Watching Their Steps

by Alana Terry

  I quickly realized I was too short to reach the highest part of the wall, even with my folding chair. I stretched on my tiptoes and wound up with a funky purple zigzag across the top of the wall.

  Voices penetrated the quiet. At this time of morning, the city was still a little sleepy, and there weren’t many people out. I hopped down and pulled my chair over to the kitchen window to get a view of what was going on outside.

  A man in a ball cap stood on the sidewalk with a medium-sized cardboard box in his arms. He looked like he was a whopping four inches taller than me. Definitely not the killer. “I’m supposed to deliver this,” he said a little nervously.

  “To whom?” Sam demanded.

  The man looked down at the box and then around the front of the apartment with a confused expression. “It doesn’t say. He just told me to give it to the pretty redhead in the overalls.”

  My heart beat a little faster as I glanced down at my paint-splattered overalls. He was watching me. My gaze flitted over the empty streets, searching every shadow and window for a face, but there was no one.

  “Who gave you the box?”

  “Some guy. I didn’t get a good look at his face. He was tall, spoke kinda soft-like. He paid me fifty bucks to bring it over.”

  “When?”

  “Uh . . . maybe ten minutes ago?”

  “Which building?” Sam demanded.

  “That one.” He directed Sam’s attention to the condemned factory directly across the street. If the killer had binoculars, he could probably see straight into my front window from the second floor.

  Sam called for backup, but I suspected we both knew the man was no longer there. There were any number of exits he could’ve taken without being seen.

  “What’s your name?” Sam demanded.

  “Ty.”

  “Ty, set the box down very gently and step over there.” Sam gestured toward the steps of the main apartment complex. The young man put the box down carefully and backed away.

  I waited for Sam to collect the package, but he didn’t move. Did he think it might be a bomb? That didn’t make sense. After everything, would my stalker really just . . . blow me up?

  I sat down on the edge of the sink when waiting grew tiresome and glanced at the clock on the microwave. Ten minutes crawled by before I heard a car door slam. I popped up to see Marx walking down the sidewalk and then shrank down a little. If he saw me, he would tell me to get out of the window.

  “Where’s Holly?” he asked as he pulled on a pair of rubber gloves.

  “Inside,” Sam answered. “She’s safe.”

  “Has anybody touched it?”

  Sam gestured to Ty. “Just him. Should we call the bomb squad?”

  Marx shook his head as he crouched beside the box. “He’s not interested in killin’ her yet, and when he is, he won’t do it with a bomb.”

  That was a reassuring thought.

  Marx pulled a knife from his pocket and sliced open the tape across the top. He peeled open the flaps carefully and peered inside. I saw the subtle hardening of his jaw as he looked up from the box.

  “Did the man say anythin’ when he gave you this box?” he asked Ty.

  “Just that it was a gift for the pretty redhead in overalls. That’s it. I swear.”

  Marx tapped his fingers on the outside of the box as he glanced back inside. It must not have been what he expected it to be. “Sam, get this young man’s fingerprints and statement and then go home.”

  “But what about—”

  “Officers are canvasin’ for the suspect,” Marx interrupted. “I’ll stay here with Holly so you and Jacob can get a little rest.”

  “You think he’s watching?”

  “Oh, he’s watchin’. He wants to see her face when she opens his gift,” Marx explained. He stood and picked up the box. He knocked on my door but didn’t wait for an invitation before coming inside. Without even looking my way, he said, “Holly, get out of the window.”

  He’d known I was watching the entire time. And here I thought I was being stealthy. I hopped down and slid my hands into the back pockets of my overalls as I stared cautiously at the box in his arms. “What is it?”

  He set the box on the table and slid it toward me. “Have a look, and then you tell me.”

  I approached the table slowly and glanced into the box. Wrapped in a clear plastic bag was a white stuffed rabbit, a child’s toy, and one side of it was stained with something dark. My throat tightened and I suddenly couldn’t breathe.

  I knew that rabbit.

  I backed away from the box and groped for the counter to steady me. Another fragment of memory sliced through my mental barrier, and my mind instinctively tried to pull away from it to protect me.

  I padded down the hallway in my bare feet, holding my rabbit snugly under one arm. There was a noise in the room down the hall. I should’ve been sleeping, but I’d been thirsty . . . and I was curious now. I walked on my tiptoes so no one could hear me sneaking, but I slipped on something warm and wet just inside the room.

  I tried to catch myself as I fell on top of something lumpy, and my rabbit tumbled into the dark puddle on the floor. I tried to push myself up but my hands kept slipping in the wetness. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds and white light filtered through the window, highlighting the dark red liquid that coated my hands . . .

  “Holly,” Marx called, but his voice sounded distant. I felt warm hands cupping my face. “Come on, Holly, breathe.”

  As the memory faded, I found myself lying flat on the floor. The tight muscles in my body relaxed, and I drew in a deep, much-needed breath.

  Marx removed his hands from my face and sat back on his legs beside me. When I took another normal breath, he visibly sagged in relief. He dragged a hand over his face and pleaded, “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

  “Do what?” I asked, and my voice sounded hoarse. “Why am I on the floor?” My arms felt weak and shaky as I pushed myself up against the cupboards and away from the man sitting too close to me. My face was damp with tears I didn’t remember crying, and I wiped them away with my hands.

