The Last Amen

by C. C. Jameson

  He smiled at her, amazed at her ability to diverge from subjects as painful as the death of her parents. The murders of her parents.

  He, too, had experienced the events that had ensued—and rocked their entire small town. He’d been disturbed by it for years. How she’d managed to remain sane was nothing short of amazing to him.

  She was quite the woman. Different from the others he’d dated before. Far less dramatic. Far less crazy. But he still worried that he might have done something that could trigger her to snap at him. They’d only lived together for a year. Although he enjoyed getting to know her little quirks and tics, he’d probably just seen the tip of the iceberg. He was waiting for the figurative other shoe to drop—if it was ever going to.

  So he twisted a few options in his mind about how best to broach the topic and settled on what seemed more natural: the truth. Just re-arranged in time, assuming she’d go down the path he expected her to take.

  “Do you remember what you told me in the car on Sunday, after your session?”

  A line appeared between her brows. “I’m not sure I do. I was pretty emotional.” She brought her glass to her lips.

  “About your dad’s wounds being less personal than your mom’s?”

  “Oh! That part. Yeah. And the sheriff confirmed she was stabbed several times in the chest. My dad wasn’t. Whoever killed them knew my mother.”

  He inhaled deeply, pushing his luck as he voiced his original plan. “So… This had me thinking that perhaps we could go through the boxes you brought back. You know? The photo albums and such? Maybe we could find a lead there.”

  Kate shook her head. “I so don’t have time for this right now, Luko. We’ve got that serial killer on the loose. I need to focus on him.” She took another sip of her wine.

  Luke smiled as he stared at his own glass, still full.

  She’d answered just as he’d expected. He didn’t bother to remind her of her department’s policies or the conversation she’d shared with him about what her supervisor had already stated about her spending too much time at work.

  He just had to push his luck a tad more.

  “Would you be okay if I did?”

  “What?” she asked, one eyebrow higher than the other before downing the rest of her glass.

  “If I went through your boxes?”

  “Be my guest!” Kate said before standing up to rinse her glass off in the sink. “I’m going to bed—”

  “Good, because I already did,” Luke confessed, about to find out whether begging for forgiveness would be easier than asking for permission. Or was he about to see a new side of Kate? He stood tall and watched her slowly rotate to face him.

  “You did what?”

  Not sure if her brows were slanted due to anger, misbelief, or just exhaustion, he voiced the safest words that came to mind as he bridged the gap that separated her from him.

  “Don’t get upset.” He wrapped his arms around her. “I was sitting in my office the other night. Out of curiosity—or boredom perhaps—I opened the top box. I found an old photo album. Some cute photos of you as a kid. Before I met you.”

  “Okay…” Kate returned to her glass, squirted a bit of liquid soap onto the sponge and proceeded to wash her glass by hand.

  He stepped away from her. “I also found other things.”

  “What things?” Kate dried her glass then returned it to the cupboard.

  “Letters. Unopened letters. Addressed to your mom.”

  “What? Where?” She unplugged the sink, the sucking noises of the liquid draining down the pipe covering her words.

  “Underneath those photo albums. Didn’t you pack those boxes?” Luke asked.

  “Some I found in the attic. I brought them as-is after peeking in and finding photos. Others I packed myself, going through the stuff on the shelves, in dressers, on walls… You found unopened letters. Addressed to my mom?”

  Luke nodded.

  “Did you open them?”

  “No! I wanted to talk to you first. See what you thought.”

  “What was the date on them?”

  “That’s the thing. They weren’t stamped by the post office. No paid postage. No return address. But your mom’s full name and mailing address is hand-written on those envelopes. The address where you lived as a child.”

  “Someone other than the mailman could have put them in the mailbox. I’m gonna get my evidence kit out of my car. I want to see them. Now!”

  Chapter Fifty

  By the time Kate walked back into the house with a pair of disposable gloves, her LED flashlight, and a roll of plastic evidence bags and tape, Luke was already in his office, leaning against the wall and sipping his wine as she sat behind his desk in silence.

  Her mind had been so focused on catching their serial killer that she never for a minute considered the boxes she’d brought back from Kenny’s house could hold new information about her parents’ case.

  But how could that be? Wouldn’t the sheriff and his team have seen those letters decades ago?

  That unexpected bit of news had perked her up more than a cup of the district’s potent brew would have. She donned her gloves. Perhaps the letters meant nothing, but if they could help find the killer, she didn’t want to contaminate what was left of the evidence.

  “What box were those letters in?”

  Luke put his glass down and got up.

  “Second one from the top. Under two or three photo albums.”

  Kate lifted the first box and set it aside, then opened the crossed flaps on the second box, definitely one of the boxes she’d gotten from the attic, her belated uncle’s handwriting marking it with the words Steve and Jo’s attic.

  After putting the albums aside, she retrieved the bundle of letters Luke had described.

  “Those are the ones,” he said.

  Shining her light on the envelopes, Kate saw several prints, but they were more than likely Luke’s.

