by Box Set
Dylan: I know you’re home.
My gaze shot around the room. Is he watching me? Did he see Mom leave? Does he know I’m alone? My heart hammered against my ribs as terror ripped through me. He’s going to kill me. He’s going to come into my house and stab me to death.
The image of him doing exactly that to the man behind the alley blared into my head in full technicolor. Then my ears began to buzz and my vision began to narrow to pinpoints.
Over the swarm of bees in my ears, I heard my phone chime again, and after taking a deep breath, I picked it up with shaking hands.
Dylan: I just want to talk.
I set my phone on my comforter gently, as if that would keep him from knowing I’d read the message, then I moved to the window where the blinds were shut. Standing to the side, I lifted a blind slat a few millimeters and peered into the yard. My scope of vision was small, and I couldn’t see anyone, or any movement.
Where is he?
I released the slat as my mind catalogued all the options and the repercussions to those options.
I can call the police and tell them the murderer is here. But what if they don’t get here before he kills me? Or what if he gets away and then he knows I told? Will he come after me when I least expect it?
Or I can reply to his text and talk to him. But what if it’s a trick to get to me so he can murder me?
Or I can ignore his text and pretend like I’m not here. I can hide somewhere so he won’t find me when he breaks in.
The last thought brought on a bout of shaking and I froze with indecision. Finally, realizing I couldn’t stand next to the window forever, I walked to my bed on stiff legs, picked up my phone, and looked around my room. While my gaze frantically probed every corner in a desperate search for a place to hide, my ears strained to hear the front or back door opening and the creak of footsteps ascending the stairs.
Think, Courtney. Think!
After only seconds I knew my room would be the first place he would look, so I shoved my dresser out of the way, yanked my door open, and raced down the hall to my mother’s room. Hiding in the closet was out of the question—too obvious—so I crouched on the floor on the far side of her bed between her bed and the nightstand. I would have preferred to hide under her bed, but the space was just too small to squeeze into.
Slowing my breathing, I struggled to hear Dylan’s approach, but all was silent. Then I realized that if he came into the room I wouldn’t be able to track him unless I could see his feet. After only a brief hesitation, I stretched out on the floor, still hidden from view by anyone entering the room, but able to see under the bed and to the base of the doorway if someone—if Dylan—were to appear.
The doorbell rang.
My hand flew to my mouth and I stifled a scream.
He’s here. He’s at the door. Holy crap. What should I do? What should I do? What should I do?
Paralyzed with fear, I didn’t move. A few moments later my phone chimed a message, drawing a startled cry from me. I snatched it out of my pocket, put it on silent mode, and saw a message from Shelby.
Shelby: Are you home? I needed a break from homework and decided to stop by, but you’re not answering your door.
I pictured Shelby standing on my porch, completely unaware that a murderer was lurking somewhere in the yard, and knew I had to get her in the house before Dylan snuck up on her and slashed her throat.
For the sake of my best friend, I shoved my fear aside, then replied to her text.
Courtney: I’m home. I’ll be there in a minute.
Then, gathering all the courage I could muster, I pushed myself to a standing position and tiptoed to the bedroom doorway, on the alert for any noise or movement. When nothing happened, I ventured out into the hallway and to the top of the stairs. Peering down and seeing nothing, I made my way down the stairs, and when I reached the front door, I stopped to plan my next move, my heart like a jackhammer in my chest.
If I open the door really fast and yank Shelby inside, I can close and lock the door before Dylan has a chance to force his way in.
I pressed my eye to the peephole to make sure Shelby was actually on the porch. She was. I took several deep breaths as I rallied my flagging courage, then I twisted the doorknob and jerked the door open. My hand shot out as I reached for Shelby, but to my shock, she stepped out of my grasp.
“Hey there, Courtney,” she said with a bright smile.
“Hurry and come in,” I whisper-screamed.
Her eyebrows bunched. “What’s wrong?”
My hand fluttered wildly as I motioned for her to come in, but she ignored me.
“Hold on,” she said, then she looked to her left, and in a sing-song voice added, “I have a little surprise for you.”
Dark foreboding swept over me, but before I could do anything about it, Shelby reached to her left and said, “Guess who I found skulking about out here?”
A moment later Dylan came into view.
Chapter Eight
“Hey, Courtney,” he said as he boldly stared at me.
Swallowing over the nausea that rose in my throat, my gaze ricocheted between him and Shelby.
“Can we come in?” Shelby asked, completely oblivious to the emotions storming inside me. My face must have given some sort of clue that all was not right, because when I didn’t respond, she peered more closely at me and asked, “Are you okay?”
No, I’m not okay. There’s a murderer standing on my porch staring at me. And you want to invite him in.
My gaze shifted from Shelby to Dylan, then back to Shelby, and I managed to croak out, “I’m not feeling well.”
She frowned and took a step back. “Oh. Maybe we should leave you alone then.”
I nodded, although I feared leaving her alone with Dylan. But why would he hurt her? She didn’t know anything about what I’d seen in the alley behind Patty Melt Burgers and Shakes.
“Okay,” she said, then she glanced at Dylan, evidently waiting for him to say what he was going to do.