  Not again, I thought with frustration.

  “I’m not a doctor, but if I had to guess, that was a panic attack,” he explained. He watched me carefully, as if he expected something more to happen. “You were tryin’ to breathe, but it just wasn’t workin’.”

  I remembered not being able to breathe and the feeling that my heart was about to pound out of my chest. Unfortunately, it was a familiar experience. “I was looking at the box . . .” I tried to get up to see what was inside of it, but Marx put up a hand to stop me.

  “You’re done with the box,” he said firmly.

  I dropped back against the cupboards without argument. I felt completely drained, and I just wanted to lie down. “What’s in it?” I asked a little reluctantly.

  Marx frowned as he considered my question. “A stuffed rabbit.”

  I closed my eyes against the memory that had found its way to the surface. “A white one . . . with blood on it.”

  “Appears that way.”

  I sighed. “It’s mine.”

  “You wanna run that by me again?”

  My brain felt fuzzy as it tried to sort current reality from memory. “It’s my rabbit. From when I was a little girl.”

  “How did this man get your stuffed rabbit from when you were a kid?”

  I shrugged, and even that small movement felt exhausting. “I don’t know.”

  “Whose blood is on it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Marx huffed in exasperation. “You’re not givin’ me much to work with, Holly.”

  “I know.” I refused to apologize for something I couldn’t control. The few memories I had from before I was ten made little to no sense. I had no more information than he did.

  Chapter 13

  I JOTTED DOWN THE SPORADIC memories of my childhood in the back of my notebook. None of the memories that had surfaced were
happy; none of them were even complete. The only common thread between them was fear.

  One of my many state-appointed therapists had suggested that my memory loss might be due to psychological trauma. But no one could tell me what had happened or even who I was, so there wasn’t much hope of picking up the pieces.

  The ten-year-old girl I used to be had erected a nearly impenetrable mental barrier to protect herself from memories too frightening for her to bear. They were my memories, but I couldn’t figure how to reach them.

  I must have made a sound of frustration, because Marx asked from the kitchen, “Everythin’ all right in there?”

  I tossed the notebook aside. “My head is a scrambled egg.”

  “I don’t find your head to be particularly egg shaped,” he replied seriously.

  I flopped back on the bed and rubbed my face. I heard the quiet shuffle of Marx’s footsteps as he approached the purple drapes I’d drawn shut to separate my bed from the rest of the apartment. It was as close to privacy as I could get without hiding in the bathroom.

  “I would knock, but . . .”

  I sighed and sat up. “It’s fine.”

  He pushed open the drapes, and I scooted to the head of the bed to put a few extra feet of space between us. “I have two more questions to ask you.”

  I shifted uneasily. This didn’t work out so well for me last time.

  “I promise I won’t ask anythin’ along the lines of what you’re worried about,” he assured me. “If it makes you too uncomfortable, then pass and I’ll ask another question.”

  I considered it. If I got to cherry-pick the questions, it gave me a bit more control over the flow of information. “Okay.” I wrapped my arms around my legs to brace myself.

  “What does your foster brother look like?”

  My insides twisted into knots in response to the face that materialized in my mind. I shook my head. I didn’t want to think about his face, let alone describe it.

  “Okay.” He sighed and took a moment to consider a different question. “How tall is he?”

  I drew in a breath to answer but then realized I didn’t know. If he were standing next to me, I might be able to make an educated guess, but the man in my memory felt so much larger than he probably was. Terrifying things had a way of doing that. “I don’t know. Stanley said the killer is six four. I know he’s not six four.”

  “Stanley was drunk. He probably thought the fire hydrant was a poodle. Just give me an estimate. Under or over six feet?”

  I shrugged helplessly. “He’s bigger than me.”

  He pressed his lips together. “Ninety-nine percent of the male population, includin’ teenagers, are bigger than you, Holly. That doesn’t exactly narrow it down.”

  “Why do you want him to be the killer so badly?”

  “What are the chances you have two men stalkin’ you? The man you’re hidin’ from has a habit of followin’ you, does he not?” He took my silence as confirmation. “You lived in the same foster home, and you’ve received two messages tellin’ you to come home. The simplest answer is usually the correct one.”

  I didn’t notice the folder in his hand until he tapped it against his palm. “What’s that?”

  “I got a warrant for your foster history.”

  Dread pooled in my stomach. I knew he would dig when he started asking questions, but I’d hoped he wouldn’t find much.

  He looked almost apologetic as he dropped the folder in the center of the bed. “Your former caseworker faxed it over last night. It took them a few days to pull the information together.”

  I dragged the folder toward me with icy fingers and opened it. Every family I had ever stayed with was listed on that sheet of paper, including phone numbers and addresses.

  “Twelve foster homes in five years, Holly. Why?”

  Ten of those placements were in the first three years. I stared down at the long list of families who had opened their homes to me and closed their doors just as quickly. Some of them could’ve been a home, but no one wanted the child with an unknown history. I was a risk that no one wanted to take for long.

