“I want everything,” I said, torn by indecision. “I want to go home, but I want to stay. I want to see Rosa again, but not if it means saying goodbye to Theo. I want to shop with Amy and Carrie. I want to be here for Secret Santa, but I don’t want to miss Christmas at home. I want to see my dad, but not in a picture. I want to hug him. I want smiles and laughter. I want to make it through a day without doubts. I want to go to school again. I don’t want to just survive, I want to live! I want to be with you, but I don’t want to feel this constant risk of losing what we have. And Chris…” I dropped my head. “I just really, really want to kiss you right now.”
Chris sat silently for a minute, giving my hands a squeeze. There was silence between us, a quiet that didn’t occur often, and his soft eyes locked on mine, and he nodded.
“I can’t imagine your confusion.”
“I’ve had enough heartbreak,” I admitted. “I don’t know if I could handle any more, and the last thing I want to do is hurt you.”
“You’ll figure things out eventually,” he said. “And when that time comes, and everything becomes a little clearer, I’ll be here. I promise. In the meantime, I only need one thing from you.”
“What’s that?”
“An answer,” he said. “Am I making it harder for you? Do I need to stop?”
“No, never. Chris, the fact that you try gives me so much to live for. What little happiness I have right now begins and ends with you.”
“Okay then,” he said, smiling. “Okay.”
***
It was ten o’clock, and laughter and cheers filled the common areas of the B&B. Knowing that Amy and Eli had returned home from their dinner in Morgantown, Chris rushed out of his bedroom. The moment he opened the door, I heard the flood of congratulations spilling from the foyer. There were distinct voices I recognized—Theo’s, Mr. Kingsley’s, and Chris’s, and even a few strangers celebrating in the mix.
I took a deep breath, resolving to wait until morning to wish them my congratulations on their engagement. I’d prefer a much quieter setting than what was going on out there. Throwing my legs off the side of Chris’s bed, my eyes fell to his nightstand.
“Glasses,” I said, smiling at the memory of how cute he’d looked sitting there, all frumpy and dorky. My eyes moved from the glasses to the phone sitting next to them. I turned to look over my shoulder, wondering how much time I’d have before Chris returned. His cell phone was sitting right there—so close to touch, to use.
Could I get away with contacting home? Could it be this easy?
I realized now, given the opportunity, it wasn’t that I even wanted to call, to talk to someone. I wanted to make sure they were okay. I missed them.
Looking over my shoulder again, I quickly grabbed his phone and accessed the Facebook app. Clicking the search bar, I took a deep breath and typed the name Rosa Reyes. Several profiles returned in the search results, but nothing for my Rosa.
“She deleted it,” I said, under my breath. Not that I was surprised. It’d taken me forever to teach her how to use it in the first place, and after the way the messages poured in after losing Dad, it came as no surprise that I couldn’t find anything. Deactivation had seemed like the only solution for me, and maybe she’d felt the same way.
Knowing that my time was limited, and that I couldn’t sit there and ponder the meaning of Rosa’s missing account, I typed in the name Carrie Greeley, to find a familiar picture pop up in the search results.
I clicked my best friend’s profile, thankful that she was eager to share, and that she’d always kept the privacy settings lax.
The first thing that showed up was a collection of pictures from tonight’s winter formal. She’d always looked good in red, and she glowed in her crimson gown. From the look of the pictures, she’d gone to the dance with Bryce Ford, one of the few decent boys in the senior class. She’d had a crush on him since the third grade, and I wasn’t surprised at all to see that she’d finally worked up the courage to ask him out. Or maybe he asked her. I couldn’t know. I hated that I had no idea how my best friend has scored a date with the man of her dreams.
Either way, no matter how it happened, she was smiling—beaming in every one of the photos, looking happier than I’d ever seen her.
I scrolled down further to read her recent posts.
December 12 at 10:04pm: My feet are KILLING me.
