“Detective Stolz, this is the third student death at Tuskmirth. There’s ten days until these students go off on winter break—should these students or their parents be concerned? Shouldn’t they return home until the murderer is apprehended?” the reporter asks.
“No,” she says. “I don’t believe there’s a reason for panic. We believe that Mr. Shirokov’s murder may have been a killing out of revenge. I truly cannot tell you any more until forensics is processed, but I don’t want anyone to be alarmed. If we believe there is a threat to students, we’ll inform the public immediately.”
“Some sources say this murder was done with a gun—does that mean it’s a different killer than the person who killed Victoria Glassman and Everett Pine?”
The reporters must not know about Iris Knight, though I suppose it would be hard for them to connect deaths that don’t have a known cause of death.
“We can’t be certain at this time,” she says. “I have to continue our investigation. We will inform the public when we have more information. Thank you.”
As her speech ends, John turns around, looking straight at me.
“Did you hear me?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I just had this feeling that someone was watching me.”
“I wasn’t watching you. I was watching the TV.”
“She said Alex is dead.”
“Yes.”
“And your ex-boyfriend…”
“He’s also dead,” I say, the word dead feeling heavy on the tip of my tongue.
“You don’t seem upset.”
“You said yourself that people mourn in different ways,” I say. “I’m mourning in my own way.”
“Does your own way include killing a man?”
“Are you seriously asking me that?” I demand.
“Did I sound like I was joking?”
“I didn’t kill him,” I say. “But…they’re going to be saying I did.”
“Why would they say that if you didn’t kill him?”
“Because I’m certain it’s my fingerprints they found in his room,” I say. “The killer would have been too smart to leave their own fingerprints.”
“Okay…when were you in his room?” he asks.
“I was there right after he died,” I say. “I…I just wanted to confront him, but I…I didn’t kill him, okay? Can’t you trust me on that one fact?”
“I’ve trusted you this whole time,” he says. “But the police are saying they have evidence and you think this evidence is against you. This is why you didn’t want to go back to your apartment last night? You think they would find you there? What makes you think they won’t come here?”
“They could come here,” I say. “But I would hope that you would cover for me.”
“That depends on whether or not you killed him,” he says. He rubs his temple. “Why were you going to go confront him?”
“I didn’t kill him. I went to his room because he killed three of your students and my ex-boyfriend,” I say. “Or, at least, I think he did. He was involved in some way. He admitted it to me. But he said something that makes me think someone else was involved and it doesn’t make sense for him to be the killer. Do you know anyone he associates with that would connect back to you?”
“I don’t know him at all!” he says. “He’s a chemistry student! I’d never seen him until we went to the fraternity house for the first time.”
I shake my head, turning away from him, and slide my fingers in my hair. I grip the strands, my thoughts rushing so fast that I’m amazed they don’t knock me down.
I turn back to John, but I don’t look him in the eye. I focus on his knees.
“Do you want me to leave?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
A few seconds of silence pass. I look up at his face, but it’s inscrutable.
“I’ll go,” I say.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “You can stay…unless more evidence comes up. I trust you, I do…but I trust facts more.”
I nod. “That’s fair.”
He rubs his temple again, making his forehead red. “So…you think someone I know was an accomplice to Alex?”
“More likely he was an accomplice or partner to them,” I say. “They also could have been part of the chemistry field or the fraternity house, but I think they’re in the English field, because they were angry at you and killing your favorite students. Can you think of anyone that fits that profile? I mean, at least one of those fraternity brothers has to be an English student.”
“I didn’t recognize any of them,” he says. “Other than those two—Brian and Daniel—but they’re not English majors. I barely know either of them. They’re average when it comes to talent. I’ve never talked to either of them outside of class.”
I shake my head. “It has to be someone that you knew pretty well. Think. You said students get attached to you. Did any of your more recent ones seem more attached than they should have been?”
“No,” he says. “If I could have thought of a crazy stalker, I would have told you.”
“Any pissed off ex-girlfriends?”
“My list of ex-girlfriends is two and one of those was when I was a sophomore in high school,” he says.
“And the other one?”
“Her name was Amelia. We dated on and off starting when I was twenty-eight, but neither of us was really ever committed,” he says. “She got married a year ago and she has a kid. She’s definitely not obsessed with me and she isn’t crazy.”
As I look away from him, back to the TV screen, I can feel his suspicion. He's watching every move I make. He doesn't trust me. It's a disconcerting feeling. There've certainly been people in my past who didn't trust me--Detective Stolz is a great example--but this is a distrust encased in fear. If he thinks I could be a murderer, he recognizes that he could become a victim. I try not to let it bother me, but I can’t help wishing for the comfort of his arms.
"I have to go talk to my old forensic partner," I tell him. "Can I come back later?"
Without hesitating, he nods. "There's a key under the lamp with the rock base...though, I cleared out the glass from the basement if you prefer to go through there again."