  It was an old wound—not being wanted—and it was difficult to hide that pain from my voice. “Because no one wanted to keep me.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Marx replied gently. And I could see the doubt in his eyes. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe me, but that he had a hard time believing all those families had rejected me.

  I had tried to be the perfect child: courteous, helpful, friendly, and happy. But it was never enough.

  My voice was barely a whisper. “You had no right to do this.”

  “I had to do that.”

  “You put my name on a warrant. You . . . you compiled a bullet-point list of my history.”

  “Because gettin’ information from you is like pullin’ teeth. You didn’t leave me much choice.”

  I closed the folder and tossed it back toward him. I was so frustrated I could cry. “I told you he’s not your killer. You’re wasting time and effort looking for someone you shouldn’t be looking for.”

  “Shouldn’t? Holly, two men are dead and your life is in danger. Give me another alternative.”

  “I can’t and you know it.”

  “Then answer me this: is he capable of murderin’ someone?”

  I pressed my lips together and glared at him. The answer to that question was a resounding yes. I had no doubt that if he hadn’t taken a life yet, he would soon. I’d seen that eerie craving in his eyes.

  “Did he try?” He must have read the answer in my face, because he asked, “What stopped him?”

  I drew my feet in closer to my body. The scars on my feet were my reward for interfering with his plans. I had tried to stop him from killing someone, and he’d made sure doing so would be excruciating. “I did,” I murmured.

  Marx hesitated. “Was it you he tried to kill?”

  That would depend on a person’s definition of “tried to kill,” because he’d certainly tried to shatter me into a thousand irreparable pieces on more than one occasion. “I’m not answering any more of your questions.”

  “If you won’t tell me what I need to know, I have to work my way through every person on this list. But I will find him.”

  My name and information were in the local police database, and he’d just had my county compile a digital list of my information. It was only a matter of time. “You don’t have to find him; he’s gonna find me. Now please move,” I said wearily as I slid off the bed.

  Marx hesitated for just a moment, probably worried I was going to run, and then backed toward the wall by the couch to give me space. I stormed out of the apartment. I heard him start to call my name, but the slam of the front door overshadowed his voice.

  I didn’t run. As much as every instinct in my body begged me to run and never look back, I sat down against the front door and dropped my head into my hands.

  “Hey! I was just coming to see you!” Jace said excitedly.

  I looked up to see her wheeling down the sidewalk toward me. She stopped at the edge of the steps and looked around curiously. “Where’s . . . ?” Her face twisted as she strained to remember the name of the officer who should have been standing guard in my front yard right now.

  “Jacob?”

  “Yes, that one.”

  “No Jacob. Marx gave him the day off.”

  All lightness drained from her face. “There’s no one here? But what if . . . ?”

  “Marx is here.”

  “Oh!” She brightened. She ran her fingers quickly through her wild, blue-tinged hair and smoothed out her shirt. “Is he inside?”

  “Yep,” I said through clenched teeth.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Is he in the metaphorical dog house?”

  “Yep.”

  “What did he do?”

  “My job,” I heard him declare grumpily through the door.

  I spoke to Jace, but loudly enough that he could hear every word. “He’s putting h
is nose where it shouldn’t go.”

  “He’s a detective, Holly. That’s what they do. They snoop.”

  I sighed in exasperation and dropped my head back against the door. Being a detective didn’t give him the right to tear apart my life in search of something that wasn’t any of his business. I didn’t know how to make him listen to me, to convince him that he was doing more damage than good.

  I flinched when a massive pink box came flying toward me. Jace’s sharp “Catch!” came too late to be helpful, and I barely caught it before it could smack me in the face.

  “Have I insulted in you in some way that you feel the need to throw things at me?” I turned the box over curiously and shook it. Something heavy shifted around inside.

  “It’s a box, Holly, not a bomb. Just open it.”

  “Well, remind me when Christmas rolls around and I’ll chuck your gift at your head. It’ll be a new tradition.” The box opened like a boot box, and I moved aside the tissue paper. I blinked at the pair of three-inch lime-green stiletto heels. I lifted one out of the box and examined it. “So . . . if I wanna kill myself but I want it to look like an accident, I wear these?”

  Jace scowled at me. “Those are nice shoes.”

  “I think we define shoe differently.” I placed it carefully back in the box.

  “You could use a little height.”

  “You’re four feet tall,” I reminded her.

  “Sitting. You’re five two standing. You’re stumpy.”

  “Hey!”

  “A little more height makes you look intimidating. You could stand to be a little intimidating.”

  Unbelievable. “If I wear these in public, people are gonna offer to pay me for indecent services.”

  “They also double as a weapon,” she said quickly. “You could totally stab somebody in the eye with that heel.”

  “Ew, why would I do that?”

  “Well, if it comes down to you or his eye, I pick his eye.”

  I sighed and set the box of frightening shoes aside. “Jace, I appreciate that you care, but a pair of shoes is not gonna scare this guy away.”

  “I know.” Her voice became soft, as it usually did when she was wrestling with emotions too heavy to put into words. “I just . . . I don’t know how to help. I want you to be safe, and I just . . . I guess it was a dumb idea.”