The Truth in Three Cigarettes

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Five Days for Erin Maury

By Chris Fryer

-5-

Greg Dalton never figured out who murdered the Maury Girl—Jennifer Maury—and whoever had killed her was still prowling the streets. He liked to think that her death was a one-time release for the killer, but fifteen years with the police department had proven that most killers are repeat offenders. It excites them, especially when they think they’ve evaded punishment, and many of them pick another victim. Sometimes they just miss the chase.

The Maury Girl—as she became known to all of Bishop Hill—was a beautiful twenty-nine year old stage performer who toured the West Coast with a small acting group and performed Shakespeare for high-schools. She graduated cum-laude from San Francisco State. She volunteered at a retirement home. Benevolent beyond belief, Jennifer Maury was a rare example of a perfect human being, and everyone around town was deeply disturbed by her murder.

A year later, the details were still fresh in Greg’s mind.

His buddies at work were telling him to close the case and forget about it, that the Maury Girl had been dead for a year, that most people would’ve given up after the forensics team recovered no clues and that the trail ended with the girl’s choked corpse.

Then the sister called.

Greg was leaving for home when his cellphone vibrated and her name showed on the display. He answered, curious, having last spoken with Erin Maury over eight months ago. “Ms. Maury,” he started, falling back to the formalities. “What can I do for you?”

Erin sighed. Greg waited.

“It’s Erin,” she corrected. “Remember?”

Greg followed the sidewalk to the parking lot behind the building. In an admittedly weak moment of defeatism, Greg had bought himself a motorcycle to distract from the fact that he had failed Jennifer Maury. Buyer’s remorse began when he learned that a separate class of license was required to drive one. Greg stuck with it, though. As goofy as he thought he looked on two wheels, his early graying hair stuffed away in a huge shiny black helmet, the middle-aged officer enjoyed the rush of a more hands-on commute. He felt so pampered now whenever he drove the police cruiser. “I remember,” he said, setting down his helmet on the seat.

“How are you?” she asked.

He tried to specifically remember the relationship—if any—he’d formed with Erin in the past. He couldn’t recall anything more than a one-time meeting—Erin had been in the background during the investigation of her sister’s death. Greg scrolled through the basic facts: twenty-three, brunette, worked in retail, lived in an apartment downtown. She left home at a young age—maybe thirteen, fourteen—and lived a life of various talents before moving back home. Greg had questioned her for the sake of an alibi and Erin had been vacationing in Europe when Jennifer—

“Greg? Hello? Earth to Greg.”

“Oh—what? I’m here.”

“I asked you ‘How are you?’”

“Fine. Why?” He wondered if she had discovered a new clue. One of the last things they said to each other was a promise to never stop looking for Jennifer’s killer. Surely Greg hadn’t let a day go by when he wasn’t trying to piece together the details. One drawer of his desk was still devoted to the Maury Girl reports and evidence. Surely Erin had been equally distraught, knowing the killer was still at large, free to prey again.   

“It’s about Jennifer,” said Erin.

Greg went still with anticipation.

“It’s happening to me too, now.”

“Wha—”

“I think he’s coming after me.”

Greg’s jaw dropped. “He’s back?”

Erin went quiet. He heard her crying. Greg took the moment to pace around the motorcycle and stare blankly at the ground. The killer was back? Of all the things he’d wanted Erin to say, that was low on the list. A new clue, a forgotten detail—yes. But the return of the killer—no. Greg meandered to the nearest wall for something solid to lean against. Erin sniffled and groaned and then forced a weak laugh. She said, “It’s happening just like Jennifer said it did for her. Just how it started—how he picked her.”

“The mailbox?”

“I came home and my name was crossed off the buzzer list.”

Greg switched to officer mode. “What time did you come home?”

“About thirty minutes ago. I wanted to call you. Just you.”

