Aggravated Momentum E-Book

Didi Oviatt

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

After sisters Markie and Kam get tangled with the wrong people at the wrong time, long-buried family secrets begin to emerge.

A serial killer is targeting people close to them. As danger inches closer and closer to home, twisted desires become a reality. The deeper they dig, the darker the secrets they find.

But who is the cold, calculated murderer, and can they find a way to survive?

Leseprobe

Aggravated Momentum

Didi Oviatt

Copyright (C) 2017 Didi Oviatt

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Prologue

My hands are as far above my head as they can reach, my back is intensely arched, and my calf muscles tighten, extending to the footboard. My pumpkin orange painted toes point as they join the stretch. The sun beams through a tight crevice in the drapes, challenging my eyes to regain vision. I squint and strain to open them. It's late afternoon, and I've been sleeping for four hours. Sadly, it's the most uninterrupted sleep my taxing life has allowed in over a week.

The sensation of piercing eyes causes the hair to raise on my forearms. After I finish rubbing the sleep from my face I glance around intently. No one is here. Weird. I swear I could feel someone's presence. It must be my nerves. My thick down comforter drops from my shoulders as I sit up for another stretch. It isn't usually this hot in my room, so I'm glad I was able to sleep through my sweat. My body is clammy. The tank top and shorts that cling to my skin are damp and wrinkled.

I'm supposed to meet Markie for a girl's night in an hour. I better hurry. I told that weird friend of hers from work that I wasn't going to make it, but I changed my mind after debating all week. The decision is made, I'm going. Markie is one of my closest friends, but she's changed since Beth died. She's distanced herself. Now, with everything else going on around her, I'm afraid.

As the water heats, steam fills my shower and escapes through the bathroom door that I usually leave open. I like stepping out of the shower feeling clean and refreshed, not muggy and overheated. I think about Markie's situation as I rub an oversized purple body sponge across my skin. A delicious scent of lather forms on my protruding ribs and bony hips. The stress of all these deaths has taken a serious toll on my appetite. My body is shrinking, from its once curvy appearance. I'm beginning to look sickly.

I wonder how I'm supposed to tell Markie that I've been sleeping with the one acquaintance that's off limits. I guess I can't. Not now anyway, it will have to wait. I should feel worse about it than I do, but he's convenient, and I'm lonely. He'll do for now. It must be the guilt of it that's forcing me to go to this stupid club tonight. Any smart woman would stay away.

My fingers scrub harshly into my scalp. I squint my eyes tightly, trying to block out the shampoo as it washes away. Before they can fully open, the shower door slides open. A shocked gasp rises from my throat, and I force my lids open through a painful soapy haze. The air escapes my lungs in a slow, relieved sigh. I take in the sight of him. He stands naked with a grin, ready to join me.

“What the hell are you doing?” I demand.

“What does it look like?”

“You scared the shit out of me!”

“You're pretty sexy when you're startled.”

“I really don't have time for this.” I snap back at him, “I'm in a hurry.”

He pushes his way in anyway and shuts the door behind him. He stays just out of reach of the spraying shower head and watches me wash off. My back tingles and the blood rushes to my skin's edge in reaction to his touch. The last of the soap bubbles disappear into the drain at our toes. He raises my leg at the thigh, and then presses me forward against the shower wall.

With one hard thrust he forces himself inside me. Its a lot rougher than his usual tactic. I gasp and press my hands against the wall for balance. He moves violently, but I like it. His strong fingers are intertwined through my wet hair at the base of my scalp, then he pulls it, hard. My head jerks back with the powerful tug. A quiet, excited, involuntary squeal escapes my open mouth. I can feel his hot breath on the back of my neck.

“You like it hard, don't you Joyce?” His voice is lower than I've ever heard him speak.

“Yes!”

For the first time in my life, I get a thrill from hearing my name. He releases his hold on my hair and then shoves me back against the wall. A firm arm presses against my back. I'm unable to move my chest or shoulders, as am forced to take him in on his terms. Just as I'm about to crumble under his strong hold, a menacing whisper echoes in my ear.