December 12 at 6:15pm: Sydney, I’m going to pretend that wherever you are, you’re reading this. Okay? God, I hope you’re reading this. I miss you. I don’t know where you are, though we all have our suspicions. I hate that you’re not here. I don’t want to go to this stupid dance without you, but I know you’ll kick my butt as soon as you get back if I don’t. So I’m going to go. For both of us. I love you. Please come home.
There were dozens of ‘likes’ on that public post, and several comments from our other friends wishing my safe return home, as well. I smiled, knowing that Carrie knew me well enough to know that I’d find a way to see that message, and knowing that I would’ve kicked her butt if she’d stayed home from the dance simply because I couldn’t be there.
I kept scrolling down her wall, reading the countless posts left by friends and acquaintances over the last few weeks, everyone asking her where I was. Did she move? Is she okay? Have you talked to her? Carrie never responded with anything but optimism, simply saying that I’d be home again soon. She couldn’t know that, and yet she believed it.
She believed in me.
Scrolling farther down, I found her usual list of rants and complaints.
December 10 at 2:22pm: Is it Christmas break yet? I NEED A VACATION.
December 06 at 3:44pm: Ten bucks to the first person who slugs my brother. Any of ’em. Take your pick. Idiots.
And as I scrolled back, the newsfeed carrying me into the earlier parts of December and latter part of November, her page was littered with my name.
December 02 at 11:15pm: God, I hope she’s okay.
November 30 at 3:18pm: Has anyone heard from Sydney?
November 25 at 8:01pm: I talked to Sydney tonight. She says thank you for all the love and prayers. You guys are amazing.
November 22 at 12:22am: Rest in peace, Papa E. I love you.
November 21 at 10:14pm: Pray for Sydney, guys. Her dad’s in emergency surgery.
I clicked off her profile and out of Facebook, setting the phone aside on Chris’s nightstand. I’d somehow hoped that looking at her page would make me feel better, but my chest had grown heavier the longer I scrolled through her posts.
I missed her more than anything, and I saw now that Carrie hadn’t forgotten about me. She knew I was out there somewhere, and she knew I was coming home. She hadn’t given up, and I wouldn’t give up, either. That was enough reassurance to give me hope. It gave me something to hold on to.
“Syd,” Chris said, popping his head back in. “Come on, you’ve gotta get out here. We’re celebrating. She said yes!”
Chapter Twenty
The next day came and went with little time for slowing down. Mr. Kingsley and the Carlsons checked out first thing in the morning, and Amy and Eli spent the hours after breakfast gushing over one another. Theo stayed busy in the kitchen cleaning up, and Danielle stopped by to clean the guest rooms.
Around noon, Amy and Eli said their temporary goodbyes so that they could head off to Desden to spend the week with her family. She promised she’d be back on Friday for the Morgantown Winter Festival, but with no idea what would happen between now and then, I stood at the door and gave her an extra-long hug, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time I’d ever see her. Part of me held onto hope that I would still be in Morgantown by the time she returned—a big part of me.
“I have to apologize,” Danielle said, sliding into the chair next to mine.
Seated at the dining room table, I threw a copy of the Morgantown Gazette over my Secret Santa project to keep it hidden. Theo was gone for the day and Chris was off in his room, and we’d bo
th promised to allow each other some time to work on our gifts. I hadn’t realized that Danielle was still around.
“I’m sorry I left you stranded yesterday.”
“It’s not a problem,” I said. “I made it back just fine.”
“I know, but I promised Chris—”
“Don’t feel obligated to explain,” I said. “I get it.”
“You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“That you left?” I asked. “No.”
“I don’t want him thinking I ditched you.”
“It wasn’t a big deal,” I said. “Amy and I stopped off for coffee, and Eli came to get us. No harm done.”
“You hate me now, right?” she asked. “You think I’m a monster?”
She didn’t give me time to respond before she scoffed, not that it would’ve mattered. She wasn’t listening anyway. I’d already told her that it wasn’t a big deal . . .