“Okay, okay.” Greg checked his watch. His wife would be home soon, but Heather would understand if he was a little late. Although it was Wednesday and they’d be missing LOST, the modern viewer always had the chance of watching missed episodes online. “I’m on my way,” he told her.

The sound of the revving motorcycle leaving the lot brought him back to the memory of the dealership.

“Looking for a change, eh?” said a young salesman approaching him across the show-floor.

“Just want to save money on gas,” was Greg’s newest excuse.

“Mother Nature thanks you, too.”

“My wife thinks it’s a dumb idea.”

“My advice,” said the salesman, joining him by Greg’s bike of choice. “Take the corners slow.”

Greg nodded. He placed a hand on the gunmetal-gray frame of the motorcycle he’d been most drawn to—this two-wheeler that had the sporty qualities of a racing-bike and the subtle bulk of a Harley, a blend between two extremes Greg felt unqualified for. It had all the flair of a rental car, but that’s all he was looking for.

“I recognize you from TV,” said the salesman.

“Yeah?”

“The Maury Girl—right? A few months ago?”

Greg frowned involuntarily, a habit he wished to break, and nodded. His wife said he was incapable of accepting defeat and that he’d been like that for as long as she’d known him. He would argue otherwise. But regarding his police work, regarding his job, then perhaps Greg was a little excessive. But when Greg failed, others failed with him. Or worse—he failed them.

“Never caught the guy, did you?”

“Not this time.” Greg stared thoughtfully at the motorcycle, knowing that he was only buying the stupid thing because he wanted to break out of this melancholy rut. But it hurt his heart to think he was so distressed that blowing nine thousand dollars was an acceptable bandage. Would anything change? The Maury Girl wasn’t going to come back to life if he bought a motorcycle.

“Just when you thought the crime-rate was getting lower,” said the salesman with a shake of his head. He nodded toward the bike and said, “You’re thinking about this one?”

“I guess so.”

“It’s a sturdy bike. Not too flashy, not too—biker gang, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

“You know,” said the salesman, “this bike won’t fix anything.”

“Excuse me?”

“Guys like you come in here all the time—women, too. Lots of widows. Lots of rich guys who just got divorced who feel like they need a new thrill.” The salesman shrugged. “I never tell them it’s a bad idea because I get paid on commission. But you—I don’t think you need this bike.”

Greg smirked. “I don’t?”

“You need to not give up. This—” he pointed at the bike “—is giving up.”

What the salesman didn’t know was how horrible it felt to have half of his waking thoughts devoted to an obsession. Who killed the Maury Girl? Such a pretty young woman, so full of promise and potential, choked by gloved hands in her own bed. Why? There had been other murders, other drive-by shootings, and other acts of cruelty that had gone unsolved. Bishop Hill was not an ideal town—though it was fairly peaceful in comparison to its larger California neighbors—and Greg wasn’t one of those rookie cops who wanted every case to end with sweet, swift justice. The world didn’t work that way. But what did happen sometimes to any cop, young or old, was compassion. It was an easier job when you did your damnedest not to care, but that was hard to do.

Plus, his wife, Heather, was friends with the Maury Girl’s parents. It didn’t help that Heather would come home from visiting them and tell him how hopeful they were that the killer would eventually be found. They apparently never fully recovered, either, according to Heather. Dropping the Maury Girl case was like trying to quit smoking when a new pack would show up each time he thought he had broken the addiction.

The salesman said, “Maybe you shouldn’t give up.”

Greg grunted.

“Maybe there’s still hope.”

Greg wished that was true. He was suddenly very annoyed.

“Maybe—”

“I’ll take it.”

Erin Maury lived in a ten-story apartment building downtown with flat gray walls in room 104. He’d only been to this apartment once before, when he first met Erin and asked her about her sister. Erin had been cooperative and easy to get along with during the interview, which remained recorded on-tape in Greg’s drawer—he could repeat the interview word-for-word, if asked.