“This is going to hurt.”

A shock pools toward my center and a chill runs down my spine. It takes every ounce of strength that I have to pull away from him. He squeezes my body tightly against his own. Then he loosens his grip, allowing me to turn and face him.

“What are you talking ab—”

A sudden pain consumes my neck, cutting me off mid-question. My voice catches in the center of my throat and is unable to escape. Instinctively, I grab hold of the sharp pulsating pain and squeeze. The fluid filling my hands and running down my arms is much thicker and hotter than the shower water. Everything is beginning to blur. I look at him, trying to plead with my eyes. I'm unable to speak. I lean against the wall, to regain balance. Everything is spinning. I pull my bloody hands from my neck and look at them. My vision is distorted, but not enough to disable the sight of color. My scarlet fingers spin and blur.

I feel cold. I want to grab him, beg for his help, but I can't. My body slumps down against the wall. My legs become weaker and weaker. What have you done to me? I scramble through the black and red blur, struggling to see his face. For a flash, I see him. His head is tilted to one side and his face is blank. A hint of a smirk forms across his lips. I black out. I can still feel but I can't see. I pull in breath with short shallow pants. I can hear an awkward gurgle coming out of my throat. My body is ice cold under the hot running water.

My life slowly drains away, yet a sharp digging pain reminds me that I'm still alive. One piercing jab after another jolts into my ribs, chest and stomach. I try to kick, throw my arms up in defense and scream, but can't. I can't move. It only takes a few more jolts to realize that I'm being stabbed. Over and over the shock spreads across my body.

After what seems like a lifetime of torturing pain, it finally fades. A faint sensation is left at my neck. There's something touching my midsection, something inside it. That too melts away until there is nothing left. I don't feel anything anymore – no pain, no fear. I give up the struggle for breath and let myself go to the darkness.

Chapter One

MARKIE

“Nice pants.” Kam smirks, with an amused lift in her right brow.

I look down at the tight brown shiny leather that's hugging my thighs, as it bunches uncomfortably at the knees.

“That bad?” I ask.

Blood rushes to my cheeks. I feel the heat rise into a thick red blush.

“Not at all!” She giggles, sarcasm is radiating. “I'm quite sure brown leather would be my first choice for a blind date, too.”

When it comes to picking out clothing, I find it easier just to stick with basic, simple, and plain. If it were not for my sister, I'd surely be the laughing stock of South Brooke, Florida. Brushing off her sarcasm has become easier throughout our lives. I've come to accept the fact that she will always have quicker wit than me. Although, I do try keeping up with her jokes, I still find myself coming up short in the playful banter department. For the most part, I have learned to blow off snide comments, and take them with a grain of salt. At least she keeps my life interesting. I've never had to worry about dull quiet moments, or that 'awkward silence' as she calls it.

“Well then, fashion princess, what exactly would you suggest?”

It's hard to understand her through her muffled giggle.

“No really, Markie, you should totally stick with what you have on! I would love to see this man try to take you seriously… you know… his sexy date in a pair of cheap rocker chic, vintage leather pants.”

She no longer tries to muffle the humor rising in her chest. Its now full on rolling laughter, bubbling and rising out of her full, perfectly glossed lips. The skin around her baby blues bunches adorably in the corners. Water forms inside her eyes, threatening to spill over.

“Wait!” She shouts. Her face hardens, and mouth drops. “Oh my God, Markie.”

“What?” I stare at her, my belly is filled with suspense, as I wait for an explanation for her dramatics.

“You have to take a look at your camel toe!” Again, laughter pours out.

My response is flat, “you're a dick.”

I scowl and sulk, standing still, with my shoulders slumped, just waiting for her outburst to die down.

“You're trying to embarrass me and it's not going to work.”

Not only is the slick leather sticking to my legs, but it makes an unavoidable swishing noise as I shift on my feet. Kam stands up from her seated position, on the corner of my bed with grace and ease. She moves with a smooth, superb athletic motion. Walking tall with confidence across my bedroom floor, she disappears into the closet. My whole life, I have been jealous of her grace. Tall and tan with an hourglass shape, is the perfect description for Kam.

