Chapter 2 Jack, come on, we have to keep going. Steven's voice said in the distance as we ran across the woods, You better catch up. I ran as fast as I could, the heat of the sun beating down on me, my tiny legs sprinting. It was late spring, the tree's leaves swayed back and forth from the slight breeze. As I ran, Steven's voice faded. Steven, where are you? I can't lose you. I screamed. Birds flew from the nearby tree as I looked toward the sound of the birds flying away.
A black crow lashed at me. In fear I put my hands up. The crow stopped, its face morphed into an unrecognizable figure. The shadow whispered into my ear. It's your fault. I closed my eyes hoping I would wake up. I gasped. My body jerking awake, sweat clung to my body. Blood still stained my face. The nightmare started when I was a kid, but Steven has never been in one until now. The reality of Steven's death set in more. I laid in bed for a few minutes numb.
As I stepped out of bed, broken glass and water lay waste across the carpet. There goes my wake and bake, I thought to myself. It was already eight o'clock, too late for work, as if I gave a shit. I groaned as I moved to the kitchen, the coffee maker empty because I didn't set the timer. Fuck. I ran to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. I put on a graphic tee, a beanie, and a black bomber jacket.
I decided the best place to find the piece of shit that killed Steven and the others was the police station. I left my apartment in a hurry. As I turned around to lock the door, an envelope was taped to it. I opened it to find a notice from the landlord. It stated the rent was overdue. The rent was always due, and it would have to wait. It was another cold morning. I could sense a snowstorm brewing, unlike my coffee pot.
I drove to Doug's to get a cup of coffee before heading to the police station. I thought to myself, if there had been four other victims, why haven't they requested any help? This police force doesn't have the resources to write a fucking parking ticket. I pulled up to Doug's. The ugly yellow of the building stood out compared to the other mundane buildings in this town. As I approached the door, I stopped. I could see Susan standing behind the counter making espresso.
Two old men sat at the bar. Steam rose from their coffee cups. It looked like any other morning in this town. I entered the shop, and before you could hear the bell ring on the door, a sweet voice said, Oh my God, Jack, I'm so sorry. Susan said as she held back tears. I walked to the front counter, hesitation in each step. A classic Christmas tune played on the old vintage radio. Yeah, I can I just get my cup of coffee, please? Susan ran and made me my regular. She looked shocked to see me.
Doug told me, I'm so sorry, Jack. Let me know if I can do anything, okay? No, Susan, I just want to be left alone, okay? I grabbed my coffee and ran out the door. I couldn't take the sympathy, not even from her. I've been told I should be more emotionally available. I didn't want Susan to see me distraught. It's almost the end of 2024, and yet I still hold on to outdated ideas of masculinity. As I left the coffee shop, I turned to see Susan looking out the window.
A look of worry followed by an attempt at a smile as she saw me look back. I walked back to my car as light snow began to fall. It melted as soon as it touched the ground. Nature's beauty being the only calm I felt. As a kid I can remember sitting by the window, the winter's cold creeping in through the cracks. The flickering flames in the fireplace danced, and the crackling sound sent warmth down my spine. I would sit and watch the snow fall. My father would be working on his photography.
He threw himself into work once mom passed away. I remember the peace I felt. As nature's beauty fell onto the cold, hard ground. This was before the pain. I used to think I could increase the flames of the fire with just a glance. The vivid imagination of a kid. As I entered my car, the snow began to fall harder. I thought to myself how much less it snowed these days. My windshield wipers swayed back and forth like one of those air dancers at a used car dealership.
I drove through town as people went about their day. The local shops opening to the living. The sight made me think about my own mortality. One day I'd be gone, and the shop lights would still flicker on. The open signs would still flip. The world would keep spinning while I would have come to an end. Stephen had been gone for less than a week, yet the only sadness I saw was within myself. This made me think of his family. They must feel this too.
I decided to drive to Stephen's house before going to the police station. As I approached the white picket fence that enclosed a beautiful colonial-style house with white columns reaching through the heavens, I noticed a blacked out Ford parked on the street. I parked the Saturn close to the fence's gate. In the gate a tell wagged like my car's windshield wipers. The tell belonged to the family's dog, Sage. Sage was a golden retriever, her long golden hair soaked from the snow.
Good girl, I told Sage as I petted her, leaving my hands smelling like wet dog. I walked to the entrance of the house, hesitation entering my mind. I didn't want to be an interruption nor a lingering reminder of someone Stephen was close to. Before I could get to the door I heard, Uncle Jack! Stephen's son, Skyler, came flying out of the house. Skyler wrapped his small arms around me, and I could sense the grief in him that I felt. Tears fell from Skyler's young face.
