LOST BOY Page 7

  “Do you even know what number it will be?” Charlotte moans. We make it to the floor that is an exact replica of our building. I gather my bearings, imagining our own layout and window. “It’s that one.” I point.

  “Fine,” she snaps, huddling the coat further around herself. She stands a few paces back from me at the door like she’s getting ready to bolt. I rap my knuckles on the door and wait. Nothing. “Come on. Let’s go,” Charlotte whisper-yells, bouncing from foot to foot. I need to know she’s okay—that this is just a coincidence. Reaching for the handle, I twist, then freeze when it gives beneath my palm and the door opens. “Oh my god, that’s breaking and entering.”

  Charlotte groans, grabbing my arm. Pulling from her hold, I go back to the door. “It’s not breaking, the door was open.”

  “Please, let’s just go back home and call the police,” she begs.

  “I’m going inside. Wait there if you want to.”

  “Lizzy,” she calls after me in a hushed shout.

  The apartment is dark. The smell of rotten fruit clings to the air like her trashcan needs to be emptied. “Hello?” I call out. A ruffling noise sounds from deeper inside the apartment, causing me to turn sharply. Charlotte hasn’t followed me inside, so it’s not her. Oh god, what if our neighbor was robbed and is tied up in there? Grabbing a knife from the block on her counter, I make my way toward the sound. “Hello?” I call out again. My heart pounds in my ears. Thoughts of what I may find ravage my mind.

  Blood. Blood. Blood.

  I grip the door handle to one of the bedrooms. My palm is clammy, my knees shaking. “One, two, three,” I breathe before pushing it open, the knife stretched in front of me. It’s just a room—a bed in the center, a wardrobe against the back wall—no tied up neighbor, no villain waiting to jump out. I release a breath, almost giggling to myself over my paranoia. What the hell am I doing? This is crazy. I’m crazy.

  I turn on my heel to leave when the rustling sounds again, loud from inside the room. My arm shakes as I thrust the knife out in front of me. What the hell? I pull out my cellphone and turn on the flashlight, igniting every corner. I step back inside and go to the wardrobe. Holding my breath, I whip the door open and step back. A little squeak catches in my throat as a couple hanging dresses move with the gust.

  Crap.

  It’s empty. I look to the bed and bite my lip, lowering myself to see beneath. My pulse rushes in my veins, making my heart hammer. Lifting the covers hanging over the edge, I flash the light under, wondering what it must have been like for the officer who had to coax me out from under a bed years ago. Two eyes peer back at me, making me squeal and drop the phone. It takes my brain a second to catch up with my eyes. The cat meows, hitting his paw against a crumpled water bottle, making a crunching sound. Exhaling a relieved breath, I reach out. “Come here…” It doesn’t move, so I scoot underneath the bed to grab him. It scratches me, hissing, and darts away. Little shit. “I’m trying to help you,” I groan, studying the stinging split skin. I freeze when I hear footfalls coming down the hall toward the room. “It’s just Charlotte,” I rationalize, but I can’t move.

  “Get under the bed and don’t come out.”

  “It’s safe. You’re safe now.”

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Two black boots step into the room. That’s not Charlotte.

  No. No. No.

  This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. Tears spring to my eyes. I grip the knife so tight, my knuckles turn white. I’d dropped the phone when I found the cat. Should I try to grab it and call the police? Will they make it in time?

  I’m seven years old again. Fear burrows into my heart, eating away at it.

  Fear is an illusion. You must overcome it.

  I squeeze my eyes closed for a brief second. When I open them, a man is staring back at me. “Argh!” I cry out, swiping out with the knife.

  “Whoa, what the hell you doing, crazy lady?” he shouts, jumping away.

  Sliding out from beneath the bed, I hold the knife out toward him in a protective stance. “Stay back,” I warn.

  Charlotte appears in the doorway, arms crossed, a scowl on her face. “He lives next door, Liz. He has a key, feeds the cats while Lucile—” she emphasizes, “—is away on a business trip.” If looks could kill, I’d be a pile of ash right now.