All the while I've spent a lifetime cursed with a pale pasty skin tone, aside from the occasional sunburn that is, when I change to the purple-red shade of a boiled beet. My hair is unmanageable, thick and frizzy, my feet are big, and my legs are short and squat. Kam is right, these pants do absolutely no justice for my distinct shape. I stare down at the ridiculous attire hugging all the wrong curves. I thought they were appropriate for the occasion when I had picked them out. Shit, was I wrong.

Upon emerging from the closet, Kam shoves a pair of fitted black slacks into my arms, along with a tasteful floral print top and a light jean jacket. She grins proudly.

“Here, sweet pea. I'm sure you can find some shoes on your own. Or do you need me to help you with that too?”

I scan every inch of her smug face, straining my thoughts for some equally smart remark. After a few short moments of waiting in silence, Kam lifts an eyebrow and cocks her head to the side sarcastically. Her waiting ear turns ever so slowly, inching its way in my direction. More so disappointed at my own lack of a better response, I grunt.

“I think I'll be fine, thanks!”

“You know that annoyed, blank, 'I'm in deep thought' expression you have? It's one of my favorites.”

“Yeah, you've pointed that out before… isn't there somewhere else you're supposed to be right now?” I ask, only sort of teasing.

“Nope.” She grins, sitting on top of the world.

I retreat, back into the closet to change. I'm not about to let her watch me struggle out of the brown leather. Thinking about the night ahead holds no comfort for me. It isn't exactly a blind date. I have met this guy before and wasn't impressed. When my best friend was killed last summer, I'd let myself slip into the role of her parent's newfound daughter. Of course, they set up this whole date, and I was too nice to say no.

I've always been close to Beth's family, especially her parents. Beth's mother, Trish, is sweet and her father, Spence, is a comfortable man to be around. Never in the thirty-two years of friendship I had with Beth were they ever rude or unwelcoming to me.

We grew up as neighbors and were completely inseparable since the year we were born. Up until last year, that is, when her life was brutally taken. Not a day goes by that I don't remember the petrified look on her bloody, lifeless face. She was stabbed twenty-seven times and left dead on her kitchen floor. There was so much blood I hardly recognized my dress hanging from her body in torn pieces. I found her the morning after she was attacked. The fear of her killer remaining at large sits on my shoulders, weighing me down to this day.

Kam's loud voice rings in my ears.

“Are you okay in there?”

Crap, I'm spacing out again. I've done this a lot since Beth's murder. Everything reminds me of her, and the thought of her death makes me freeze up like a deer in headlights.

“Um, yeah,” I mumble back quietly, as I slip on the floral top.

“You could have told them no, you know. You don't have to go out with this guy if you think he's a creep. You're too nice to them.”

“I know, Kam.” I appreciate my sister's concern, but my God, I'm tired of this conversation.

“Why do you let them treat you like you're Beth? It's not a healthy way for them to grieve, you know. And by letting them, you're just as bad as they are.”

After stepping out of the closet, I hold up two different pairs of black heels. Maybe I really do need her help with the shoes. Kam's eyes roll slowly. She's being far too dramatic. She points to the opened toe choice in my left hand.

“Thanks,” I mumble, “and I can't help it. You know that. What am I supposed to say to them? 'I'm not your dead daughter, remember?' ”

Irritated, I slip on the heels. This conversation is the last thing I need. It's a bad way to start off what's bound to be an altogether shitty night anyway.

“No, dummy, just say it nicely. Tell them that you appreciate all the crap they buy you, and the dinners, and the phone calls, but that you need your space. Remind them you're Markie, not Beth. This is totally the kind of date they would have set her up on.”

“I can't, Kam. Not yet anyway, it's too hard. Do we really need to talk about this?”

“I think we do, yes.”

“You are so damn stubborn. How is it that we're related again?”

“Ha. Ha. Real funny.”

