by Greg Herren
She took a deep breath and walked into the room Joey used as his office. His computer sat there on the pristinely organized and clean desk.
Don’t do it, she told herself as she sat down at the desk and pressed the button turning on his computer, once you do this there’s no turning back.
The password box opened on the screen.
She stared at it for a few moments, her emotions warring inside her.
That’s it, I don’t know his password, turn off his damned computer and delete those emails, he’s not a killer, not my Joey.
She closed her eyes and remembered. She could see it as clearly as if it were happening at that very moment. Joey was sitting behind his desk while she stood in the doorway watching. He was smiling at her as he booted up his computer. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, his strongly muscled upper body lightly dusted with curly black hairs.
She placed her fingers on the keyboard and slowly mimicked the movement she remembered of Joey’s fingers and with her right pinkie hit the Enter key.
She opened her eyes and watched as the computer booted up and came to life rapidly in front of her.
Sign off, shut the computer down and forget about it, you don’t want to do this, you don’t even know what you’re looking for.
There was a folder on the desktop labeled JOEY. She clicked it open, and a list of folders opened before her.
She scrolled down.
Her blood froze for a moment, and a cry came out of her mouth.
There was a folder named TRACY.
No, it’s not the same thing, it’s just a coincidence, it’s not too late, shut the computer down and get out of here.
She opened it. It was all JPEG and PDF files, all named with series of numbers. She pulled her hand away from the mouse like she was burned. But the numbers urged her on, like they were saying Click on me, you know you want to, what will it hurt, click me open, you’ll wonder.
She took a deep breath and planted both hands on the desk. She pushed and the desk chair rolled backward. She got up and walked out of the office, hesitating at the door.
I have to trust him.
Easier said than done.
Remember what happened the last time you trusted a man?
“Shut up,” she whispered.
You don’t get a happily ever after, the voice whispered, women like you don’t. Why do you think you even deserve one?
“Shut up,” she said aloud, more firmly this time, focusing and forcing the voice out of her mind. Her therapist didn’t think it a coincidence the voice sounded like her mother.
But she had to know. She couldn’t pretend there wasn’t a file folder on his computer named TRACY. Maybe the emails were a prank, and nothing more. But the truth was she had to find out; otherwise that voice would always come back the way it always did.
And you know what happens when the voice comes back.
Resolutely she walked back over to the desk and sat back down. She clicked on the folder again and opened the first JPEG file.
The smiling face she was looking at was definitely the same girl from the online article she’d found.
But you knew that already, didn’t you, Emily?
She was smiling at the camera. Her hair was wet, and drops of water glistened on her tan skin. She was wearing a blue bikini, and in the background the clear blue water of a swimming pool glittered in the sun. She was holding a sweating bottle of beer. She looked like she didn’t have a care in the world.
Emily swallowed and clicked on the next picture.
They were all similar. Tracy was always by herself in the photos but was always smiling. Sometimes she was dressed more formally, other times more casually. She scrutinized each picture, unaware of how much time she was spending on each one until she reached the final one.
When it opened, she recoiled and pushed instinctively with her feet.
The chair rolled back and didn’t stop till she hit the wall with a low thud.
She tried to look away, told herself to stop looking, but she couldn’t.
The picture on the computer screen kept drawing her back, as repulsive as it was.
Tracy was naked, her body bruised and bleeding, a gag in her mouth, her arms and legs bound together. She was stretched across a bed, and her eyes were absolutely terrified.
There’s an explanation for this, there has to be, maybe the person who killed her sent this to him.
And her mother’s voice: Sure, that’s why he kept it in a folder with the nice pictures of her. Because that’s just what people do, Emily, right? Is that what YOU did?
She closed the program, shut the computer down, and walked back out of the office. She could see the crepe myrtles along the fence bending in the wind. It was very dark outside, and as she watched, the rain started coming down.