  “The knife?” the guys asks, hand out, a look of distrust on his face.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble, handing him the knife and racing from the room.

  When I get back to the kitchen, my eyes flash to the window. The black rose purposely posed there. “Did you put that flower there?” I ask the cat feeder. When he doesn’t answer, I turn to look at him. He looks perplexed as he stares at the flower, like he can’t understand what it is. “Well?” I snap.

  “No, and I left the window open to get rid of the smell in here.” The window is closed now.

  “Maybe try emptying the trash,” Charlotte gags.

  “I have. There’s no trash in here.” He looks back at her, then to the flower.

  “Who else has a key?” I ask him, moving toward the flower. It’s perfect. Fresh. My finger swipes over the small stain on one of the petals. “There’s blood,” I croak.

  “What?” they say in unison, their voices carrying across the space between us.

  The heat of his body coming up behind me makes me shudder. “This is creepy. Please, can we leave?” Charlotte’s skin turns rapid white. A startled cry retches from her lips, ringing in my ears. Her shaky hand covers her mouth as she reaches out, pointing to the window. Me and Cat Guy look up at the same time. He balks, but I’m solidified. A silhouette of a man is in our window looking over at us. He’s tall and broad, too tall to be Charlotte’s date. His face is shrouded in darkness, but I feel the pressure of his gaze. “Who is that?” the cat feeder demands. Charlotte is already calling the police, but her words are just noise in my chaotic thoughts. Who the hell is toying with me? Is he Abigail’s killer? Is her murder my fault?

  I take off running, pushing past Charlotte and out the door. I pounce down the steps two at a time, ignoring the roaring pain of my ankle. Adrenaline pumps wild in my veins. I almost tumble onto the street, but keep going to our building, taking the stairs up two at a time. I slow and round the final staircase on our floor. The front door is wide open, and all the courage and determination of confronting this son of a bitch drains from my body. Apprehension turns into undiluted fear. I’ve seen what a psychopath is capable of, lived through his darkness. This is just a prank. It can’t be Willis Langford. I refuse to believe that.

  “Lizzy,” Charlotte barks up at me from the below, the cat feeder behind her. “You’re crazy! I can’t believe you just run over here toward the mysterious man in our apartment!” she pants, her chest heaving from the exertion as she climbs the last couple stairs.

  “Your guy friend is in there,” I remind her.

  “So is some psycho,” she grinds out, tilting her head around the railing to look into our apartment.

  “Is your light switch in the same place as mine?” Cat Guy asks.

  “Back wall next to the door,” I tell him with a nod.

  “Wait downstairs. If anything happens, go outside and wait for the police,” he enforces with punctuated hand movements.

  “Shouldn’t we just all wait for the police together downstairs?” Charlotte begs in a whiny tone, tugging on my shirt. Ignoring her, Cat Guy goes toward the door. Slowly looking inside, he reaches around to flick on the light we didn’t turn off. Our apartment illuminates, the window coming into view. There’s no one there, but something small and white is stuck to the pane of glass. Cat Guy ventures farther inside, his stance defensive and slow. He picks up a wine bottle Charlotte must have left on the table and holds it like a weapon. If only he kept hold of the damn knife. He disappears from sight, and we wait, holding our breaths. Charlotte still hasn’t come all the way up the stairs.

  “I’m scared,” she sobs, reaching out to tug on my sleeve
. I reach a hand out for her, but she shakes her head no. She doesn’t want to be any closer to the threat. A crash sounds, glass shatters, and my heart leaps. Charlotte takes off running down the stairs, screaming for me to come with her.

  Fuck.

  I turn and follow her down, gathering in a huddle at the bottom next to Mrs. Briggs front door.

  “Cat Guy?” I call out. Movement sounds from above, a shuffling of feet and grunting, I peek up the stairwell core to see his body hit the railing and topple over it.

  No.

  It’s a dead drop down the centre. His body lands in front of us with a heavy thud, the bones crunching on impact before I can fully compute it’s happened.

  “No, no, no!” Charlotte chokes out, ripping away from me and rushing toward the exit door, pushing through it and falling out into the street.