“I need to talk to you, Courtney,” he said, then he glanced at Shelby with a look of dismissal. “See you around.”
“Uh,” she said. “Okay.”
I reached toward her. “Wait!”
They both looked at me in surprise. Well, Dylan didn’t seem as surprised as Shelby because certainly he knew I didn’t want to be alone with him.
“What’s wrong?” Shelby asked.
“I, uh, I want you to stay.”
She grimaced slightly. “I don’t want to get sick.”
“I’m not sick,” I said. “I just, well, my stomach was a little upset. But it’s okay now, I think.” I really suck at lying.
“Oh.” She glanced at Dylan. “So, we can come in?”
I looked between them again, stopping on Shelby. “I . . . uh, just you.” Worried about Dylan’s reaction, my gaze skittered in his direction. His lips were pinched together as he stared at me. When our eyes met, he crossed his arms over his chest and clenched his jaw. My heart pounded harder, but I didn’t back down. There was no way I would willingly let him in my house.
“We need to talk, Courtney,” he said.
I shook my head, and to make myself perfectly clear, I added, “No.” My voice shook slightly, but the meaning was clear enough.
He released a huff of air from his nose, then he pointed at me—just like he had after I’d witnessed him stabbing that man in the alley. “We’ll talk. Eventually.” With a final glare, he stalked away.
Shelby turned and stared after him, then looked at me. “What was that all about?”
I shook my head as I opened the door wider for her to come in.
The moment she cleared the entry, I closed and locked the door behind her, then followed her into the living room where we sat on opposite ends of the couch. I trembled with held-in fear and I curled my feet beneath me—as if making my body smaller would make me a smaller target for Dylan’s retribution.
“What’s going on with the tw
o of you?”
Seeing as how lying really wasn’t my forte, I decided to tell as much of the truth as possible. “He wants to talk to me, but I don’t want to have anything to do with him.”
She tilted her head. “Why not? I thought you really liked him after you guys went out.”
“I changed my mind.”
“So you don’t like him?”
The sad truth was, I really had liked him. I’d liked the way he so obviously cared about his younger brothers, but I couldn’t match that up with seeing him stab that man to death. Why would he have done something like that? I couldn’t wrap my head around it. “No,” I said in answer to Shelby’s question. “I don’t.” How could I? He was a murderer, for heaven’s sake.
A murderer who wanted to talk to me. But I didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want to hear what he had to say. I wanted to pretend I’d never met him, never seen him, never heard of him. I couldn’t fathom what I’d seen—that I knew someone capable of plunging a knife into the body of another person.
Things like that just didn’t happen in my world.
“Okay,” Shelby said. Then mercifully, she changed the topic. “So, since you and Dylan didn’t work out, do you want to go out with Tyler again? You know, as a double date with Jack and me?”
I didn’t want to go out with anyone or go anywhere. I wanted to hunker down in my house—in my room—and stay there until my life got back to normal. Until I could unsee what I’d seen. Intellectually I knew I couldn’t unsee it, but I so desperately wanted to.
“Courtney?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why not? You had fun with Tyler, didn’t you?”
When I thought about our date, the main thing I remembered was running into Dylan. Something which I now wished had never happened. Then I could have blithely described him to the police without any worry that he could find me and shut me up. Permanently. A small shudder raced through me at the thought.
“It was all right,” I said.
“Okay then. Let’s do something fun with them.”
Maybe a date would take my mind off of everything. A soft sigh escaped my lips. “Okay.”
“Great,” Shelby said with a smile.
I nodded, trying to get into the spirit of things.
After Shelby left, I found a new text message from Dylan. I’d forgotten I’d put my phone on silent mode, and I hadn’t heard it come in when he’d initially sent it, which had been right after he’d left.
Dylan: You can’t avoid me forever.
I shuddered at the implied threat, then deleted all of his messages and blocked his number from my phone. I wanted to pretend none of this had ever happened—meeting Dylan, going out with him, the stabbing. Especially the stabbing.
Chapter Nine
The next afternoon I was scheduled to work. I’d had the night before off, so this would be the first time I’d been back since the murder. Though tempted to call in sick, I was determined not to let what had happened keep me from living my life—or at least trying to.
“Hey, Courtney,” Steven said the moment I walked into the back. “How are you?”
He’d seen the dead man too, although not the murder itself, so he was the only one who had a clue how I might be feeling. “Okay.”
“Good.” He smiled as he wrapped a burger in its paper wrapping and stuffed it in a bag. “I’m glad to see you made it in. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if you would want to come back.”
I laughed as if I’d practically forgotten what I’d witnessed. “It would take a lot more than a murder to keep me from coming here.” But since I need the money from this job, I’ll keep coming back.
A bark of laughter burst from his mouth. “I didn’t know you loved working here that much.”
I smiled, and actually felt a little better than when I’d walked in.
The dinner rush kept me busy and I was able to forget what I’d seen two nights before. That is, until Detective Turner stopped by. I was busy, so he didn’t approach me, but I noticed him talking to another employee, and a moment later Steven came out and talked to him. After they spoke, Steven met my gaze and motioned for me to join him and Turner.