She felt like she’d been punched in the stomach or had tossed back too much tequila in a short period of time. Dazed and confused, sickened and horrified, she felt a weird numbness as her mind leapfrogged from one thought to another without stopping, and she—
She didn’t know what to do.
She somehow managed to get down the hallway into the kitchen. There were no sweets in the house, no candy bars, no snacks, no nothing—she wouldn’t allow them, and Joey—
the murderer
—had agreed with her, he wanted to try to live a healthier lifestyle and eat better, at least that was what he told her.
She opened the cabinet where he—they—kept the liquor and grabbed a bottle of Bombay Sapphire. She poured herself a glass of gin with a few ice cubes and took a long belt. Her heart was beating so loudly she could hear it, and her hands shook as she put the glass back down on the counter.
You’ve got to get out of here, you don’t want to go through that again, you don’t DESERVE to have to go through that all over again, get out, just grab your things and go, you can come back for the rest—
Her computer and her phone both dinged again within seconds of each other, and she barked out a half scream.
She finished the gin left in the glass and refilled it before sitting down at the table and touching the space bar. The rain was beating against the windows, wet leaves from the crepe myrtles blowing against the glass and sticking. The laptop screen came to life again, and sure enough, there was yet another email from the string of numbers. The subject line on this one was IMPORTANT!!!
She clicked it open.
I know you don’t know me from adam but I am worried about you any woman who gets involved with Joey is in danger from him I know you don’t believe me but if you googled Tracy Goodwin you found out what he did to my sister they couldn’t prove anything so he got away with it he moved to New Orleans and changed his last name it’s not the first time he’s done it google Pamela Marshall in Lake Charles and you’ll see what I mean.
Her hand shaking, she opened another tab and went to Google; she typed in the name and hit Return.
It wasn’t the first link that came up—it had to be one halfway down the results page.
Lake Charles authorities are looking for elementary school teacher Pamela Marshall, 27, reported missing by her live-in boyfriend, Joey Valentine…
There was a picture of Pamela Marshall. She was blond and smiling at the camera, her bangs hanging wistfully over her forehead, her smile not quite reaching the eyes. She didn’t look like Tracy Goodwin other than the shape of her face, and the hair, and maybe the innocent look in her eyes.
Joey Valletta.
Joey Valenzuela.
Joey Valentine.
She closed the laptop and staggered into the bathroom just off the kitchen. She looked at herself in the mirror.
Blond hair, blue eyes, a heart-shaped face.
He certainly runs to type—but then they always do, don’t they?
She splashed more water on her face, her hands trembling. The rain was coming down harder now, and she shivered as a blast of wind shook the house.
She took a deep breath and pulled hers
elf together.
She walked back out into the kitchen and watched the sheets of rain beating against the windows. The gin bottle still sat on the counter. She put it back in the cabinet, cursing at herself for being stupid enough to drink some.
She froze as she heard the front door open.
“Emily, honey?” Joey called. There was the sound of his suitcase hitting the hardwood floor. “Are you home, honey?”
Act natural. She forced a smile on her face and ran lightly on her bare feet to the front of the house. She closed her eyes and threw her arms around him, kissing his cheek even though her skin crawled at his touch. He smelled slightly of peppermint and cologne. “What are you doing home so early? I would have made dinner.”
He squeezed her. “You sounded weird on the phone, so I canceled the rest and drove home…” He shrugged. He smiled. “I didn’t like the thought of you being here lonely. Is everything okay?”
You mean, besides the fact that the man I just moved in with is a serial killer with a thing for blondes?
“Just lonely,” she replied, amazed at how calm her voice sounded. “Well, that’s not entirely true. I got some weird emails today—but I mean, they were probably from that crazy ex of yours, like you told me, but still.” She managed to keep smiling at him, even though all she wanted to do was run away as fast as she could.
“Geez, Emily, I told you to delete those without reading them.” He let go of her and pried her arms from around his neck. “All she wants to do is upset you. Why would you read that shit?”