  Cat Guy’s broken body lays at my feet. Blood splatter coats my flesh like someone played blow paints in front of me. A fluttering of news articles begin raining down the stairwell like horror confetti. Every inch of my body is trembling as I tilt my head upwards to see a flash of black material followed by more news clippings. My keepsakes.

  Arms grab me from behind. I open my mouth to scream, but my voice gets trapped in my throat. “Come on!” a man’s voice booms into my ear, heaving me away from the scene. I’m hauled outside our building. A crowd has gathered. Charlotte sits on the curb sobbing. “He’s still in there.” I point inside urgently. “He’s still in there.” I’m getting louder, erratic.

  “It’s okay. Police are on their way.”

  Thud.

  Blood. Blood. Blood.

  Charlotte’s date? Where is he? Sickness rushes up my gullet. I turn and race to the gutter, throwing up acid. Tears burn my eyes. He’s back. Willis has come back for me.

  Nine

  My jaw aches from my clenched teeth. The buzzing and police lights bring out a sickness within me. I’m wrapped in an itchy blanket sitting in the back of an ambulance being treated for shock. Cat Guy’s body is eventually wheeled out in a black bag, and with it, memories of my mother’s murder.

  Jack. Jack. Jack.

  “Ms. West,” Detective Barnett nods his head toward me in greeting. I think he knew this was inevitable. They have a six sense about this kinda thing, right?

  “I’d like to introduce you to a colleague of mine who has agreed to assist us with this investigation,” he tells me, turning and gesturing with his hand to the man coming toward me. “This is Detective Hernandez.”

  My head whips up to the man in question. His hair is a little thinner now, but apart from that, he looks the same as he did over a decade ago. The first couple years after my mother’s death, he would visit my aunt’s. He started showing up less and less, and eventually, I forgot about him or he did me. “Ms. West.” He holds his hand out to me.

  “I remember you,” I tell him, refusing the hand he offers.

  “I wasn’t sure if you would.” He looks bashful between Barnett and me. “I’d like to ask you some questions if that’s okay,” he says, dropping his hand.

  “Okay.”

  “Do you think you’d be okay coming to the station?”

  Shrugging off the blanket, I stand. “Sure.” Stepping down from the ambulance, I move toward the car he gestures to, slipping inside the backseat. I feel guilty of something. It’s wriggling around inside me like a virus. The side of my neck heats, and I just know before I turn my head Green Eyes is in the gathering crowd. I feel him. Our eyes meet, and the pulse in my wrists flicker, the old scars coming to life. Who are you? I want to scream it, shake him, slap him. It’s madness. Am I crazy?

  “Where is Charlotte?” I croak out when Detective Hernandez gets into the car.

  “She’s being taken by my colleague.”

  Why are they separating us? Because this is about you, not her.

  Pulling away from the curb, a tug in my heart makes me check behind me to see if Green Eyes is still there. It’s impossible to see from this distance. Settling into the leather seat, I allow my eyes to close.

  Blood. Pain. Gore.

  A jarring panic forces them to open. The lights from the world flicker past the window like fireworks. “You okay back there?” Detective Hernandez asks.

  “Fine,” I lie. I’ll never be fine again.

  The florescent lights hurt my eyes. The small square room is cold and dull. I’ve been waiting for ages. Just me, these four walls, a table…I wish I’d kept the itchy blanket now. I can’t breathe. I’m drowning, sinking deeper and deeper into nightmares. Finally, the door opens, and in walks Detective Hernandez holding a cup. “I hope black is okay.” He smiles, placing the cup of coffee in front of me. My hands wrap around it, stealing the heat. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting so long.” He places a folder on the table and inserts a tape into a recorder device.

  “Am I in trouble?” I croak.

  “Why would you think that?” He looks at me, intrigue alight in his brown eyes.

  “I’m not a child anymore, Detective. I know you leaving me is what you do to criminals when you want them to sweat.”

  Holding my gaze, he offers a half-smile. “That’s not what I’m doing with you. I was honestly gathering facts and information. I’m sorry you were left waiting.”