When he stood at the street-side entrance, Greg faced the tenant list and searched for Erin Maury in its alphabetical order. Just as she’d explained in the phone call, the small square beside her door-buzz button was completely blacked out. It appeared to be done by a marker—he could smell the rotten-banana smell of the ink. Curious, Greg touched the ink with his finger. It was still wet. He took a photograph and buzzed for Erin to open the door.

“Come in,” she said over the speaker. The front entrance unlocked.

It wasn’t exactly the same tactic, but it was easy to see the connection. Jennifer Maury never went to the police when the threats began—she went to Erin instead. She’d also written everything down in a bedside journal, evidence that Greg read to memory. On a date that preceded her murder by five days, Jennifer wrote that her mailbox had been completely covered in black electrical tape and that her address numbers were removed from the front of the house. When she told her sister, Erin, about this event the advice was to ignore it and assume it had been the act of dumb kids.

On the day before her murder, Jennifer wrote that she came home and found her face X’d out of a family portrait she had hanging above the fireplace. When she went to put a replacement in the frame, pulling out an old box of albums and loose photos from her bedroom closet, Jennifer screamed. Any photograph that included her had a big black X over her face. Every single one. By then it had been too late for Jennifer Maury to involve the police—she was killed early the next morning.

Tenth floor, 104. Greg didn’t have to knock because Erin was waiting with an open door.

“Officer,” she said, moving aside to let him in.

Her attitude was odd. Greg thought she was dressed a little inappropriately—short shorts and a tightly-fitted t-shirt—and she had a wandering gaze in her eyes that showed little concern for the apparent threat she’d received. But then he smelled the marijuana and he knew why she seemed disconnected. Closing the door behind them, Erin giggled and said, “I needed something to chill me out, Greg. I hope you’re not going to arrest me.”

He’d forgotten how young she was. Twenty-three. Greg had been living in San Francisco when he was twenty-three and hadn’t even met Heather. That was a long time ago, it felt. Greg had a whole decade’s worth of life-experience over Erin, who gracefully twirled her way to the computer across the room, her brunette hair longer than he remembered it from the investigation. Erin turned off the reggae album she’d been playing.

He said to her from where he stood at the door, “I saw your name downstairs on the list.”

“Creepy, huh?” she asked him.

“The ink is still wet.”

Erin nodded, leaning against her desk, arms at her sides.

“You knew?”

She laughed. “No. Sorry. I’m—I smoked a whole J by myself, Greg. I’m sorry.”

Greg shrugged. She wouldn’t be much help to him stoned.

“It’s just—it’s been a whole year, you know?” Erin frowned. “I can’t believe that this is happening to me. Right now. I mean—what else could it be?”

“And this is the only thing that’s happened so far?”

“Yeah. This is it. So far.”

“I can get surveillance on your apartment.”

“Yeah?”

“If it is the same guy, he’ll be back to leave more threats.”

“Like he did with Jennifer.”

Greg nodded. “Well, maybe.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I don’t want to make any assumptions, yet.”

Erin smiled. “Well I think it’s him. And I think you’ll catch him this time.”

Greg let the idea have a party in his brain—felt the satisfaction of justice—and then pushed it away. No use getting worked up too soon. Coloring over Erin’s name could have been the act of dumb kids. There was no way he was going to fall back into that obsessive pursuit again, not after spending so much on a motorcycle in hopes of forgetting the Maury Girl case. If this turned out to be the opening of an old wound, then so it was. But right now Greg wanted to get home to his wife and watch LOST.

“You’re not on duty, are you?” Erin asked, looking at her watch.

“No.”

“Do you—do you have plans? Do you want to smoke a J with me?” Erin asked sweetly with an innocent shrug. She motioned to the couch with a nod of her head. “I rented Amelie,” she added, stepping toward Greg. He took a step backward and she said, “You can interrogate me if you want.”

That’s—” he coughed “—that’s okay. We’ll wait this one out.”

