Watching Their Steps

by Alana Terry

  He flipped the pages of his notes absently and asked, “Are you with me so far?”

  I scowled at his condescending tone.

  “Given the extent of Cambel’s injuries, he was incapable of walkin’ to the cafe. Somebody dropped him off. Witnesses saw him step out of a white vehicle before it drove away. Who would drop off a dyin’ man at a café? And what criminal in his right mind would seek out one of his victims for help when he has the option of a hospital? With exception of you, Ms. Holly, that’s a surefire prescription for suicide.”

  He folded his arms and looked at me as if he expected me to have some sort of insight on the matter, but I had nothing to give him. I didn’t even understand what was happening.

  “Accordin’ to the medical examiner, the knife that slit Jimmy’s throat looks like the same knife used to disfigure and kill Cambel. Whoever killed Jimmy Friday night tracked Cambel down, tortured him, and then sent him into that café to find you. The killer knew you were there and he sent Cambel with a message.”

  “All he said was, ‘Help me.’ What kind of message is that?”

  Detective Marx drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. If a seasoned detective was having difficulty putting the details into words, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear them. “The message was on his body. Carved into his chest and abdomen.”

  I was suddenly grateful I hadn’t eaten. “He was alive when . . .”

  Detective Marx’s jaw clenched. “Yes. And I imagine every letter was agonizin’.”

  I sank down onto the edge of my bed and took a few deep breaths to try to keep my stomach where it belonged. No one, no matter what evil they had committed, should have to endure that much suffering.

  Detective Marx stepped away from the table and came to sit on the arm of the couch. “I’m not sayin’ Cambel deserved to die the way he did, but you should not feel guilty.”

  “You’re telling me that someone killed those two men to . . . what, protect me?” The slight pinching of his lips told me I hadn’t gotten it quite right. “How can I not feel responsible for that? For whatever reason, they’re dead because of me.”

  “Unless this killer is attached to strings and you are the puppet master, Ms. Holly, these deaths are not on your hands.”

  I pulled my legs onto the bed and huddled behind them as if they might somehow shield me from whatever he would say next.

  “I know this isn’t easy for you,” he began. “But I need you to set your misplaced feelin’s of guilt aside and try to stay with me on this. The man who killed them and the man watchin’ you in the park are likely the same person. Aside from that night, can you think of any other time you felt watched or followed?”

  “Last Monday,” I said as I stared at the blanket beneath me. “I was coming home late from a photo shoot, and I thought I heard scraping sounds—like footsteps on the pavement.”

  “Did you see anybody?”

  “No, it was more of a feeling.”

  He tapped his fingers on his knees as he regarded me. “I’m gonna ask you this again, and I need you to be honest with me this time. Has anyone threatened you or made you feel uneasy?”

  “Aside from you with your questions?”

  His lips curved into a thin smile. “Aside from me.”

  “No, no one around here makes me uneasy. This has to be some kind of mistake.”

  “It’s not a mistake.”

  “Why?” I asked irritably. “Because coincidences make you uncomfortable?”

  “No, because you are the common factor.”

  “There were plenty of people at that café.”

  “All of whom he bypassed to get to you.”

  “No,” I argued. I slid off the bed and glared at him. “He was dying. Maybe he just happened to fall at my feet. It’s not like dying people really get to decide which way they fall.”

  Detective Marx gave me a sympathetic look that only fueled my anger. “You’re graspin’ at straws.”

  “You’re wrong. All you have are theories.”

  “And twenty-five years of experience,” he added with a modest shrug. He had almost as many years of experience as I had of life. Okay, that was hard to refute.

  “What about Helen? Did you find her ex-boyfriend? Maybe it was him. Or maybe it was someone watching my clients that day. Did you even talk to them?”

  “Of course I talked to them. Helen and her ex-boyfriend mended their relationship, and he has an alibi durin’ the time of your assault. As for your clients in the park that night, they can’t think of anybody who would do somethin’ like this, and neither of them have felt followed or watched at any point. This isn’t about them. This is about you.”

  I began to pace again, the rapid movement pumping warmth back into my icy body. This couldn’t be happening. I already had one person determined to hunt me down; I didn’t need another one. “I don’t understand why this is happening. Why did he kill those men?”

  He exhaled a frustrated breath and folded his arms. “Because he’s insane. I’m not a forensic psychologist, Holly. I can’t offer you some childhood trauma story that led him to kill people and engrave creepy cryptic messages on their bodies. I can tell you that it had nothin’ to do with protectin’ you. It also had nothin’ to do with love. And if he’s been followin’ you, and it seems he has, then he has an obsession with you. My best guess: in his mind, the two of you share some kind of connection. And I’m hopin’ the message he left for you might help you to identify him.”

  I regarded him warily.

  “He carved two words into that man’s body and sent him to deliver them upon his death.” He watched me carefully for a reaction as he recited, “Come home.”

  Any hope that this was all a mistake evaporated, and I felt suddenly faint. My legs gave out and I dropped onto the side of the bed. My fingers shook as I plucked the note card off my cardboard side table and stared down at the message: Holly, come home.

