, and I bristle. While I appreciate his chivalry, I won’t be ushered around and protected like the queen’s jewels. And I certainly won’t have my decisions made for me. I narrow my eyes at Noah.

  “I’ll see you later, Claire,” Jason says. “Call me if you need anything.”

  “Thank you,” I say as Jason heads toward the door. Once he’s gone, I grab a bottle of water from the kitchen. Sipping the water, swallowing, awakens an ache in my neck, and moving my head doesn’t feel much better.

  “You can’t seriously be considering staying here,” Noah says as he follows me into the kitchen.

  The cold granite bites through my shirt as I lean against the counter. “No, I’m not, but it feels like you’re ordering me not to stay here,” I say as I cross my arms. “I don’t like being ordered to do anything.”

  “You know that’s not how I meant it. It’s not safe here. I just don’t want you to get hurt.” He takes a step toward me and rubs his hand along my arm. “I don’t think it’s sunk in yet. Claire, you could have died today.”

  The shock is still holding that thought at bay. Later today, maybe later this week, that thought will hit me like a ton of bricks, but I’m going to fight it off for as long as I can. I look at the floor as I gather my thoughts.

  “My problem isn’t that you want to keep me safe. I appreciate that, I really do. My problem is you making a decision for me without giving me any say in the matter. You may want what’s best for me, but I get a say. This is my life.” Frustration needles the back of my mind as I wait for him to tell me I’m overreacting or that I should be more reasonable. Maybe it’s being on my own for so many years, maybe it’s the stubbornness born into me, or maybe it’s a combination. I’ve always depended on myself, made my own decisions. That isn’t going to stop now. It makes my skin crawl that the killer knows where I live now, but I don’t want to be ordered around.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly after everything,” he says as he brushes his hand along my cheek. “It’s hard to think straight around you. And seeing you like this . . .” He shakes his head as he takes a step closer, and butterflies flutter in my stomach.

  Exhaustion sets in as my adrenaline crashes. I’m so tired I can feel it in my bones. “Are you really okay with me staying at the hotel with you?”

  “Of course I am. The only other option would be staying at your mom’s, right?”

  I shudder at the thought. That or with my grandma. I don’t want to impose on Noah or feel like I’m invading his space, but for the night I’m grateful just to have somewhere safe to stay.

  CHAPTER 31

  October 2004

  My sister is sneaking out tonight. I know she’s going to meet Jacob again. I heard her getting ready in the bathroom an hour ago. Outside her door, I wait until her window slides open. In the dark hallway, I count to one hundred and then creep into her room and out her window.

  The gray sky above me showers the ground in a fresh blanket of snow. Even though I’ve got my thickest coat on, the cold creeps in, settling in my bones. The chill during the day is nothing compared to the night. It’s like death is breathing down my neck.

  Rachel cuts through the trees, tracing her way to the park near our house. She’s got her arms wrapped tightly around herself, like she’s cold. As I break through the tree line, light flashing through the slender tree trunks ahead guides me. A few of the light posts they put in the park a couple of years ago still burn bright. Rachel’s silhouette climbs the hill in front of me. She glances over her shoulder when she breaches the tree line, and I know she’s seen me. Rachel freezes and waves her hand as if to shoo me.

  I’m not going anywhere.

  A tall figure appears in front of Rachel, backlit by the streetlights. I can’t make out who it is, but it has to be Jacob. The figure moves suddenly, grabbing Rachel, and I duck behind a tree, not wanting them to see me. I peek out as I hear Rachel try to say something. The man’s got her by the hair, and I realize he’s too tall to be Jacob, too big. Rachel moves fast, her tiny stature helping her wriggle free. She takes off into the woods toward me. I want to run. I want to grab my sister, but I swear my legs have grown roots.

  Rachel reaches me faster than should be possible. The man lumbers after her, but he’s slow. She grabs me by my shirt, the way our mom would. Her wide eyes search for mine in the darkness. She shoves me a bit, as if to wake me up, and pushes me toward the tree line.

  “Claire, run.”

  “No, I’m not leaving you.”

  “You’re not leaving me. Just hurry—get home. And don’t you dare tell Mom and Dad what happened.”

  “Okay,” I say automatically, and it’s as if she has enough power over me to force my legs to work again. I take a step back, away from her, my heart pounding.

  “Claire, promise. No matter what happens. You were never here,” she urges as she takes off into the darkness. I run out of the woods, back toward our house. I run until my legs burn and my side splinters with pain.

  Every day that I carry this secret in my heart, it gets a little heavier. I can’t keep it forever. It’s been two weeks. Two weeks without my sister. It still doesn’t feel real. I still expect to hear her whisper in the next room. Every time I’m alone, I swear I can hear her say “Claire-Bear” in a singsong voice the way she always used to. My heart aches like it’s being pulled from my chest. I can’t do it anymore.

  I’ve tiptoed around my mother’s grief. I’m not walking on eggshells; I’m walking on broken glass. She’s standing in front of the back door, a drink in her hand. Before Rachel died, she always wore pastels. Today, her clothes are as gray as the sky.

  “Mom, can I talk to you for a minute?” I ask and flinch automatically. Half of the time she lashes out at me, and the other half, especially if someone is watching, she’s saccharine.

  “What do you want, Claire?” she asks, her voice halfway between annoyance and apathy.

  “I need to talk to you about the night Rachel died,” I say and cross my arms to keep my hands from shaking. I’ve already had this conversation with her a thousand times in my head.

  She turns, and her expression is hollow, empty. But her eyes sharpen the moment they land on me. “We don’t ever need to talk about that again. I don’t want to hear a word about her. Not even her name.” Though her words are soft, velvet smooth, her eyes are slits, like a snake’s.

  “I saw something,” I say, a little firmer this time because I don’t think she’ll listen otherwise.

  “It doesn’t matter what you saw. We’re not dredging any of this
back up. I’m not going to bring embarrassment to our family.”

  “You think it’s an embarrassment that Rachel died?” The last word gets stuck in my throat, and I have to force it out.

  She moves her wrist, and the ice in her drink swirls. “Yes. I do. We’re done talking about this. Go back to your room.”

  Two more times I try to talk to her about it. I try until she screams at me, until my heart breaks all over again. But there has to be something else I can do. I can’t give up on Rachel.

  Most girls skip school to hang out with boys, go shopping, smoke weed. I’m skipping school to tell the sheriff about what I saw the night Rachel died. My heart pounds as I slip out the back door. I’ve only skipped class once. My mom found out and grounded me for two months. I’ve wondered what she would have done if it were Rachel. Somehow I don’t think she’d have gotten grounded.

  I dart across the back parking lot. It’s still filled with cars, as it will be for the next three hours. Though I glance back at the building several times as I cross, there’s not a single person watching me. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be doing this. But normal went out the window the night Rachel died. I already tried telling my mom what I saw, and since she won’t listen, the only other person I can tell is the sheriff. He’ll be able to do something about it. Maybe if he knows what I saw, what I know, he’ll be able to find the person who did this.

  After I’m away from the school, it’s a two-mile walk to downtown. I skirt the tree line the whole way, and my heart doesn’t stop pounding until I cross the threshold of the station. The woman behind the counter tells me to take a seat. In a few minutes, Sheriff Dyer is peeking at me from behind the doorframe.