"A key works for me," I say. "John...thank you."
He nods again, polite but distant. It's the best I can ask for right now, and it’s probably more than I deserve.
I unlock the forensic lab with my keycard. I pull open the door as the high-pitched beep tells anyone inside that I'm approaching. From the parking lot, I could see that Ed Bunt is the only one who should be here and it appears that he is. He spins around to look at who has walked through the door. His face pales.
"Mira," he says. "I didn't expect...you to come here."
"Does that mean the detectives have already talked to you?" I ask.
He doesn't answer--sitting as still as possible--so, I can only assume that they have talked to him.
Sighing, I say, "I didn't kill Alex Shirokov."
"I checked the evidence myself, Mira,” he says, his words coming out so slowly it's as if they were dripping from his lips. "Your fingerprints were all over his room. They were on the opened window. They were on his wrist. Your gun was used--"
"My gun was used because he took my gun," I say. "My fingerprints were on his wrist because I was checking his pulse and I was there because I--look, haven't we worked together long enough that you can trust me? Is that so much to ask of you?"
"If someone killed my wife, I'd want to kill them too," he says. "It's understandable if you felt so much anger that you killed him. You could plead provocation--"
"I didn't kill him," I repeat. "I can't believe Stolz told you about Andre. That wasn't for her to tell you.”
"It's because I was defending you," he says. "I said that you didn't have enough motive, so she told me about his murder. It wasn't to...to hurt you, Mira. You don't always need to jump to that conclusion."
"Oh? You're going to accuse me of jumping to conclusions?"<
br />
"It's not jumping to conclusions when the evidence is there," he counters.
I scowl. He's not going to believe me and I don't blame him. He's a man of science--if all of his facts point to the conclusion that I'm guilty, he won't change his mind until there's different evidence.
"So, the detectives are trying to find me?"
"Yes," he says.
"Did you find anything else, Ed?" I ask. "I mean, anything. It could have seemed insignificant to you, but there had to be more."
"No," he says. "The victim had your fingerprints on his wrist, the window was open, your fingerprints were on that too, and the gun was gone. We searched all over his room and all over the fraternity house."
"The gun is gone..." I mutter. "The killer must have taken it."
"Mira--"
"No," I cut him off. "I know you already think it's me, but it's not. I'm going to find the real killer. Unlike you, I'm going to keep searching for evidence."
"You should just turn yourself in if you're innocent," he says. "You can explain everything to the police."
"They've already decided I'm guilty," I say. "You've worked with the police longer than I have. Once they've focused on a suspect, they just try to find more evidence against that suspect. If anything goes against their theory, they throw it out. Turning myself in is the same as throwing my ass into prison and I'm not going to prison for something I didn't do."
"Then, you should get going," he says. "The detectives left about twenty minutes ago and they were going to send an officer to keep watch of this building in case you returned. They're also going to be watching the hospital where your brother is at, your family's house, and your family's store. They're not messing around, Mira."
"Does the fact that you're telling me this mean that you believe me now?" I ask.
"It means that we've worked together long enough for me to give you the benefit of the doubt," he corrects. "And I'm just praying that this doesn't ruin my whole career."
"It won't," I promise. I open the door back up. "I know I promised to buy you several lunches and we're still going to do that."
"Sure," he says. "Let's just hope those lunches don't have to happen in prison."
"We're dreaming big now," I say under my breath.
I slip out of the room. As I sneak out of the building, I notice a red SUV parking across the street. I recognize it because the driver door has a big white scratch on it. I had searched through that SUV for evidence during a kidnapping case a couple months ago and it had belonged to the kidnapper, which means that vehicle belongs to the police now.
I have to be more careful. I can't get caught until I find the evidence that will point to the real killer.
"I need to ask you to do something for me," I say as I walk into John's house. For a second, I think he's not here until I find him at his desk in his living room. He raises an eyebrow at me, tossing the pad of paper he was writing on onto the coffee table.
"What do you need?" he asks.
"I need you to question the fraternity brothers," I say.
"Last time I wanted to question the frat boys, you didn't want me to be involved."
"Last time, I wasn't being hunted by the police and the police weren't hanging around the fraternity house," I say. "Times have changed. As a professor, you should know how time changes things. You get to meet new eighteen year olds every year and say goodbye to twenty-two year olds.”
"Actually, I see more of how things stay the same." He chews on the tip of his pen. "Fine. It's probably best if I wait until tomorrow at least. I'm sure the police are still lingering there now and if I go there--"
"--it could remind the police that you've been associated with me," I finish.
"Associated? Is that what the kids call it nowadays?" he teases. His smile disappears. "I've found more information about the case through different news networks and the rumor mill within the school, so I think I deserve to know at least one thing."
"What's that?"
"Why was your ex-boyfriend at Alex's apartment?"