The concern in her eyes doesn't match the pushy words spewing from her lips. She's a sweet soul. She's honest and straightforward, no matter the cost. I'm constantly annoyed and jealous of both qualities. I never have been able to pull either of them off.

“Anyway,” the bunched-up skin on her nose smooths out as she changes the subject. “What if we have some sort of backup plan? For this whole date night? I could call you and pretend there's an emergency of some sort. Or maybe you could have a code word that secretly means come and bail me out.”

“That's not a bad idea, actually.”

At least she's resourceful, I think, while admiring the clothing choice in the full-length mirror leaning against my wall. Not too dressy, and not too casual. It's a good mix.

“So, what will it be?” She asks, as she holds her fingers to her chin. “What if I say we had a small kitchen fire, or I fell down the stairs and need a ride to the hospital or something?”

“Hmmm,” I can't help but chuckle at her plotting. “I like the fire idea. Then I can leave in a bit of a hurry and act irritated. It's not really an emergency he can help me with, but it's one that I still have to leave the date for.”

“Deal!” Kam is sitting tall, holding her head high in pride and excitement at the scheme. “When did you meet this guy, anyway?”

“He was at one of those real estate sale things Beth used to drag me to all the time. She spoke to him when we first got there. I guess their parents are friends, so they knew each other as kids.”

I fall back onto my bed, letting my arms go limp at my sides, completely relaxed. Kam is so easy to talk to, even if she is a pain in the ass. She's a natural listener, and she always cares about everyone around her.

“I thought he was cute at first, but then he followed us around the rest of the day. I caught him staring at us. I don't know. I guess he just came off as kind of strange to me.”

“Are you sure it's the same guy?”

“Yeah, Trish showed me his picture.”

“Why didn't you just tell her no then?”

“Here we go again.”

I pull myself up and make my way toward the door, not that it does any good. Kam follows me out and keeps at it, as usual. She mumbles and nags. Her toes almost clip my heels with each step, as she crams words of unwelcome advice down the back of my neck, on the way down the hall, past the living room, and to the front door. Having my sister as a roommate has its perks and downfalls.

“Just call me in an hour and get me out of this mess, okay?”

“Fine!” She snaps back in defeat.

Hanging by the door on a small hook are the keys to my black Tahoe. Beth helped me pick it out the week before she died. I hate it now. Not only have I had to replace one thing after another, but it's also a total gas hog. Don't even get me started on the size. In what world would I ever need an SUV? Kam has tried talking me into trading it in on a regular basis. As does my crazy mother, but her motives are just for show. I can't do it though, Beth loved it. She couldn't afford a new car of her own, so she talked me into buying just the kind of vehicle she wanted.

I let her drive the damn thing everywhere we went for that whole week. She even stayed sober to drive us home the night it happened, just so she could be seen leaving the club in it. Trading it in now would feel like I'm betraying her in some way. So, I just deal with its troubles, and try to convince myself that Beth would be right at my side telling me how hot we look in it.

Kam stands in the driveway as I pull out, holding a hand on a popped-out hip with attitude. She glares at the front grill of my car. It wouldn't take a rocket scientist to tell what's on her irritated, concerned mind. Shaking off an eerie feeling, I swallow the bile rising in my throat, and then drive away. What does Kam know, anyway? The Jones' are good people. They would never send me on a date with a weirdo.

It doesn't matter that my first impression wasn't perfect. That had to have been at least four or five years ago. Who knows what was going on with him that day, or even myself, come to think of it. I've always considered Beth's dad to be a very down to earth kind of man. Surely, he would know if there was anything wrong with this Vincent guy. It doesn't matter now, I'm going on this damn date whether I want to or not. I continue to convince myself that everything is fine for the remainder of the drive.

The first thought on my mind as I pull into the place is lower middle class. The name Frenchie's is plastered on the front of the building in bold red paint. Its also printed on all of the windows and doors. It was clearly decorated with care and intention, as if the owners had put their entire life savings into it. Cars are lined in perfectly slanted spaces next to mine. I can't help but notice that not one of them looks to be any newer than five or six years old. The people coming in and out are dressed in the kind of clothing that screams 'desperate date'.

