“You requested him.”
“What?” Disbelief colors the single syllable.
“He met me as I walked up. You requested him!”
He’s the man who was never caught. The cold cases that are turning up again.
We thought he died or moved on when the evidence ran dry and the murders stopped.
Every crime scene I’ve been on flashes before my eyes. The blood, the faces. Vomit threatens to come up as I try to answer Taylor.
“He’s a murder suspect.” I barely manage to say the words as three cop cars park just outside of the exit with their lights flashing blue and red in ominous patterns.
My arms fall to my side and my knees feel like buckling as I brace myself against the wall, my defenses down.
As the doors open and close and more men stream out, their guns drawn, Taylor continues to question me. His voice berates every sense I have.
“He’s the one who left the note…. he’s—” Oh my God. I can barely breathe. He threatened me.
“No. No, they caught the kid who did it. There’s footage.” Blinking back the very real fears wrapping their arms around me, I take in what Taylor tells me. They found the kid, they have him in custody.
“So there are two men out for me?”
“Did Marcus threaten you? What did he do? Tell me everything.”
Taylor’s gaze sinks deep into mine, pleading with me and the numbness inside takes over as I clear my throat and relay everything. The odd feeling between us, the note. The signature.
“I’m going to need that, Miss Jones,” states an officer I hadn’t even realized was beside us, reaching for the note.
“Of course,” I answer but don’t hand it over just yet. “Let me take a picture first,” I add. I don’t wait for his response and the objection is thwarted by Taylor; he knows me too well.
With my back to the two of them and the building surrounded by men in uniform, I photograph the note and a chill comes over me. My fingers slip over the words and I note the lack of indentation, the smooth writing, the curves of each letter.
“We found something,” a voice calls out from the stairwell, coming into view with the slapping of his shoes against the concrete. Staring at him, I wait with bated breath and note there’s something in his hand… he carries it over to where we’re standing, the red and blue lights still flashing across our faces and the stone wall behind us.
“Is it possible he was wearing this?” the cop questions. I’ve seen him before.
It’s short, it’s dark and as I close my eyes and picture Marcus, his sharp blue eyes scold me, forcing my eyes to bolt open. He was wearing a fake beard and that’s what’s in the cop’s hands.
“I didn’t get a good look at him,” I answer with my arms wrapping tighter around myself, “but yes. I think he was.”
The night continues, the sounds and the flashing lights and the speculation consuming every moment but all I can think about, all I can see and feel are those pale blues and the singeing touch.
If he’s not the one who left the note, how did he know to insert himself so seamlessly the way he did? Questions pile up and not a single answer comes to light.
“You need to go home. I’m taking you home.” Taylor’s statement comes with a hand on my shoulder that startles me back to the present.
With muted voices on his speaker and then white noise, Taylor presses the push-to-talk button and answers, “Copy that,” before moving his hand to the small of my back.
“Let me drive. Andrews will follow and I’ll ride back with him.” With a nod and a thank you, I don’t protest. I can barely think straight. I can barely even see what is directly in front of me. Instead I recall the cases. The first time I met Cody and the FBI team that was assigned when the bodies started compounding on one another.
His signature was the letters. His script matches the note. The entire quiet drive home I glance between the photo on my phone and Taylor, who does his best to comfort me, but the kindest thing he does is turn on the radio.
If he wants me dead… I’d be dead.
What the hell does Marcus want from me?
Cody
The messages come through one after the other. Reception out here in this part of Virginia is a bitch and as I sit in the back of the van, I listen to each of them get worse. It’s the makings of a horrific nightmare.
In the first one, Delilah disguises her fear with a sense of indignation. Knowing she’s scared, my blood instantly runs cold. Where are you? But she ended the call with a softer, I need you.
She can’t hide the fear in that statement.