The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

I’m still in the shorts and tank I pulled on earlier when he heads for the door, catching my hand and pulling me to him. He kisses me like I’m still his girlfriend and I don’t complain. We did this same morning-after routine a few weeks before. We both know I’m not ready to keep doing this again. This is not that.

“Be careful,” he orders, his voice rough with a mix of emotion and command that tells me he’s really worried. “Do you understand me?”

“You too,” I say, because despite how certain I am that the murders are rooted in poetry and not the people in my life, I’m still worried about him being here last night.

Wade and I stare at each other for a few beats, but we say nothing else. We both know there isn’t anything to say. We risk our lives every day. There is only so much we can expect of each other, and maybe that’s the problem with people like us. There is no one, especially those inside our world, who can ever feel comfortable and secure loving us. We are better off as loners.

I lock the door and grab my phone, pulling up the new application Wade installed. The one that allows me to see my front door. It works. I knew it worked, but I’m frustratingly more comfortable knowing it still works. The Poet is still under my skin.

I walk into the bedroom with the intent of throwing on my running clothes and taking my morning jog but halt by my closet. I can’t go for a run. The Poet might be watching, and Lord only knows where that might lead. With a low growl, I head to my kitchen, drop the empty wine bottle in the trash, and fill my cup with coffee. Steaming brew in hand, I sit down with a copy of “Sonnet 60,” and write out each line of the poem between sips, looking for a meaning beyond my initial reaction to identifying it last night. A quote on the SparkNotes website says, “This sonnet attempts to explain the nature of time as it passes and as it acts on human life.”

While I don’t completely agree with this assessment, human life ties back to a greater power, to a god. He thinks he’s a god.

I do a quick read of both verses left with the bodies. First, the one left last night with Dave’s body: My verse shall stand, Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

Then the one left with Summer’s body: Who laugh in the teeth of disaster, Yet hope through the darkness to find, A road past the stars to a Master.

My mind lands solidly back where it started. The Poet believes that he’s a god.

He judged Summer and Dave unworthy of living, which brings me back to the contrast of the two men. Summer enjoyed poetry. Dave hated poetry. But they both had a connection to poetry, be it with love or hate. What about Roberts? Technically, he was connected to poetry by way of this case, but he’s not dead and delivering a message by verse.

Frustrated, I head into the bathroom to shower, and by the time I’m dressed in my standard pantsuit, this time with an emerald green silk blouse, I have a thought. Perhaps they both offended The Poet. That’s all that makes sense.

I wish desperately that my grandfather, who was once an expert on the topics of literature and poetry, was clear-minded enough to discuss this with me, but he’s not. Those days are lost, and I decide I need a few scholars’ input. I pull up my email and do some research before I shoot off a few messages.

I’m just packing up my briefcase to leave when Lang calls. “You’re not here with a killer running loose. What the hell, woman?”

I glance at my watch and sure enough, it’s nine o’clock, when I’d normally be to work by eight. “I got distracted by the case file, and what the hell was that with Wade last night?”

“I plead the fifth. Are you coming to work? We have an army of helpers right now.”

“Have we found out where he got the cyanide?”

“One of our new tech guys is working on it,” he replies. “Are you coming to work?” he repeats.

“I’ll be there soon.” I hang up.

He calls back. “Where the hell are you going?”

“I didn’t get to run this morning. That’s how I think. You know that. So I’m going to the firing range.”

“I’ll meet you there.” He hangs up.

I call back. “Damn it, Lang.”

“I’m meeting you.”

“I’ll come to the office.”

“Come now or I’ll come and get you. We have an appointment to meet with Dave’s landlord after lunch. We’re trying to get some kind of camera feed around his house but coming up dry. His house sits off the road too far.”