"He was investigating for me," I say. "Or...he was investigating despite the fact that I told him to not do anything without telling me. He wasn't supposed to be there. I don't think Alex planned on killing him. That would be a really stupid thing to do--killing someone in your own secret apartment and leaving him...leaving his body there."
I take a deep breath, trying to regain any semblance of stability. John sets down his pen. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He shakes his head like he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t press the issue, either.
"It does seem strange," he says. "Maybe it was Alex’s accomplice that killed your ex."
"With poison?" I ask. "That seemed to be Alex's area."
"Yes, Alex seemed very smart though," he says. "We never suspected him. He acted like the womanizing, stupid frat boy and we believed it. We never thought he was the killer because he knew how we expected him to act and he acted that way. And clearly, most students in chemistry are rather intelligent. So...why would he make such a big mistake?"
"Why would someone else kill Andre?" I ask. "Alex could have figured out about Andre's connection to me, but no one else would really know about it."
"He could have just said something that alerted the accomplice to his motives for being there," he says. "I don't know. I can ask the people who live in Alex's apartment building if anyone else went into his apartment."
I nod. "That's a good plan. I mean, I doubt anyone did notice because I don't really notice anyone in my building, but I'll go for any plan right now."
"Good," he says. "I don't want you to go to prison."
I stare at him. He's still mostly a stranger to me, but he's the only person I could rely on. For some reason, this isn’t as terrifying of a thought as I would expect it to be.
"I guess...since I came here...you know that I'm not really close to anybody," I say, sitting down on his couch. "I...I suppose you want to add that to your story. Redheaded pain in the ass does not have any friends."
He smirks. "I got the impression that you were close to your family. You just can't go to them right now because the police will be watching them. I understand. Besides, you know the same thing about me now. I've only had one real relationship in my adult life and...it was never real. It's more like we were both lonely, so we decided to travel in this life together for short bursts of time. There was never any sense or feeling that it was true love."
"You think that's real?" I ask. "Do you think there's true love?"
"I saw true love in your expression when you were talking about Andre and your happiest memory," he says. "So...yes. I've seen it in other people's faces as well. Hell, maybe I've even felt it and the other person just didn't feel the same way. You can love someone completely and maybe they just don't feel the same thing. It's okay. It hurts, but it's okay."
I remember his expression after I told him about Andre. He was hurt, but I can't imagine I'm the one he would fall far.
Then again, why else would he protect me from the police?
Eight days left until all of the students leave for winter break. They have a little over a month off. As soon as they’re gone, the killer could be gone too.
And the police aren’t even looking for the killer, because they assume Alex killed everyone and I killed Alex.
“And I can’t do anything because you fuckers are trying to track me down,” I say aloud, though nobody is in the house. I’m going stir crazy. I have to find something to do.
I walk over to John’s desk in his living room. I sit down and pull open the center drawer. At least a dozen sheets of paper and scraps of paper have been stuffed into it. Some of them are covered with printed text, and some of them have his handwriting scribbled over them. I pull out a handful.
Possible jobs: dog walker/groomer/breeder or guitar manufacturer?
Main conflict? Pressure from parents, pressure from fiancé, impending deadline o
f two scholarships
Setting: Maine, New Jersey, along border of Mexico, Tennessee?
I have acted like a good person, but immorality seems to be a genetic factor in my biological family. My father was a gambling addict, who had a fondness for prostitutes. He was arrested for beating up one of those prostitutes he was so fond of when I was six years old. I’ve told a couple of people about how he was arrested and they’re always surprised that I know why he was arrested—they think someone would have invented some lie for me to believe, but that wouldn’t have worked because I was with him when he assaulted this woman. The judge refused to give my mother custody because my mother was rambling about how the government was trying to frame my father during the sentencing. This essentially defines my parents: one was morally corrupt and reckless, and the other was crazy and willing to believe anything my father told her. I was never close to any of my relatives—likely because they avoided my parents—so I landed in the fucked-up arms of the foster care system.
Still, there are times that I can’t tell when something is moral or immoral. I have been basing my stories on my students for the last four or five years, and it was recently pointed out to me that this isn’t the most moral action to take. It hadn’t really crossed my mind that it was wrong—I was just fascinated by all these different personalities and stories I was told and I wanted to spin my stories around them. Usually, I would dismiss someone criticizing my writing like that—it is art, after all—but I was told this by a person I respect a lot. So now I’m stuck. I don’t want to be morally corrupt.
But, damn, do I want to write about this person now.
I shuffle that piece of paper to the back of the stack. At first I’d thought he was writing in character or something, but the part about being told he shouldn’t write about his students…that sounds like a conversation we had. That can’t be right, though, can it? Does he respect me? I feel like a narcissist for thinking he’d be writing about me like this. Shaking off the thoughts, I look at the next page.
Particles of Obsession (A Shadow of Death Romantic Suspense Book 2) Page 2