Erin nodded and dropped the smile. “Okay, sure.”

“Call me if something else comes up.”

“Okie dokie.”

As he let himself out and made his way downstairs, Greg touched the wedding ring on his finger and apologized for having allowed adulterous thoughts to enter his mind. Erin was a beautiful young woman with temptation written all over her. It pained him to know he was probably going to spend more time with her. Even being around a girl like Erin felt like cheating. Still, as he neared the bottom floor, he felt a bit of worry growing. If Erin was being targeted in the way Jennifer had been, she had four more days to live.

He sat for a moment parked outside of his home and thought: but why?             

There was no way that Greg couldn’t let the similarities of the threats get to him. But it was such a small clue—the blacked-out name on the buzzer list. That was hardly as distressing as an entire mailbox cocooned in electrical tape. Still—the fact was that this was happening five days before the anniversary of Jennifer’s death. What was he supposed to make of that? One big coincidence? The murderer was back to kill the other sister.

Why the other sister—why Erin? Was this a personal vendetta against the Maury siblings? A disowned brother come back to destroy them? It was bothersome enough that one of the Maury daughters had been killed, a woman born from a respectable family with nothing but care for mankind, the Princess Diana of Bishop Hill. To lose both would create a different fear in the community. A killer who targeted whole families and off’ed them annually one at a time. How terrifying that was—Greg had to shake the idea out of his head and hop off the motorcycle—stumbling a bit, as he still often did. He stored the bike and went inside.

Heather greeted him in the livingroom, cellphone in one hand and the other on her hip, and she said to him, “I was just about to call you, Gregory. I thought the food would get cold.”

“Am I that late?” he wondered aloud, taking off his coat and dropping it over the back of the sofa. He caught a look from his wife that said without a phone call, any amount of time is late. “Sorry,” said Greg, moving to his lovely apron-wearing wife. He brushed golden hair away from her face and kissed her lips. He said, “It smells delicious. Lasagna?”

“Your favorite.”

Greg smiled. “What’s the occasion?”

Heather shrugged. “I dunno. It’s Wednesday. Anyway—go wash up. I wanna finish dinner in time to watch LOST,” she said, shooing him away and returning to the kitchen.

Greg stood a moment longer in his warm livingroom and appreciated everything about his life, still feeling that twang of guilt from his visit with Erin. He admired the plants Heather had hung from the ceiling, long droopy ivy leaves dangling down like dogs’ tongues. A framed photograph of them sharing vows on their wedding day above the crackling fireplace. This part of his life, his real life, had seemed invincible to the trauma of his work life until now. Now he looked around and feared that the return of the Maury Girl killer somehow threatened this peace. The smell of baked dinner, the love of a gorgeous wife, the comfort of a home.

He came back from changing his shirt and taking off his shoes and met Heather in the dining room where she’d set another excellent display of culinary delight, catching her in the act of pouring a glass of red wine. He pulled out a chair for her and she sat, thanked him, he thanked her, and they spent fifteen minutes eating while Greg gave compliments to the chef after every third bite.

Then, as they sipped wine and digested the meal, Greg said, “Erin Maury called me.”

“Maury Maury?”

“Yeah.”

“What did she want?” Heather asked with a small hint of distrust.

“It’s interesting, actually.” Greg set down his glass. “It’s about the case.”

“Oh?”

“Well remember how Jennifer Maury’s mailbox was taped up?”

“Sure.”

“And then five days later—” he let the fade-out speak for itself.

“The same thing happened to Erin? Doesn’t she live in an apartment?”

“Yeah—they—whoever did it—they blacked out her name by the door buzzer.”

“And she thinks it’s the killer? The same guy?”

Greg shrugged. He had no other facts to work with. “I’m not sure, yet. It’s creepy that this is happening almost exactly one year later. But just in case I did have them put a surveillance team on the apartment. Erin seems pretty convinced.”

“I bet she’s terrified,” said Heather.