“You know, this happens every time,” she said. “Ever since that thing with her and Chris on graduation day.”
I let her words sit there, knowing she wanted me to take the bait. She wanted me to ask for more details, or elaborate on what more I may have learned after she left the boutique. But I didn’t know anything, and I wasn’t about to inquire. Not from Danielle.
“Don’t you want to know what happened?” she finally asked.
“It’s none of my business,” I said, peeling dried glue off my fingers, trying to keep my hands busy so I wouldn’t look up at her. I wanted to tell her that I thought she was making too big a deal of it, whatever it was, because Chris had already told me that he and Amy were never involved, and I was certain that Danielle must’ve known that by now.
“Maybe it is your business,” she said. “I know if I were as into Chris as you are, I’d want to know.”
I sighed. “Danielle, what’s your angle?”
“I don’t have an angle,” she said. “All I know is that he hurt one of my best friends, and I didn’t see it coming until it was too late. I thought I’d be a friend and warn you before he hurts you, too.”
I didn’t want to say what I was thinking—that Danielle’s concern wasn’t about protecting me from Chris. Her concern was protecting her own interest. She wanted to eliminate his distractions, and that meant throwing me off his trail. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Now it made sense why she’d suddenly taken an interest in me. I was competition.
And maybe it’s why she’d seemed so excited about Amy’s arrival, too. She’d gone from friendly to accusatory at the drop of a hat, and it wasn’t hard to believe the friendliness was all a front. She wanted Chris to see her being nice to his best friend. She wanted to pretend everything was okay on the surface, but then she turned on her the moment they were away. She was awful to Amy.
“Question,” I said. “If Chris hurt one of your best friends, and you have such a low opinion of him, then why do you hang around here? Surely it’s not the B&B that keeps you coming back? You have a job at the boutique. You only work a handful of hours here, so I can’t imagine it’s the income you’re after. Amy seems to think—”
“I like Amy, I do,” she said. “But she doesn’t know squat about what happens here. She left. She can’t pretend she knows.”
“So you don’t have feelings for Chris?” I asked. “You’re not in love with him?”
“No,” she shifted in her seat. “I work here. It’s a paycheck.”
“Okay.”
“Please consider what I’m saying,” Danielle begged. “He’ll turn on you the same way he turned on Brit.”
“Listen, I’m busy,” I said, ignoring her as easily as she’d ignored Amy’s pleas to stop arguing. “Can we not do this?”
“Fine, yes.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Are we cool, then?” she asked, hoping that I’d forgiven her for walking out on us yesterday. She didn’t want me telling Chris that she’d left me hanging, especially when he was counting on her, which I found hilarious, considering she’d sat here and said such horrible things about him. “No hard feelings?”
“Sure, Danielle,” I said. “No hard feelings.”
***
Chris retired to his bedroom at an unusually early hour—quiet, in spite of the fact that we were alone. The house was empty, free of guests for the night, and with some time alone, I’d expected him to at least hang out for a while. But night fell, and he dismissed himself to his room. I sat in the common room, staring at the tree.
Returning to the owner’s quarters, I decided not to bother him. I’d already intruded the night before, and maybe he’d needed that time to himself. I wouldn’t bug him again for the second night in a row. Going into my room, I flipped on the light.
There, on my bed, were two foreign objects, two things I hadn’t left there—things that obviously didn’t belong. The first seemed innocent enough—a garment bag, zipped. The second was a red envelope, one addressed to me.
I stared at the name scribbled across the front of the card for a few long seconds, feeling my heart slam against my chest.
A red envelope—for me. In Morgantown.
No one can help you now.
***
Thanksgiving Day
The third and final envelope arrived on my last morning in Ohio.