  If I’d found those words unsettling before, they were downright chilling now. I tried not to imagine them being carved into human flesh.

  “Ms. Holly,” Detective Marx said. I looked up to find him standing at the foot of the bed, watching me with a glimmer of worry in his eyes. I offered him the card reluctantly and without explanation. He skimmed the contents before looking at me. “When did you get this?”

  “It was taped to the outside of my door last Monday morning.”

  “Do you know who sent it? Do you recognize the address?”

  I shook my head.

  He stared at the card thoughtfully for a long moment before saying, “We need to talk about the man you’re hidin’ from.” I wasn’t sure what he saw in my face, but his expression softened. “This isn’t my first day on the job, Ms. Holly. I recognize the signs. You’ve got no state ID. No driver’s license. No official home address. No work history that I could find. Your cell phone is a pay-as-you-go. Hardly anybody in your contact list. You live in a bunker.”

  I tried to swallow the lump of dread forming in my throat.

  “And when you were assaulted in the park, you didn’t wanna give a statement because it could be logged. You didn’t wanna go to the hospital where there would be a record of your visit.” He laid the note card on the foot of the bed and looked at me. “You told me there’s nobody who makes you uneasy, but I know for a fact that whoever is responsible for the three dead bolts on your door does exactly that. And I’m not talkin’ about the locksmith.”

  “You don’t know anything,” I said, but I couldn’t keep the faint tremor of fear from my voice.

  Detective Marx crouched down beside me, and I drew my feet onto the mattress and scooted across the bed to put some much-needed space between us. “I’ve worked with a lot of different kinds of victims—”

  “I am not a victim,” I snapped.

  He exhaled patiently. “Survivors, then. And if nothin’ else, it’s obvious to me that you’re hidin’ from somebody, and that somebody terrifies you.” His eyes reflected an emot
ion I couldn’t quite identify as he watched me. “We need to talk about that man.”

  I clenched my fingers into fists and wrapped my arms around my stomach protectively as I shook my head.

  “Is he still in the picture?” he asked.

  This was a part of my life I couldn’t afford for him to investigate. If he dug too deeply, he would leave a trail of bread crumbs right to my front door.

  “Was it an abusive relationship?”

  “We weren’t in a relationship,” I spat before I could think better of it.

  Detective Marx cocked his head thoughtfully. “Acquaintance? Family? Foster family?” He studied me for a moment and then said with more certainty, “Foster family. So you lived together then. For how long?”

  I pinched my lips together. I had no intention of giving him any more information than he’d already gleaned from my face. He didn’t understand the danger he was putting me in by digging into my past.

  “When was the last time you saw him?” At my refusal to answer, he continued, “A person graduates from the foster system when they turn eighteen. If you’d managed to elude him for ten years, you wouldn’t still be this scared. He caught up to you at some point.” He tilted his head to catch my gaze. “What did he do when he caught up with you?”

  My heart thumped too heavily in my chest and I was breathing too quickly. I couldn’t conceal my fear no matter how hard I tried. “I don’t . . . wanna talk about this.”

  “The killer we’re lookin’ for sent you two messages to come home, and the man you’re hidin’ from shared a foster home with you. If he’s been lookin’ for you for ten years, he’s obsessive if not possessive. How can you be certain he didn’t step back into your life without you knowin’ and kill those two men?”

  I knew it was only a matter of time before he caught up to me again; he was far too resourceful and intelligent to let me stay hidden for long. But I’d been so careful this time. He couldn’t possibly have found me already, could he?

  “Please stop digging,” I pleaded.

  “I need his name.”

  “I can’t,” I said as I fumbled off the other side of the bed. I wasn’t having this conversation. He discovered the answers to his questions whether I spoke or not, and I couldn’t let that happen. I grabbed the box of Lucky Mallows off the counter, snagged my fat cat off the couch, and scampered into the bathroom. I slammed the door and sat down against it, barricading it with my body.

  I heard Detective Marx puff out a heavy breath. “Well, that could’ve gone better.”

  Chapter 9

  I TRIED TO TUNE OUT the quiet voice that didn’t belong in my apartment as I picked through the box of cereal, sorting the marshmallows by shape. The entire edge of the tub was covered in clusters of rainbows, stars, and unicorn horns.

  Some people had expensive therapists to help them work through their anxiety and fears; I had cereal. Sorting the marshmallows distracted me from all the worries and frightening theories fluttering around inside my head.

  Detective Marx’s voice grew agitated as he tried to speak quietly into his phone, “Yes, sir, I understand that I can and probably should arrest her for withholdin’ vital information, but . . .” There was a long pause as he listened. “Bringin’ her in would be a mistake.” Another pause. “Because I think she’ll completely shut down.” His voice faded and returned as he paced the length of my small apartment. He released an exasperated sigh. “Yes, sir, I understand.”

  I heard the snap of his phone as he ended the call. He grumbled something under his breath. There was a thump against the wall at my back and the sound of someone sliding to the floor. I listened to the quiet breathing on the other side of the wall, waiting for someone to speak.

  A quiet rap of knuckles against the plaster made me jump.

  “What?” I asked curtly.