Wives are wearing worn out dresses and forced smiles. Husbands in button up tops, opening doors with their heads down and mouths shut. I imagine these people have boring, average lives, and boring, average jobs. They probably need to get out of their everyday routine so badly they ache, yet they can't afford anything more than two hours with a high school babysitter and a $10 plate of spaghetti. What better place than a small local restaurant named Frenchie's? A pang of guilt hits me for the way I am judging these people. Just because I don't want to be here, it doesn't give me the right to break down strangers.

Killing time and spacing out in pointless observation, isn't doing anything but prolonging the inevitable. My chest rises and falls in a deep effort to de-stress. Of course, it doesn't work. I'm so nervous my bowels are churning. Perfect, just perfect, not only am I actually allowing myself to go on a blind date with a possible creep, but I may shit myself while I'm at it.

I whisper lightly under my breath, “Dammit Beth, why the hell did you have to leave me? Next time I'm definitely putting my foot down and telling your mom no.”

Finally, I shut down the engine to the hog. I roll down the windows, as usual, secretly hoping it will be stolen. I leave it behind in the surprisingly full parking lot. My shoes make a light tapping sound, as my feet slowly drag my unwilling body up the narrow sidewalk. The hinges squeak on the door as I pull it open. The bell hanging above the door sounds. I've always hated that.

Bells, honestly, what purpose do they serve except to draw unnecessary and unwanted attention? I've always felt bad for employees that work at facilities with these ridiculous bells. I think if I had to listen to that noise all day long, it would likely wind me up so tight that I'd snap.

I search the inside of the diner, looking in every direction. I was told he would be wearing a black button up top and holding a small bouquet of daisies. Trish must have told him that it's my favorite flower; how convenient. I spot him quickly. He's sitting two tables away from the door, with the bouquet in hand. He is much more handsome than I remember. Maybe he's just one of those freaks who's actually aged well. Trish told me that he's pushing thirty five, – which is only two years older than myself, but I'd never guess that now seeing him in person. He could easily pass for a good ten years younger.

A grin spreads across his cheeks as he waves me in his direction with confidence. The smile I return to him is as forced as the women I observed from the parking lot. Take a breath, here we go, I can manage an hour. Kam better pull through on her promise, or there will be some serious sabotage in order. It's not like I've never put flaming hot peppers in her drink when she wasn't looking. I may even go a step further and put food dye in her shampoo and conditioner. I've been waiting on an excuse to try that one out anyway.

“You look as beautiful as I remember, Markie.”

“Thank you, Vincent, that's very kind.”

If he only knew the smile on my face is in response to my silent plotting against my sister, and not him.

“Please have a seat.” He gestures. “Your necklace is very pretty.”

“Wow, thank you.” Strange compliment, I think. Though it caught me off guard, I still somehow appreciate the sentiment. “It's a locket my mom gave me a few years back.”

I'm not about to go into detail on how Beth had one exactly like it, or about her picture that's inside it. I'm especially not going to tell him the reason my mother bought us a matching set. Her words of insult regarding my lack of better accessories flash through my mind. Beth and I actually wore them as a joke at first, thinking it was funny to act out against my mother's uppity attitude.

After a while, the lockets kind of became an ironic symbol of our friendship, go figure. I rub the small golden heart shape between my thumb and forefinger. It dangles elegantly from my neck. It's no lie, the necklace truly is an exquisite piece. Crazy she may be, but my mother sure can accessorize.

I lower myself into the open chair that he so graciously slid out for me. At first the conversation is light. We talk about the weather, and the drink choice on the menu, which is very limited might I add. Vincent has a low, quiet, irresistibly sultry voice. The scent of his cologne is divine. Filling my nostrils every time he moves, I breathe it in deep. Leaning forward, I let the smell consume me. I don't remember him being this desirable.

