Page 50 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

"I love hypothetically."

"I'm only going to walk over."

"Mhm."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Mhm."

"I'm simply..."

I searched for a word that sounded far more respectable than the one currently occupying my thoughts.

"Being neighbourly."

"Of course you are."

Picking up Rosemary, I put her in my front pocket as I took one step then another. The gravel crunched softly beneath my boots. Halfway across the lawn, I stopped. I looked toward the porch. I looked back at my cottage.

"This is ridiculous."

"It absolutely is."

"So, I should turn around."

"You could."

"I probably should."

"You probably should."

I stood there for another long moment then I looked at the front door.

"...Five minutes."

Elias

Sleep and I weren't on fucking speaking terms anymore. We had a decent relationship once. Eight uninterrupted hours. Dreams that didn't involve crime scenes, waking up without immediately wondering whether someone had died while I'd been unconscious or anything in the fucking past. Those were good years.

Now?

Now sleep showed up when it felt like it, stayed for an hour and if I was lucky two hours, after that it left me staring at the ceiling while my brain replayed every missing person's file I'd ever touched. Every interview, mother's faces, promises I'd made that I hadn't been able to keep.

Truly, it was a fucked-up relationship. The alarm on my bedside table hadn't even gone off before my eyes opened.

5:42 a.m.

I stared at the glowing numbers for a long moment before rubbing both hands over my face.

"For fuck’s sake."

No point trying again. Once my head decided it was awake, there wasn't enough medication, whisky or divine intervention to convince it otherwise. The old floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I wandered toward the kitchen, Max following close enough that every third step nearly sent me sprawling over sixty pounds of an enthusiastic German shepherd.

"One day," I muttered, looking down at him, "you're going to be the reason I die."

His tail wagged harder. Traitor.

The kettle clicked on while I leaned both palms against the kitchen counter, staring absentmindedly through the window above the sink.