“Can you take over for me?” I asked one of the other workers after I’d finished with the customer I’d been helping. Then, with a sense of trepidation, I approached Steven and Turner.
“Hello, Courtney,” Turner said, his face open and friendly.
“Hi.”
“I’d like to chat with you for a minute.”
“Have you arrested the murderer?” Have you arrested Dylan? I’d seen him just the night before, so I knew he’d been free as of then.
“No,” Turner said with a frown. “We’re still trying to determine who committed the crime.”
Guilt swept over me. I knew. I knew and I hadn’t told him. Did that make me an accessory? Fresh fear surged through me, and I was tempted to blurt out the truth. But then I pictured Dylan’s face, his stare when he’d stood on my front porch only the night before. What would he do to me if I told?
Turner glanced at Steven. “Your manager said he’s fine with me taking a little bit of your time. Why don’t we sit in one of the booths?”
My heart began to pound as my mind raced with the reason he wanted to talk to me.
Does he know I lied? Is he going to arrest me? What should I do? Should I have a lawyer?
My mind in turmoil, I followed him to an empty booth away from the other diners and sat on the vinyl bench across from him.
He rested his forearms on the fake wood tabletop. “How have you been, Courtney?”
I’ve been terrified that Dylan will come after me, and I can’t stop thinking about what I saw. “Fine.”
“Good, good.” He pulled out his notepad and set it on the table. “I wanted to review what you saw the other night and see if you remembered anything new. Is that okay?”
No! I don’t want to talk to you about this. I forced my expression to remain calm. “Yeah. Sure.”
A warm smile curved his mouth. “Wonderful.” He picked up his notepad and flipped back a few pages to what I assumed were the notes he’d made during our conversation two nights before. “Please tell me again what you saw.”
Panic pulsed through me. I can’t remember exactly what I told him before. What if I say something wrong? He’ll know I’m lying. “Uh . . .”
“Take your time, Courtney. Now that you’ve had a couple of days to reflect on what you saw, I want you to take me through what happened.”
“Okay.” Frantically trying to recall what I’d told him before, I began speaking, walking him through everything that had happened, up until I’d seen the knife flash in the dark. This was where things got a little sticky, and I had to be very careful that I didn’t contradict myself.
“The two men were on the ground, fighting,” I said, trying to keep my gaze steady on Turner.
“Which man was on top? Was it the man who you later saw stab Jeremy Owens?”
Jeremy Owens? Hearing the name of the man who’d been killed made it seem so much more tragic. He was a person with a name. A family. People were probably sad he’d died. And Dylan had done it.
My throat clogged with fear, sadness, and worry, but I managed to ask, “Jeremy Owens? That’s the man who died?”
“Yes.”
“How . . . How old was he?”
Turner’s lips pursed. “He was twenty-two.”
“Oh.” My mouth had gone dry, and I desperately wanted something to drink. “I’m going to grab a soda,” I said as I nearly jumped onto my feet. “Would you like anything?”
“No, I’m good.”
I nodded, then went behind the counter and took my time putting just the right amount of ice in a cup before filling it with my favorite soda. When I got back to the booth where Detective Turner was waiting, I’d gotten my nerves under control.
“Let’s take a walk,” he said when I stopped beside the table.
“A walk?” My n
erves jangled in response. So much for trying to postpone this little chat.
He tucked his notepad into his pocket and stood, then smiled at me. “Yes. I think revisiting the crime scene might help you remember more clearly.” His forehead wrinkled. “Is that okay, Courtney? Are you up for that?”
I had zero desire to visit the crime scene, but I also didn’t want to do anything to make him think I was holding back any information. “I guess.”
“Good.”
A moment later we walked out the back of Patty Melt Burgers and Shakes, past the dumpster where I’d first heard Jeremy Owens cry for help, and toward the place where Dylan had stabbed Jeremy. Rounding the corner of the building where I’d come upon them fighting, I slowed my pace, not eager to see the blood stain on the pavement.
“When you got here,” Turner began as he stopped and looked at me, “what did you see? What did you hear?”
I glanced at him before looking toward the spot where the body had been. Evidently someone had cleaned the area up, because in the dusky evening light all I saw was a faint brown spot where the pool of blood had been.
Relieved that I didn’t have to see the vivid reminder of the murder, I stared at the place where I’d seen Dylan plunge the knife into his victim.
“What did you see, Courtney?” Turner asked again.
“I saw the two men fighting . . .”
“And was Jeremy on the top or on the bottom?”
“He . . . he was on the bottom.”
“Okay. Then what happened? When did you see the knife?”
I thought back to what I’d seen. “I . . . I was about to yell at them to stop when I saw something shiny in his hand.” My gaze flicked to Turner before returning to the pavement. “Then he . . . he stabbed him.”
“What happened after that?”
I cried out, he recognized me, and he warned me not to tell anyone it was him. “The man with the knife ran away.” I pointed down the alley. “He went that way.”
“Okay. Good.” He jotted something in his notepad, then said, “Now, Courtney, this is important.”