He speaks with confidence and holds his head high. I even find myself checking out the toned muscular shape of his chest and arms. I wonder if he would look as good with his shirt off as he does with it on. I stare into his soft grey eyes and listen to him explain the ins and outs of his mundane office job. Vincent spends the majority of his time processing paperwork at a large law firm downtown. Apparently, he finds small, family owned restaurants like Frenchie's to be comforting, like a home away from home. As he explains the reason for his choice in diner, I kick myself inside for being so arrogant and judgmental when I first arrived.

Time is flying, our conversation flows easily. I tell him about my time-consuming career at the Mix That Movie Multiplex. I've managed the four-theater movie house for several years, and I've loved every single one of them. I started working there when I was nineteen as a regular clerk, selling movie tickets and popcorn. At the time there was only one big screen with a crack down the middle, along with rundown used seats.

I kept at it for a few years until I completed my degree. It just so happened that the very week of my graduation the manager up and left, she quit very unexpectedly. I was instantly promoted into the position, and I've held it ever since. Vincent seems genuinely impressed, and is interested in the details of my theater. He even asks questions about the changes and upgrades that I've overseen along the way.

I'm in the middle of explaining our second expansion when the ringtone of my phone nearly sends me through the roof. I jump an inch off my seat, and Vincent chuckles. His short-lived humor comes out as a choppy high-pitched snort. Cute, and he is even cuter when he laughs. Has it been an hour already? A half consumed, surprisingly delicious French dip sits on a square dinner plate in front of me. The roast beef is fresh, and the bread is melt in your mouth perfection. At this very moment, I want nothing more than to finish this delicious meal.

I'm tempted to ignore the call altogether. Knowing Kam, she'd probably show up with guns blazing, ready to “cap a bitch” – or so she'd say as she storms through the door. After running the likely scenario through my head, I decide it's best to pick up.

“Hello?” I answer as cheerfully as possible, hoping she'll catch the tone.

“Markie, you have to come home right now!”

Panic radiates in her voice. I must admit, I'm slightly impressed with her acting skills.

“I'm sure everything is fine, Kam. I'm actually having a really good time. Is there any way you can handle things on your own?”

I don't want to give myself away. I try to sound as normal as anyone would with a random, panicked sister phone call.

“No really! It's not a fire, or a stair incident, it's our neighbors. The Snyder family, across the street. Something scary is going on. Cops and ambulances are swarming the block, Markie! Get your ass home now, you have to be here with me!”

“Is this for real?”

Adrenaline thumps in my chest. I can feel my face bunch and tighten. Images of Beth's bloody face flash through my memory. Last time I saw a group of police officers with ambulances present, I watched them drive away with my best friend in a body bag. Her murder was too recent not to panic every time I see flashing lights.

“If you're making this shit up Kam, I'm… I'm… I'll…” My voice cracks, and my eyes water.

Fear, panic, and raw memory paw at the pit of my stomach.

“I swear, Markie, just come home now, okay?”

“I'm on my way.”

The phone clicks off in my palm, and I shove it into my purse. The look on Vincent's face instantly strikes me as odd. As I search for words to explain my sister's phone call, he seems strangely amused. The corner of his lip curls upward. The wrinkles above his eyes smooth away, and a flat forehead reveals a pleased little twinkle. Is he happy I am leaving, or excited about my concern? I can't tell. This is awkward. What is his deal? I kind of want to smack him right now. Not a hard smack. Just a little backhand to the mouth. Enough to knock that smug little grin off his handsome face.

Chapter Two

“I'm really sorry I have to leave like this.” Refusing to look into Vincent's excited eyes, I give my apologies to the table.

“No problem, really.” He replies with a stomach-churning grin. “Can I call you sometime? I'd love to do this again if you're up for it.”

I stumble over myself, “I…um…yeah.”

The date has been great so far. After calming myself, I quickly decide that his odd behavior might have been caused by lack of understanding. Against my better judgment, I take the pen he has ready for me. I scribble my number on a cheap napkin and slide it in his direction. Without another word, I turn away. I can feel his eyes piercing my backside like daggers. An uncomfortable chill slides down my spine. I can hear his low, sensual voice over my shoulder. It follows me as I walk away from the table.