“I know.” She turned her back to him so he couldn’t see her face, and walked back over to the box of books. She grabbed a handful and placed them on the shelf. “I wanted to see what she would actually say, Joey. I’m sorry—from now on I’ll just delete them, I promise.” She placed another handful of the yellow-spined books on the shelf. She frowned. Number 28 was missing. She turned back around and forced another smile on her face. “It didn’t really upset me, Joey, so don’t worry about that. The language was just—well, a shock. That’s all.”
His eyes narrowed. “And that’s all? What did she say?”
“Oh, she”—careful now, girl, be careful—“just was nasty. You don’t really want to know. Besides, I deleted them and now I know what to expect. From now on, I’ll just delete them unread, I promise.”
“Okay.” He picked his suitcase up again, yawning. “I think I’m going to take a long, hot bath.” He winked at her. “You want to join me?”
She smiled. “Get the water ready.” Emily turned back to the box, frowning. Where is Number 28? “I’ll be there as soon as I finish this box.”
She swallowed as she heard him walking through the house, the sound of his suitcase being set down in the—their—bedroom, and the sound of water running in the bathtub.
You know what you have to do. You’ve done it before.
“That was different,” she whispered as she set another six books on the shelf.
Not really. He wanted to kill you, too, didn’t he? Just like your father.
She could hear Joey whistling in the bathroom, the water still flowing into the tub.
I don’t want to think about that now.
The water ceased. “Come on, honey, the water’s ready,” Joey yelled.
She put some more books out on the shelf. At the very bottom of the spine of The Clue in the Crossword Cipher was a tiny, almost imperceptible brown spot. She licked the tip of her finger and rubbed it until it disappeared. She smiled at the book and walked into the bedroom. She could see through the bathroom door—Joey was already in the massive bathtub. She could see his strong, powerful, hairy arm draped over the side. She walked across the bedroom.
Thunder shook the house—just like before, just like with her father and with—
She walked into the bathroom. The tub was full of suds, but Joey was leaning against the end with his eyes closed. His shoulders were out of the water, and some suds were clinging to the bottom of his left ear. The dark olive skin was smooth, the cleft in his chin she loved so much marred by a little scab from his razor just below it.
He opened his eyes with a lazy smile that quickly faded as his eyes opened wider. “Emily, don’t—” he half-shouted as she tossed the hair dryer into the bathwater.
She closed her eyes until it was all over, and when all the sound had faded again and the only thing she could hear was the rain hitting against the house, she opened them.
Joey’s eyes were open and staring.
She took a deep breath and walked back into the kitchen. She picked up her cell phone and dialed a number.
“Mama? You were right again. But I took care of it.”
There was silence on the other end. And then, “You remembered to make it look like an accident?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“You’d better be calling 9-1-1 then, dear.” There was a click on the other end of the line.
Emily took a deep breath and dialed. And while she waited for the operator to answer, she watched the rain splashing against the windows and running down. She put her free hand against the window, and felt sad.
Maybe next time.
Keeper of the Flame
So what if it was only ten in the morning?
It was also Las Vegas.
Why not have a glass of Chardonnay?
It wasn’t like she’d be the only one drinking.
Her stomach was still churning from last night’s vodka—although it was technically morning when she’d finally stumbled into the elevators marked Habitat. The sun was mere hours from rising in the east, over the mountains she could vaguely see through the window of her room on the twenty-fourth floor of the Flamingo Hotel while collapsing onto the bed still wearing her black sandals, the tight black skirt, and the odd top she’d bought at some chic boutique that looked like an odd assortment and collection of black elastic bandages artfully stretched and strategically arranged over her breasts and shoulders. She’d set her phone to start ringing at nine, so she’d have time to shower—but it was closer to ten when she’d rolled out of bed and glared at her reflection in the mirror, said the hell with it, splashed some water on her face, brushed her teeth, and gone out the door.
Actually, a glass of wine was sounding more and more perfect by the minute.
