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I make the gag gesture when he says, “That was a great session.”
Her response is equally nauseating. “We should add the pool more often.”
Poor hubby. He’s an attractive guy, if you like the nerdy type, who always leaves wearing a suit, has a friendly face, and you can tell he adores his wife. Just this past weekend, they were out for a walk, and he held her hand, his genuine smile shining at her as they strolled by my house. It’ll crush him when he finds out his wife is a lying, cheating bitch.
I drop my book to my side and groan after I hear her tell him goodbye, followed by a car driving off. I can’t even focus on my book now. This is the juicy gossip Pearl would’ve gotten a loud chuckle out of. If only I could call her and tell her.
Dammit. I need some friends. And I’m just getting antsy. I need to go somewhere. Do something. It’s time to figure out what I’m going to do.
Because it can’t be this.
I glance at a flyer laying on the counter that was stuck to the front door yesterday. It’s for a new coffee shop that opened in the small strip center at the front of the community. Even though I had a cup of coffee already, a latte sounds better. And different scenery.
The dry air here is no joke. My skin acts like it’s stranded in the Sahara Desert without a drop of moisture despite the bottle of Aquaphor that is almost gone. I even have to stick that shit up my nose so I don’t have a bloody mess later. The sun perches high in the sky, and the slight breeze brushing against my face is a welcome reprieve from the stuffy indoors. Cacti line the sidewalk, and I wonder how many people have stumbled into one of them. Who thought this was a good idea? They’re everywhere. I get to the coffee shop, free of cactus in my ass, ready to talk to an actual person. Besides a few brief conversations with Martinez over the phone, the only other person I’ve talked to is myself.
There’s only one person at the counter ordering, so I stand back to read the handwritten menu hanging above the barista. When I decide on a latte, the guy is still ordering. I glance around the cozy little shop. It’s warm and homey, but the TV hanging in the corner grabs my attention, and my heart stops. The sound isn’t on, but I don’t need it to know what’s going on. A reporter stands in the middle of an empty field delivering the news, a hole in the ground behind her, delivering news. The words on the screen confirm my fears: Shanna Clark has been found. It feels like a hand has closed around my throat.
My worst nightmare comes in full force, slamming into me like a tornado. She was buried alive. I somehow force my feet to take me home, everything around me a blur as I struggle to keep my panic from erupting. Once I’m inside the confines of the four walls of my living room, I turn the TV on.
They found her in a makeshift coffin in a county an hour away from where I was found. A torturous death was the end of her story. Her desperate screams break open all the scars that had begun to heal. They’re raw, and her torture is like pouring acid into the wounds. How can I be thankful for being alive with the guilt that my death might have prevented this?
Would he have found his release if I had died?
Tears stream down my face as I sit glued to the TV. Being a thousand miles away couldn’t stop this pain. She’s dead. Bile threatens when they refer to him as the Grave Killer. They gave him a name. Like his persona deserves a title. When my name and picture flash across the screen for the world to see, the lucky one, they say, I can’t hold it back anymore and dart to the bathroom to throw up my breakfast.
Why did they have to show my picture?
Panic takes hold next, and I rush to the fridge. Please let me have enough food to last me a few days. I’ll wait out the story, give it a week to die down. The picture is outdated. I don’t even know where they found it, but it’s an old one from when I lived in Blackburn, so I’m not too worried about someone noticing me. People here won’t be on alert since this is happening states away.
They don’t have to wonder if there’s a box waiting for them.
My phone rings, startling me. I stare at my purse, dropped on the floor from when I first entered the house. It’s probably Martinez telling me the news. Too late. I ignore the call, not having the energy to move. I need a minute to process this, anyway.
The phone rings again. Wiping the tears from my cheek, I push off the couch and grab my purse, figuring I should answer so he doesn’t worry about me. He has other things to focus on. When I see the name lighting up on the screen, I squeeze the phone in my palm with conflicting emotions. I haven’t talked to Paxton since I left. We agreed that if I was going into hiding we wouldn’t talk. Since I’ve done nothing to fill my time here, the regret of leaving him has solidified. It weighs on my chest. But everything that has happened today strengthens my reason for leaving.
With a shaky breath, I slide across the bar to answer. “Hi.”
“Shit. I can tell you already heard.”
“It’s all over the news here.”
“I was hoping you weren’t watching the news.” I hadn’t been. “I hate that you’re there by yourself.” He hesitates and then adds, “You are by yourself, right?”
I laugh once and realize it’s the first time I’ve laughed in a month. “Yes.”
“I wish I was with you.”
“Me too,” I whisper, a surge of emotions getting stuck in my throat. “How’d they find her?”
“Some people were out on a hike and saw a newly dug grave and called it in.”
But it was too late.
The line is silent for a long minute. I don’t know what to do. I didn’t escape anything by being here. No, I did. I escaped his reach.
“Paxton, you guys have to find him. Before he does it again,” I urge with desperation.
“I promise you, we’re throwing everything we’ve got at this, working day and night. We have some new information we didn’t have before. For instance, those tire tracks we saw? They didn’t match any of our vehicles. It was a truck. I know it’s not much, but each piece of evidence we gather gets us one step closer to him. Just don’t…” He exhales into the phone, and I imagine him raking his hand through his curls. “Don’t lose hope.”