  “Sorry, Kate. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “That’s all right. His prints could be inside. Heck, the saliva that sealed those envelopes…”

  For a split second, she debated whether she should just send the envelopes to the sheriff. Let him determine if they were relevant to the case. But her curiosity had the upper hand.

  “Letter opener?” She put out her hand, like a surgeon waiting for a scalpel as she examined the handwriting.

  Luke riffled through his desk drawer, the clinks of various pens rolling around as she focused on the angularity and sharpness of the strokes, the open loops, the angle at which the letters slanted. Kate knew graphology could tell a lot about the person, but unfortunately, she wasn’t trained to read into it. All she could say was that the handwriting was unfamiliar to her. It wasn’t her belated mom’s or dad’s. It wasn’t that of her belated uncle or aunt, either.

  She felt the weight of a metal object landing in her extended hand, then realized she’d unknowingly been holding her breath. “Thanks, Luke.”

  With palpitations, she ripped open the top of the first letter, then carefully pulled it out of the envelope, barely touching its edges.

  The yellowed paper released a faint smell as she unfolded it. Or was it just her mind playing tricks on her?

  Those hypnotherapy sessions had confused her a little too much lately. The aromas that had reached her nose had felt absolutely real. As real as Luke’s Irish Spring scent right now.

  “Here goes,” she said as she prepared to read the very short note in the same handwriting as what covered the envelope.

  Dear Jocelyn,

  I wish things were less complicated.

  But I still appreciate watching you from a distance. Your smile, your hair, your eyes. You beam and radiate, like a beacon calling to my heart.

  She has your smile and your eyes.

  E xox

  Kate lowered the note, a shiver going down her spine as she re-read the last line. “I hate that. Mom had a stalker?”

  “I don’t know
, Katie,” Luke said, leaving the back of his desk and joining Kate as she carefully returned the note to its envelope.

  She ripped open the second one.

  Dear Jocelyn,

  I haven’t heard from you, even though I gave you my address. Maybe your husband makes it hard for you to communicate with me.

  Rest assured that I’ll stick around, waiting for you to come to me when you’re ready.

  E xox

  “I don’t like these letters,” Kate said as she reinserted the second note into its envelope.

  “Are you sure you want to keep reading them?” Luke asked, his hands massaging her shoulders, working on a knot at the base on her neck.

  Dear Jocelyn,

  I heard a rumor that your husband will be out of town next week? Is that true? I’ll try and swing by, discreetly. Leave the back door open like before.

  E xox

  A stabbing pain poked her in the chest as the unspoken nature of her mom’s and E’s relationship suddenly became clear.

  Dear Jocelyn,

  Seeing you last weekend was the best gift I’ve ever gotten. Even though you said you didn’t open any of my letters, I’ll keep sending you my notes, so you know I keep thinking of you.

  The way our bodies meshed together, can’t you see we were meant for each other?

  I can still smell your perfume on me, and I love that feeling. I’ll be dreaming of you tonight, as always.

  E xox

  Dear Jocelyn,

  Are you avoiding me? You changed your schedule. What’s going on? I always look forward to running into you at the grocery store on Monday mornings, the flower shop on Friday, and the baker on Sunday. But I haven’t crossed paths with you in over two weeks.

  What’s going on? Are you okay?

  E xox

  Kate tossed the most recent letter onto the desk, unable to take any more of it. Unable to bear the harsh reality of what they meant. A dozen more envelopes had yet to be unsealed, but the world around Kate shrank, making her dizzy and weak.

  She ran to the bathroom and locked herself in. Leaning against the sink, she stared at herself in the mirror.

  Do marriage vows not mean anything to anyone?

  “Mom?” she whispered, her lips shaking. “How could you do this to Dad? How could you… cheat on him?”

  She watched her eyes fill with tears as the old wounds from her ex-husband’s unfaithful ways stabbed her in the chest. Her eyelids became heavy as though they alone bore the consequences of what she’d just learned, pushing out her silent tears and letting them drip into the sink below.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  “I’m sorry, Katie,” Luke said, his hand resting on the door to the bathroom where Kate had gone to hide. As though hiding was even possible.

  There was nothing but silence now. No water running, no throwing things, no talking.

  They’d been there before. Many times. Sometimes in reversed positions, with him locking himself up and her begging to be let in. That was just something they did. Something she did a lot as a way to cope with the difficulties of her job.

  But he recognized his error this time.

  He shouldn’t have mentioned the letters. Heck, he shouldn’t have looked inside those boxes in the first place.

  But he had no way of knowing the letters would reveal such unbearable things. How could he have known?

  “Katie, baby. Let me in.”

  Nothing.

  Turning around, he slumped his body against the closed door, and let himself drop to a sitting position. He knew they could be here for hours.

  “I was an ass. I shouldn’t have mentioned those letters. I’m sorry.”

  This time he thought he heard her sigh, but he wasn’t sure.

  “I can’t even imagine the pressure you’re under with work. I get it. I’m sooo sorry, but I can’t travel back in time.”

  His thump on the door made it vibrate.