“Good luck with your emergency,” he whispers.

I decide against any sort of response and speed toward the door refusing to look back at my strange, handsome date. Clicking shoes against the concrete, carry me quickly down the walkway and into my SUV. Keys, where the hell are my keys? My shaking fingers fumble through my messy purse. I can't help but think of Beth. I imagine her always calming voice telling me to slow down. I dump the contents of my purse on the empty passenger seat, then I grab my keys as soon as they hit the cushion. A relieved sigh escapes me.

As the engine turns I look up, only to have my heart drop to my toes. The air catches in my chest as we lock eyes. Vincent is staring at me with that inappropriate crooked grin. He stands on the inside of a giant window only a few yards away from me. The name, Frenchie's, is printed in the window directly above his head. His eyes are wide, chest puffed, and his hands are shoved deep in his pockets. He holds my gaze.

The moment is creepy, it feels wrong. His smile widens as he pulls a large hand from his pocket to give me a small, childlike wave. I wave back slowly. My face heats up, and my brows bunch together in the middle. Nearly slamming the gas pedal to the floor, I speed away, refusing to look in the rear view.

I'm not usually one to speed or break the law at all, for that matter. Right now, I don't care, I rush home. I'm completely beside myself, lost in thought. My foot is pushing hard. It shoves the pedal into the floor, painfully squishing my toes out of the small hole at the tip of my shoe. Headlights stream by me with a blur. I slow down only for the few red lights along the way, and I make it home in record time.

The neighborhood is a mess, in every sense of the word. Police cars are parked in front of practically every other house. As I look around, I notice flashlights shining in bushes and sheds. My block especially is utter chaos. Streetlights light up the faces of my neighbors as they stand on well-manicured lawns in front of their homes. Confusion and fear fills the air. I'm driving through a cloud of anxiety, with peering eyes staring at me as I pass. It's a struggle, but I spot Kam.

She's standing on the sidewalk in front of our house with her arms crossed. Her face is pale, it's the lightest shade I've ever seen on her. She is staring directly across the road, past the abundance of authorities, and into the open door of the Snyder home. Her posture is hunched over and sickly. I pull into the driveway carefully, waiting for her to run up to me, but she doesn't. She doesn't move or avert her eyes in any way.

With my head down looking only at my feet, I jog to her side. A large part of me doesn't want to see what Kam's so engrossed by. Somehow, I already know. I just know deep inside that it's happened again. Grabbing her by the shoulders, I give her entire body one rough shake.

“Kam!” I yell. “Snap out of it!”

“They…they…they finally opened the door.” A quiet slur.

Her stare remains locked in place. I close my eyes as tight as I can. My head turns toward the Snyder home, then after letting out an anxious lungful of air I open them. Fog takes over my mind, and my body ignites in an overbearing fire. It's Breanna. One of the friendliest, most outgoing teenagers I know. She was the oldest child in the Snyder home. She was a beautiful young woman, now lifeless.

Standing next to Kam, peering across the street and into their home, I can clearly see her mutilated body. Their front doors are French, and opened wide, allowing a perfect view into their once tidy entryway. Breeana's mother is a stickler for bleached white floors, and they're now completely covered in scarlet splatters and pools of blood. That must have been exactly where the attack took place. Right inside the front door, for God's sake. I can only imagine her killer's tactic, pushing their way in as she greeted them with an innocent welcome. Sick. Disgusting. This is completely unfathomable.

The once full of life girl is slumped backwards over a round decorative table. Her legs are bare, and full of slashes. A slow steady drip is still running down her arms and escaping into the floor from her fingertips. Clinging to her body are the remnants of a spaghetti strap tank top, and short pajama bottoms. I can't even tell their original color. My mind wanders briefly away from the present. I picture those pj's were a lovely shade of green, and the smile on her face was genuine.