After finding the second letter at home, I ran to the only place I felt safe. I stayed with Rosa for the next two nights. They were the most excruciating nights of my life. I’d never felt so hopeless and alone. There was no one to talk to, no one to understand. We were both emotionally exhausted; for love and for comfort, we were useless to each other.
The morning of the funeral, I woke up to find another red envelope. I wasn’t on my way into the house, nor was I on my way out. This time, I’d barely had the time to roll out of bed and put one foot in front of the other when the red square caught the corner of my eye. There it was—the last one. Whoever delivered it hadn’t even bothered with subtle scare tactics. This time, he went straight for shock value.
The red envelope was taped to the outside of my bedroom window—only a foot away from where I’d slept that night.
He’d been here, at my window, watching me. He could’ve ended it then. He could’ve carried out his plan, taken the shot, and killed me where I slept. But he left the note instead, and something about that was far more terrifying than the thought of death.
He enjoyed the game far more than he enjoyed the kill. He wanted me scared. He wanted me helpless and hopeless and running for my life.
I stared at the envelope, carefully considering my plan. Yell for Rosa? Call the police? Was it even smart to go to the window? What if he was outside, waiting for me to make a move? What if he was waiting for a clear visual to take the shot? It would make sense. He’d let me sleep. He’d let me wake up, find his letter, and feel the fear. He’d accomplished what he’d hoped: he’d scared me. Now he could kill me.
Against Rosa’s insistence, I called the police. She never believed my father’s murderer was behind the letters. It’s a sick, twisted, cruel joke. Whoever’s doing this probably has no idea how much they’re hurting you, sweet baby. That’s what she believed. She was wrong. This wasn’t a joke. It was real. It was my life.
It wasn’t until the police arrived that morning and removed the envelope from the window that I ever knew what was inside.
This time, it wasn’t a letter at all, but a newspaper clipping—Dad’s obituary. The time, date, and location of the funeral were listed at the bottom, and the details were circled in red ballpoint ink. The note on the inside said only three words: see you there.
It was confounding, and I couldn’t wrap my head around it. It didn’t add up; I couldn’t understand why he’d let it come to this. If he’d wanted me dead, he could’ve killed me at the park, at my home, while I lay in bed. Why wait? Why play this game? Why take the chance of being caught? Was toying with me worth the risk? What was he getting out of this?
I told the police
everything, detailing each of the letters, when they’d arrived, and what each one said. And then I turned over the evidence, happy to get rid of the letters that’d haunted me for days.
The detectives questioned us, Rosa and me, for hours on end at the station. After a while, they separated us, sending us to different interrogation rooms.
I sat alone for a long time, waiting for some kind of explanation. I had no idea what was happening, but then the detectives returned, accompanied by federal marshals, and I knew that the case had taken a turn.
“Your father’s death wasn’t an isolated event, Miss Easterling,” one of them said, going on to explain that they had reason to believe that his death was tied to a string of others that’d occurred nationwide over the last few months.
The red letters were a calling card of a mass murderer—the Political Shooter. He’d made his way across the States, killing political figures to watch them drop like flies. They feared his killing spree would take him all the way to the top, to DC, where the threat became far more serious than anyone wanted to imagine.
“But why?” I asked.
There was no apparent MO. They couldn’t track him. They had nothing on him, and he moved at such a rapid pace that they never knew where he’d show up again.
There’d been five victims so far, and Dad’s death added another victim to the headcount. He’d slaughtered six politicians in three weeks.
“How do you know it’s connected?” I asked. “Maybe it’s a coincidence.”
It wasn’t, they assured me. While the murders had been heavily publicized over the last month, there were details the officials had sealed from the public. What the public knew: politicians were dying. What they didn’t know: the deaths were connected by a common murderer. Each of the Political Shooter’s victims had received a red envelope prior to their demise, each one warning the victim of something sinister in their future. The information about the letters had been kept confidential, never released to the public. Never publicized. This wasn’t a copycat. This was their guy.
Running Scared (Letters From Morgantown Book 1) Page 19