  “Are you gonna hide in there all afternoon?” Detective Marx asked.

  I exhaled in exasperation. “Why won’t you leave?”

  “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable earlier. That wasn’t my intention.”

  Uncomfortable. Apparently, we defined that word differently. To me, uncomfortable didn’t result in OCD marshmallow sorting in a bathroom. He’d stirred up a frightening array of emotions, the least of which was uncomfortable.

  “Holly,” he prompted.

  “I’m trying to think of a snippy retort. Be quiet for a minute.” Nothing came to mind. I was certain I heard him chuckle quietly to himself on the other side of the wall.

  “I have a few more questions. You mind comin’ out so we can talk?”

  Of course he did.

  “You’ve been in there for two hours,” he pointed out.

  I glanced around the confined bathroom that made it difficult to breathe if I gave it too much thought, and decided it was still preferable to talking to him. “I think I’ll stay here.”

  “It’s hard to have a conversation with a wall in the middle.”

  “The wall doesn’t do that creepy mind-reading thing you do with my face.”

  He sighed, and I heard the muffled thump of his head resting back against the wall. “I need answers, Holly. As much as I wanna give you time, we just don’t have it. My captain is pressurin’ me to take you in for questionin’.”

  My stomach clenched at the thought of being taken to the police station. They would take my photo and document everything about my life. “I won’t go,” I told him firmly.

  “You won’t go willin’ly,” he clarified, and he sounded no happier about that scenario than I did. “But if push comes to shove, that flimsy bathroom door won’t put up much of a defense.” After a beat of silence, he said, “I’d rather it not come to that.”

  I rolled a piece of cereal between my thumb and forefinger as I considered his words. “So, if I don’t give you his name, you’ll arrest me?”

  “More or less.”

  I gritted my teeth.

  “Ms. Holly, the last thing I wanna do is handcuff you and take you to jail.”

  “So don’t.”

  He grunted in frustration. “It’s not that simple. I have a chain of command. And if I defy my superiors, they will likely remove me from this case and assign somebody else. And that somebody else might not be as lenient with you.”

  I threw the box of cereal across the bathroom. I had no good options.

  “Ms. Holly—”

  “Just . . . gimme a minute,” I interrupted. I propped my elbows on my knees and dropped my head into my hands. The thought of sharing any of the secrets I had guarded so closely for all these years made me feel physically ill. It went against my every instinct for survival. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “I know you’re terrified of him, but I promise you I will not let him hurt you.”

  “You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.” My voice sounded as bleak as I felt. I ran my fingers through my hair and released a heavy breath. “I’ll give you one question, but I won’t tell you his name.”

  “I need more than one question. Gimme at least three.”

  “One,” I insisted.

  “One and a follow-up question for clarification,” he countered.

  I sighed. Two questions wasn’t an unreasonable request. “Fine.”

  He barely needed a moment to consider his first question. “The man you’re hidin’ from—was he a younger foster brother, older foster brother, or your foster father?”

  “Older,” I said without hesitation. He’d just turned eighteen when I was placed in the same foster home at fifteen. All the other children were younger, and he’d been overjoyed by my placement. It wasn’t long before I realized why.

  Detective Marx took a moment longer to consider his second question. He spoke carefully. “What did he do to you to make you so afraid of him?”

  I’d hoped he wouldn’t ask that one.

  Painful memories gathered like storm clouds in my mind. No matter how hard I tried to forget them, they refused to fade away.
I could conceal the physical scars, but it was the invisible ones that haunted me the most: the memories of screams and tears—some of them my own, some of them belonging to younger children—of pain, of not being able to breathe.

  If there was such a thing as living darkness, it wrapped itself in his skin. There was nothing human about him. He fed off the suffering of others; it fueled him, excited him.

  Nausea swept over me, and I scrambled to the toilet just in time to throw up the few pieces of cereal in my stomach. I heard once that vomiting was the body’s way of expelling things that were harmful to it. Maybe one day I would be able to think about those memories without my body trying to regurgitate them.

  Someone pulled my hair away from my face as I dry heaved into the toilet, but it was too late to save it. I sat there for a moment, winded, before dropping back against the wall and drawing my knees to my chest. I wiped at my face with the sleeve of the scrubs as I glanced warily at Detective Marx, who was crouching next to the tub.

  My small bathroom was not made for two.

  He moved back and sat against the far wall, leaving the doorway open without me having to ask. “I suppose that wasn’t the best question,” he said, sounding apologetic.

  My voice came out a little hoarse. “Well, you could’ve asked something simple like my favorite color. It’s purple, by the way.”

  “I saw the purple couch,” he replied with a strained smile. “You all right?”

  I tried to ignore the hint of concern in his eyes. “I guess all that sugar didn’t set well with me.”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  I cleared my throat. “I owe you one more question.” I didn’t want to answer any more, but I had agreed to two questions, and I had no intention of answering his last one.

  He tapped the ring finger of his left hand absently as he regarded me. I remembered him mentioning an ex-wife, but he still wore the ring. Maybe he hadn’t quite fallen out of love with her. “I won’t ask you for the details. But if you can tell me, I would like to know: when was the last time he caught up with you?”