The thought lasts only a second before my mind snaps back to reality. Like a rubber band pulling itself into place, my head twitches and my lips let out a frightened gasp. Breanna must have been relaxing comfortably in what should have been a safe home. Bile rises from my stomach and into my throat. I swallow it and continue to stare. I'm unable to look away, unable to process the scene in front of me.

Just like Beth was, every inch of her is stained in thick red fluid. This killer is bleeding them out. Every drop of life drained from the victims. Its vicious, and it is personal. I look closer. There's a shine on her chest. It reflects light from the bright police LED lights placed a few feet away from her. Something is resting around her neck. Small and gold. I wonder how it is possible that she has jewelry on that could still hold a shine. How is there no blood on the top of her necklace?

“Can you see her necklace?” I whisper under my breath to Kam.

“All I see is blood.”

Her response comes out flat and dry. I can hear the dehydrated click as her tongue hits the roof of her parched mouth.

“Do you think this has anything to do with Beth?” She asks, even flatter in tone, as the tears finally spill over.

“I don't know, Kam, but it feels the same.”

We hold one another's gaze. The moisture of a lone tear runs down my cheek. It rolls slowly over my foundation and hits the corner of my mouth. I can taste the salt as I touch the tip of my tongue to my lip's edge.

“What do we do?” She asks.

I respond only with a hug. She grabs on tightly, and softly sobs into my shoulder. We stand in shock and confusion. A nicely suited man approaches us. He is guarded, moving slowly, with his head tilted toward his chest. It's a relief to recognize his kind eyes as his head lifts, allowing his face to come into focus. Phillip is his name, Detective Phillip Sharpe, but he always insists on just Phil. I had gotten to know him well in the first few months following Beth's murder. He's a gracious, sympathetic man, and very thorough. No detail is too small or unimportant to him. He has been at our home many times, and must have seen me pull in.

“Markie, I'm sorry we have to meet again under these circumstances.”

“Detective.”

I reach for his open hand, and let him shake my own in a professional manner.

“I know how hard this must be for you to see.”

“It's the same killer, isn't it? The same person who killed Beth?” The question slips out.

Still beside myself, I have no control over my mindless words.

“I'm not sure, ma'am. It's too soon to tell, and until the crime scene has been fully processed we can't be certain on anything.”

I can only manage a nod in response. I understand the drill all too well. Looking around, I notice the officers asking each neighbor to go back into their houses. Slow moving families herd up their clinging children and retreat into their homes. Porch lights stay on and windows stay lit. There will be no sleep on this once peaceful street. I turn to the detective and attempt to calm my nerves. I need to get as much information as possible. If this is the same guy, then I must know everything. I have to.

“I can see she was stabbed just like Beth. It has to be him.” I insist.

“Markie, I'm going to have to ask you…”

I cut him off before he has a chance to say anything else.

“No! I'm not going inside. I'm not going to walk away. This man killed my best friend and now my neighbor. She was seventeen!”

My voice rises louder with every word. Kam gives my hand a tight squeeze as I voice my frustration.

“You have to find him. You have to stop this!”

“Ma'am,” Detective Sharpe interrupts me softly and respectfully, with a hand raised. “I wasn't going to ask you go in your home, actually quite the opposite.” His eyebrows lift slowly in sympathetic caution, as the rest of his face levels. “I know this is a lot to ask, and if you're not up for it I completely understand,” he pauses briefly. “With all of the similarities in this crime scene and in Beth's, I feel it might be beneficial for us if you come with me and take a look.”

“What do you mean? A look?”

“I mean…” again with the irritating pause. “It is strange that two completely different young women have been killed this way. Beth and Breanna are opposite of each other in nearly every way. The only similarity they share, Markie, as far as we can tell, is you.”

The detective's last sentence comes out slow and guarded.

He ducks his head slightly as he pushes out the statement. It hits me like a truck. He's right. They had nothing in common and were nothing alike. As far as I know, they had never even met each other.

“So, what's that supposed to mean?” I ask quietly.

I'm not so sure if my question is aimed at him or myself.

Kam chimes in with a panicked squeak.

“Yeah! What the hell?”