He was only ten years old and had an uncanny resemblance to his father. We better get inside, I told him. It's too cold out here and you don't have a jacket on. As we passed the threshold of the house, which once felt like a home, it now felt empty, as if its heart had been ripped from its body. I looked down at Skyler's face. Hey, bud, where's your mom at? She's in the living room. Speaking with a cop, he replied. I could hear echoes of voices speaking in the distance.
The cries grew louder as I walked toward the living room. Family pictures lined the walls. I even saw one of me and Stephen as kids. It made me stop in my tracks. God damn it, I wish it had been me. Fuck! I wish I was a fucking one dead. I wasn't sure I was ready to be in this place, the place Stephen called home for most of his adult life. Despite the fear, I knew he would want me to be here for his family. I began walking again, taking a deep breath in anticipation.
The old wood floors creaked with each step. He got some nasty emails from some tree-huggers a few times, but that's it. Everybody loved Stephen, I heard Jessica say as I approached the living room. Jack, Jessica's voice broke as she saw me. Jessica was Stephen's wife. He had met her when he moved here to work at the factory. She had long, brunette hair and was quite pale, but on this day she looked even more so. As I entered the living room a cop stood up. The local cops loved me.
To them I was a waste of space, a lazy stoner who sometimes overstepped. Jack, the man said in a not-so-warm tone, Detective Morrow. I said, matching his lack of enthusiasm, would you like some coffee? I can make some coffee. Let me make some coffee, Jessica said, her demeanor one of someone trying to forget about her reality. I'm okay, do you need anything I asked? I need my husband back, can you do that? Oh, I uh, hmm. Ah fuck, I'm sorry Jack, I know you're here just to help.
I just don't know what I'm going to do with the kids, they're barely old enough to understand. It's okay, don't worry about it. I said softly, Jack, can I talk to you alone for a sec? Detective Moron, I mean Morrow asked, yeah sure whatever man. We walked to the next room, a small office with a piano facing the window. The snow continued to fall outside. Can you tell me where you were when Steven was killed, Jack? Are you fucking kidding me right now?
My best friend is dead, we're in his family's house, and you're asking me if I killed him? Look Jack, I'm just doing my job. We have a witness who saw a man matching your description with Steven the night of the murder. The pain on my forehead increased. I haven't seen Steven in over a month, he took off time to spend Thanksgiving with his family. Who's the witness? The cop looked at me like I was one of his fish waiting to be reeled in. That's confidential.
I'd recommend you stay in town and lay off the grass, you smell like a skunk. The detective walked out of the room. My emotions were all over the place. This room was a sanctuary for Steven. It was a place of peace. As I walked out of the room I could hear Steven playing the piano. My messed up mind was playing tricks on me. Detective Morrow left the house, which let the cold creep in as the door slammed shut. I walked back to the living room.
Jessica was sitting in a lounge chair, her hand grasping her forehead. What did he want with you? Oh, he wanted to make sure you were going to be okay if he left. He wanted to get a head start on finding you did this. The lie hurt to speak. Hello, it's Abigail. I could hear from a distance Jessica's sister Abigail walked into the living room. Oh, I'm so sorry, Jess, said Abigail, pushing me out of the way. The two hugged and then looked at me. I better get going, I've got some things to do.
I said to Jessica. We hugged and as I moved away I whispered, Jess, we'll find this piece of shit, I promise, okay? I promise. Jessica nodded and I walked out of the living room, my heart hurting more than my forehead. I walked to the front of the house to see Skyler and his sister sitting on the bottom of a large staircase. I walked over to them, their faces as pale as their mother's. They both looked up at me. The eyes of children in mourning are something you don't want to see.
It hits you on a primal level. Lily, her name true to her essence, a delicate flower at her young age, her iridescent, hazel eyes glassy from the tears. Although I could see the delicate nature of her youth, I could see strength in her eyes. She would grow to be strong like her father. Skyler had blue eyes. In the tears I could see the wisdom of his name. I could see the blue skies of his future. These impressions gave me a sense of hope despite the current reality.
I got on my knee to meet their eyes. I wanted to look strong for their sake, so I held back tears. Your father loved you both very much. He's in a better place. Silence filled the space after I finished speaking. I didn't believe in a better place, but I do believe in the power it can have on such occasions. As the silence became deafening, Abigail approached. Come, kids. Your mom wants you to help her out in the kitchen, okay? The kids got up from the staircase and walked off.