“She’ll be fine. We’ve got surveillance.”

That was what Jennifer didn’t have in her favor—extra help. She’d confessed in her journal that she was being too stubborn about the situation, wanting to take care of it on her own. The threats were never physically harmful, simply huge inconveniences. A stolen license plate. Deleted online accounts. Cancelled credit-cards. Jennifer Maury’s only flaw was adamant independence. But both her and her sister—the only one she’d confided with during her last five days—had been naïve, thinking that Jennifer could endure. Now Erin would hopefully recognize the benefit of involving the police, even with something as petty as a blacked-out name on the tenant-list.

“Do you think it’s the same guy?” Heather asked.

“I don’t want to, but I can’t help it.”

“Going after the other sister.” His wife shook her head. “That’s cold.”

“It’s weird,” Greg said, pausing to organize his thought. “This is happening now right when I was starting to give up. I think I was really ready to close the case.”

Heather smiled and looked at her watch. “No you weren’t,” she said, standing up. She was one to know, too, having been around for the past year when hardly a night went by when she didn’t catch him looking through the Maury Girl reports. But she’d encouraged him to keep looking—said it was good to pursue a challenging goal. “Come on, workaholic. We got time for you to make popcorn.”

-4-

At 2:05am, Greg’s cellphone rang. He dreamily slipped out of sleep and groaned, focusing on the red display of the nightstand alarm-clock, and then reached through the shadow for the horrible glowing, ringing thing. He answered it without checking the display.

“Hell—hello?” he mumbled. Heather moaned but remained asleep.

“Greg?”

“Ugh—” he turned the phone over to check the caller ID. “Erin?”

“Sorry, Greg. I had to call you. It’s an emergency.”

He slowly rolled around and sat upright, leaning against the headboard. With his free hand he rubbed his wife’s back and blinked until his eyesight returned. His dark bedroom seemed alien and foreign at this hour. “Emergency? Are you okay?”

“I heard him outside. He stole my door number.”

“What?”

“Oh—my door number. I’m one-oh-four. He took the numbers off the door.”

The same thing had happened to Jennifer.

“You heard him?”

“I thought I did, then I was sure I did, but when I went to look—he was gone. I was too scared to open the door for a while. I wanted to call you an hour ago.”

Greg yawned and sighed. His breath tasted like wine and ricotta cheese.

“What should I do?” Erin asked. She sounded wide-awake, as expected in her situation.

“Don’t worry. Lock your doors. Um—put a chair under the handle.”

“I thought you said this place was under surveillance,” she said.

That was supposedly true. Greg had no reason to doubt that a squad car wasn’t parked in front of her building. It was unsettling that the culprit had snuck by that defense. It was much too early to put meaningful thoughts together, however, and he hadn’t the brain power to talk to Erin. He groaned and said, “I need to sleep, Erin. I’m sorry. If anything happens—call the cops.”

“Okay, Greg,” she said with a huff. “Sorry to wake you.”

“It’s okay.”

“Oh,” Erin chimed sweetly, “and I want to apologize for how I acted when you came over. I’m sorry if I was a little forward. I was just—you know—weed makes me act funny like that.”

“Okay.”

“Goodnight,” she added.

Greg hung up and went back to bed.

Sure enough, the 104 was missing from Erin’s door. Greg knocked and sipped coffee from a thermos, waiting in the hallway, and he heard Erin’s footsteps approach from the other side. She opened the door wearing sweatpants and a charcoal-smudged white shirt. With a big sigh she motioned for Greg to come in and explained, “I’ve been painting all morning—couldn’t sleep, ya know? Painting—not painting. I mean drawing.” She pulled at the bottom of her shirt, revealing cleavage—Greg cursed himself for glancing. Erin noticed, laughed, then said, “Jesus, Greg, you blush like a schoolgirl.”

“Just tell me what happened,” Greg said, annoyed.

He’d been on his way to the station when Erin called with news of more threats.