  Silence.

  “Where’s Charlotte?”

  Looking to the door, he says, “She’s here too, helping us with our investigation.”

  I rub a finger over my scars as the cold rinses through my body, settling like an iceberg in my chest. “Did you find him inside?”

  “Who?” he steeples his fingers, and I want to reach across the table and slap him.

  “The person who killed that man,” I choke out, pissed off I have to clarify. Games, testing me—why?

  “We believe he may have fallen. There was no one in your apartment.”

  The words hit me like he’s struck out and slapped me. How can they think that? We saw someone in the apartment.

  “What about Charlotte’s date?”

  Nodding his head, he flicks through a folder. “Trey Royce. We located him. He left your apartment just after the two of you. He went to meet up with someone.”

  Shaking my head to try and clear the jumbled thoughts, I ask, “What about the note on the window?”

  Shifting through some bags, he scoots a clear evidence bag across the table, a small sliver of paper sitting inside, one word written in what looks like blood. Polo!

  “We’re having it tested.” My lungs seize, I reach for the cup to wash the lump expanding in my throat. Thud. Thud. Thud. “Everything okay? Does this mean something to you?”

  “It’s…” I try to breathe, to get my throat to open. “It’s what Jack and I played.”

  He jots the information down. “Would anyone else know that?”

  Shaking my head, my mother forms in my brain, then pops like a bubble being poked. No. No one alive.

  This is a targeted attack. That man was murdered because he was with us—me. “But you’re saying the guy fell?” I scoff.

  Drumming his fingers on the folder, he jerks his head. “We go by the evidence presented, and there was no one else in the building at the time of his death apart from you and Miss...”

  “Charlotte.”

  “Yes. Miss Mead.”

  How would they know that? Whoever was in there had plenty of time to slip out into the crowd before the police even got there. A thunderstorm builds in his eyes. He knows there’s so much more to this. Fate thickens the air, my past rushing into my present. He knows it. I know it.

  “Is this him? Willis? Did he kill Abigail? That’s why you’re involved, right?” I clench my jaw. Abandoning the coffee, I fold my arms.

  Silence. Our eyes clash, holding, daring.

  “I’m going to level with you,” he finally says, letting out an exasperated sigh. “There are similarities to Willis’s MO, so I’m here to make sure we cover everything and catch whoever is doing this.”

  O
pening his folder, he pulls out a plastic bag with some paper clippings inside, blood coating the paper. “Do you recognize these?” he asks, sliding them over to me.

  My eyes bleed with the ink. Newspaper clippings—the ones I kept and read over and over. He tips them onto the table, and they scatter, static pinning them to the wood. I finger through them, my heart racing, eyes burning.

  May 31st, 2003

  Breaking story

  Prison Break

  Convicted serial killer Willis Langford, known as the Hollywell Slayer, is believed to be amongst the three escapees of a prison bus that crashed earlier today. A prison bus, transporting thirteen convicts to a new secure prison, Ironport, collided with an oncoming truck, killing three and injuring eleven. Amongst the wounded were four correctional officers who were on board at the time of the incident.

  A manhunt is underway to apprehend the men at large.

  I tap my finger on the old clipping. “This is your fault.” Resentment overcomes me. “Why? Why not have more patrol cars following the transfer? Have a better secure way to transfer criminals of his magnitude?” I almost choke on the words, anger manifesting the fear and sorrow into rage, disappointment, and resentment.

  “You’re right. We failed you and the rest of his victims by allowing him to escape custody.” Terror for what those poor girls went through burrows deep into the marrow of my bones, growing roots, binding us forever. Six victims’ bodies found, one still alive, but they believe he could have killed up to ten. “But it’s too late for that. I can’t go back in time,” he adds.

  What would he do differently?

  I thumb through more reports. I can state most of these articles from memory. I’ve researched them over and over. Obsessed.

  Willis took a deal for a confession. The government didn’t want to put the victims’ families through a trial. He received ninety-nine consecutive years for each case without the possibility of parole.