The blogger who wanted to interview her was meeting her at the patio bar at eleven—so why not get a head start? There were even slot machines built into the bar, under glass—it was Las Vegas, for Christ’s sake, where weren’t there slot machines—so she could throw some money away, drink some white wine, get that hangover firmly chased away before the interviewer showed up so she could be reasonably coherent…maybe he wasn’t a blogger, she really couldn’t remember what he’d said, it was for either a blog or website or some other kind of nonsense like that.
It wasn’t like it was for a real newspaper or a magazine, like in the old days.
She hated all of this new stuff, anyway.
It didn’t seem real.
Blogs and e-magazines and e-news. Who cared? She longed for the old days, back when you could make the cover of an industry magazine and take it in to be framed and mounted and then hang it in your living room, when all of your colleagues and contemporaries would see it on the newsstands or get it in the mail and have to give you compliments to cover their own seething jealousy, wondering what you’d done to get the cover. Back when a reviewer actually knew what they were talking about, could parse sentences and paragraphs and themes and character development; when a print review meant something.
Now any idiot could log into a website and type out some meaningless, senseless drivel and click Post and it was there forever, badly typed, mixing up there and their and they’re, sentences not making sense to anyone with more than a third-grade education, and worst of all, completely missing the point.
They always missed the point.
Thank God, she thought, not for the first time, Daddy didn’t live to see this insanity.
She glanced down at her reflection in the glass over the slot machine set into the bar. She ordered a glass of Chardonnay without looking up, reaching into her purse for the appropriate credit card (one of the two or three that weren’t over the limit already) to fit into the appropriate place to swipe and authorize. Her blond hair, unwashed, hung past her chin almost to her shoulders, but it looked fine. Americans were too obsessed with cleanliness anyway, she thought as she pushed her dark glasses back up her red nose. Her skin was fair, to go with the blond hair, and she’d convinced herself over the years that the perpetual red flush of her nose, cheeks, and chin came from exposure to the sun. She offered that explanation to anyone and everyone, babbling on about lotions not being strong enough to protect her delicate, sensitive skin, and if her teeth were gray and crooked, again, Americans were too obsessed with perfection, and why should she spend money to try to fit into the impossible American beauty standard?
Americans didn’t appreciate anything except superficiality, anyway.
Daddy hadn’t been a big success in the States, after all, which was why she’d grown up in the UK, born there, her mother from Glasgow, a part-time student and bookseller who’d met him at a signing and swept him off his feet. The British had always appreciated Daddy’s genius, even if American readers didn’t.
Peasants, really, with their love of writers who were at best typists.
Then again, it was no wonder Daddy had never broken big in the United States after his promising start. After what that horrible editor did with Daddy’s third book—well, that bastard had pretty much destroyed Daddy’s career in the United States just as he was on the verge of breaking big, becoming a household name, someone who elevated the genre to literature.
Instead, he was practically forgotten in the States.
She took a sip of her Chardonnay and pressed the button to start the slot machine spinning. That was another thing she hated, didn’t think was an improvement over the old days—the way slot machines were now all digital. They still made the same sounds they used to when they were mechanical, but it was just canned noise, a simulation intended to replicate the sounds they used to make. She wasn’t sure she trusted the digital slot machines the way she had the old ones. She hadn’t been to Vegas in—how long had it been? She was fifteen or sixteen, Daddy was still alive, they’d come for a convention—she couldn’t remember which one—and she didn’t have a fake ID, but Daddy had told her to dress sexy and no one would question her. He was right, they didn’t, she just wore a low-cut top and an underwire push-up bra and a short skirt and no one questioned her as she put the money Daddy had given her into the machines and waitresses brought her cocktails whenever she wanted another one. She’d had beginner’s luck, too—Daddy had only given her a couple of hundred dollars, and at one point she’d been up several thousand dollars before she’d lost it all at the craps tables. But it had been wonderful not having to ask Daddy for more money…he’d been so proud of how well she’d done…always been so proud.