I think it might be best if you stay away a while while the family processes this, Jack, Abigail said as she looked at me with disgust. Abigail wasn't a fan of me. She thought I was a bad influence on the kids and Steven. I didn't say anything as I left, the bitter cold punching me in the face. Despite one cop already accusing me of killing Steven, I knew the best place to start would be the police station. There had to be a reason the cops weren't getting anywhere.
I drove to the police station, which was only a few miles away. As I got out of the car, I could see cops chatting, laughing and drinking warm coffee through the windows. My friend's dead and they're in there just chatting it up. It was a small police station with only a couple of cop cars parked outside. I opened the door to the station, already decorated for Christmas. A woman in a uniform sat behind a counter that was made before she was born.
Hey, my name is Jack, I was a friend of Steven Spellings. I was wondering if I could have a word with the lead detective on the case. I knew the lead wouldn't be Detective Morrow. He was too green and less bright than the Christmas light bulbs surrounding the station. The young cop looked up at me. She had a nice smile and must have been a rookie. We usually don't let family and friends of victims speak with the detectives out of the blue.
Okay, well, tell the detective that Jack Moore is here and wants to speak about me being the last person seen with the victim. The cop's face had a look of confusion. Even a rookie knew the first person you speak to is the one last seen with the victim. She got up and walked to the back. The station smelled of stale coffee. On each desk sat a computer out of date, despite the Christmas decorations. The station still felt like the coffee smelled.
Still, the rookie came back after a few minutes and said, This way, sir. I couldn't help but smile. I knew the lead detective would be curious as to why his colleague lied about a witness to try and rattle me. As I walked to the back of the station, the two cops sitting at their desk gave me looks like I was interrupting their naps. I entered the detective's office. It was small, but cozy.
He had a signed football standing vertically behind his desk and more sports memorabilia scattered around his office. Shocker, a local high school jock turned cop. Who would have thought? The detective walked in. A strong smell of cologne and cigarettes entered my personal space. He was tall, maybe six foot three. Bulky, but not fat like the other cops. He had a suit that needed tailoring, but not a wrinkle in sight.
The other cops at the station looked like they took the doughnut stereotype a bit too seriously. The rookie tells me that Moro said you were the last person to see Steven Spellings alive. Is that right? Yeah, he said that. He isn't much of a fan of me since I solved his case he didn't want to do anything about a few years back. I replied, Oh, and what case was that? Doug from over at Doug's Cafe. His girlfriend went missing and Moro wasn't doing anything.
I was able to find the girl and Moro didn't like a civilian doing his job. I see. What city were you a cop in? The detective must not be too bad if he was able to detain I was in police work. I worked a few years down in Denver PD, then I did some P.I. work. And now you're working at a factory in Ivy Hollow? The cop asked in a confused manner. Yeah, well, shit happens, I replied. It sure does, doesn't it? So what brings you here, Jack?
The detective laid back in his chair and put his black dress shoes, recently polished, on his desk. Well, for starters, I want to know why you aren't doing shit about these killings. Steven was my friend, my best friend. Whoa there, cowboy, we are doing our best. Even have any leads? We have a few. If you don't fucking tell me, I'll go figure it out myself. The cop looked intrigued when I said that. He took his feet off his desk and looked at me, squaring the eyes.
I tell you what, since you used to be one of us, I'll let you in, okay? The detective leaned closer and lit a cigarette, his gray hair and wrinkles, where the background of the smoke floating in the dim office light. These killings aren't normal, as I'm sure you can tell. I've been a cop in this town since I turned eighteen, and I've seen some things. Things you can't explain, alright? I've seen people mauled by an animal that others claim is just a mountain lion.
I've seen people drained of life, and I'm not talking about their soul. I'm talking about their blood. Gone. They turn into raisins, shriveled with nothing left. I've seen people burned alive, with no signs of fire other than the body being burnt to a crisp. If I were you, kid, I'd stay away from this. As the detective spoke, the pain on my forehead worsened. I knew he was just pulling my leg, trying to get me out of his hair.
I'm all for a good fantasy book too, detective, but you might want to try harder to scare people away. I warned you, kid. The detective got up and put the cigarette out in the nearby ashtray. He grabbed his card and handed it to me. If shit hits the fan, don't call me. The card read, Detective Matthew Golding, Homicide and Everything That Goes Bump in the Night.