  “I love you, Katie. But it’s not my fault those letters exist. Can you please open the door?”

  Nothing. Not a word. Not a sigh.

  Bringing his hands to cover his face, he spoke aloud to himself. “I’m such an ass sometimes. I really shouldn’t have pushed you to look into your parents’ old case. You already have too much on your plate. I don’t understand how you deal with me and my countless—”

  He fell backward, his head landing on the tiled floor before he could finish his sentence. “Ow!” he yelped.

  “Oh no!” Kate said, dropping to her knees next to him. “Are you okay?”

  He smiled at her, even though he had no doubt he’d get a bump out of this.

  “I’m sorry, Kate.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she said before leaning down to kiss him. She slid her hand underneath his head then lifted it right back up, as though checking for blood.

  “I just… I just needed to shut the world away for a minute. Are you really okay? Should we go to the hospital to have your head checked out?”

  “I’ll be fine, Kate,” he said before sitting back up and hugging her. “But let me in from time to time, okay? I’m on your team.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Friday, June 29th, 2018

  Pixie jerked herself awake, her body covered in sweat, her heart beating out of control.

  “Are you all right?” John mumbled next to her, his voice sleepy and coarse.

  “I’m fine.” Going online to re-watch some of the Boston news footage and read new articles had been a bad idea. As though the victims’ headshots had been imprinted in her mind, she couldn’t shake off the possibility that he had had something to do with the poor women’s demise.

  Focusing on her breathing, Pixie finally managed to slow down her heartbeat.

  She got out of bed, grabbed her laptop from the nightstand, then went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of herbal tea, to soothe herself and somehow try to return to sleep, but she found it unlikely.

  What if it was him?

  She remembered his fingers braiding her long blonde hair. He’d always been fascinated by it. He’d even kept a piece of her hair when she’d shaved it off in her rebellious years. How he loved braids.

  Her hair had long since regrown; that was the way John liked it. That was why she’d posed with a braid like that in the final photo they’d sent him.

  Had her plan for freedom backfired in the worst possible way?

  Well, she already suspected it had backfired, but she’d assumed it had started and ended with Mr. Thompson.

  But what if it hadn’t?

  Had her lies and deception turned him into a monster?

  And if so, what could she do about it now?

  She opened her laptop and Googled her way to the Boston PD website. She quickly found the phone number to their anonymous tip line.

  A quick glance at the clock followed by some mental math told her the sun had already risen in Boston.

  She got up and dove her hand into her purse, retrieving her phone, which she stared at for what had to have been ten minutes, minimum. Calling the tip line was anonymous, so they said, but they probably received all sorts of tips through that line. Who knew how long the police took before acting on them? Chances were, all sorts of crazies called to report shit, right?

  No, she needed to talk to the detectives. But doing so wouldn’t be anonymous. She wrote down the detectives’ number for the Roxbury district, which she’d remember hearing on the news.

  If Pixie called—and if her gut was right—she could put an end to this. She could potentially save innocent lives.

  But if she called, she’d also potentially get both John and her into trouble. They’d broken the law.

  Was their hard-earned freedom more important than the lives of women she didn’t even know?

  Maybe there was a way to have her cake and eat it too. Calling from her cellphone would be too risky. She had to find a public phone. Where the heck would she find one of those nowadays?

  “Hey, babe. What�
��s going on?” John asked as he walked into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. “It’s four in the morning. Come back to bed.”

  “I gotta go and run an errand.”

  “Now? Nothing’s open.”

  “There’s just something I gotta take care of.”

  “Come on, you can do it later. Come back to bed.”

  “No, I need to get this done. It’s about… him.”

  “What?” He rubbed his forehead and blinked. “Don’t tell me he found you, after all we did to get away.”

  “No. We’re still safe. But to keep everyone safe I just need to make one phone call. An anonymous one to the Boston police.”

  “Can’t you just file a report online?”

  “I need to talk to the detectives, but I don’t want to call or email from my devices.”

  “Whatever you say. You’re the genius. But if you’re going anywhere at this time of night, I’m going with you.”

  After they drove around aimlessly for an hour, Pixie spotted a phone booth, and John stopped to park their car. She had absolutely no idea how much calls cost these days—her last call from a booth had to have been at least a decade earlier—she grabbed a handful of coins and the piece of paper where she’d written the BPD number.

  Pushing the folding door to enter the booth, a concentrated smell of urine reached her nostrils.

  What the fuck?

  She stepped right out.

  Staring at the phone through its glass surroundings—the scent still present but much less potent—she debated whether making the call would be worth it. The black machine looked different from those she remembered. It had a slot for credit cards. It also had quite a few pieces of faded, chewed-up gum stuck to its side, and some snotty-looking residue dangling on the cord.

  “What’s wrong, Pixie?” he yelled after rolling down his window.

  “It’s fucking gross in there.”

  She turned away from the booth and looked at her surroundings. The phone had been placed near a strip mall for those with dwindling budgets: Western Union, a pawn shop, and a dollar store. A liquor store and diner were the other two businesses, and only the latter appeared to be open.