“I already did. He broke in, unplugged all my shit, then turned off my power.”

She pointed to the television in the livingroom, the lamp in the corner, and the computer by the hallway closet—all the cords of which were deliberately removed and coiled on the floor. Erin led him to the kitchen where all the countertop appliances had been similarly unplugged. Greg asked, “This is exactly how you found it when you woke up?”

“I didn’t hardly sleep more than an hour,” Erin replied, leading him down the hall to her bedroom. He hesitated a step before following her. “Come in. I want to show you the creepy part.”

Her bedroom was a messy collection of laundry piles and stacks of bills and overfilled garbage cans. Thin blankets were hung on the wall. It smelled like incense. A candle chandelier swung from the ceiling above a large waterbed. Greg hadn’t been in a room this hippied-out since his college years. Here, too, everything had been unplugged from the wall—an alarm clock, a neon NO PARKING sign in the corner, the small TV on the cluttered dresser. A warm wind blew morning air through beaded windowblinds. Erin said, “Look on the bed.”

Under the blankets, an outline of a body had been marked in black marker.

“That’s how I woke up—in that pose. He did that.”

Greg was baffled. How bizarre this was—marking Erin like the corpse of a crime-scene. It was an overt gesture, overly symbolic. He stepped closer to the bed and reached down, tempted to touch the ink—thinking they’d probably be able to cross-reference this ink with the one used to vandalize the tenant list. He took a photograph and then reached for his cellphone to call forensics.

“What do you think? You think it’s him?” Erin asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“It’s becoming more apparent,” Greg offered.

She said, “It’s okay to agree. I know you think it’s him, too.”

He let that slide as the phone rang and forensics answered.

Then she said, “I’m not scared, Greg. Not with you here.”

On the second day of Jennifer’s threats, her power was shut off, too. When she called to have it restored, the company was unclear how the information was altered—said it was probably a memory malfunction or human error. They apologized and restored the power and Jennifer continued to avoid police involvement. Her appliances, as well, had been unplugged during the night while she slept in her bed. In her journal, she’d written: Maybe it’s the previous owner of the house come back to haunt me, maybe they’re trying to scare me into moving.

Greg put the journal down and leaned back in his desk-chair.

This was day two for Erin.

He’d willingly opened up the evidence drawer and taken out a few things from the Maury Girl case. The journal, some photographs, a newspaper article. The photographs were Polaroid’s that Jennifer took of the various threats she received: the taped-up mailbox, the missing address numbers, the unplugged appliances. Greg flipped through the photos again with a concerned sigh. Dated in order of appearance, the threats grew progressively worse. One set of photos showed how the windows in her home had been nailed shut from the inside and how all her door locks were replaced. Another set showed her car with missing license plates and a scratched-out VIN number. Then he looked over photos of the graffiti.

What this all meant was that things were going to get worse for Erin Maury.

Greg couldn’t deny that any longer.

Erin apparently thought Greg would save her. She’d remained calm throughout, probably thanks to a consistent cannabis intake, and that was good and bad. Good because she could view the scenario with a level-headed attitude, but bad because Erin was putting a lot of faith in the competence of others—mainly himself. That only made Greg feel more responsible for her well-being, knowing she wasn’t capable of taking care of herself. How old was she? Twenty-three? She knew nothing about life. She had so much more to live for—it was traumatizing to think someone was planning to murder her.

He decided to put more men on the case. He ordered more surveillance around Erin’s apartment and then called forensics back to check on that ink sample. Yes, the ink from the bed was the same from the list. The killer was using a black permanent marker this time instead of electrical tape, but the threats were just as bothersome.

When Greg left the station for lunch, Erin texted his phone: I saw him!

Sitting across from the young woman, Greg felt that twang of guilt in his gut. He avoided eye-contact, at first, but then felt like doing so was detracting from his professional demeanor. Erin stared right back, though, and Greg gulped. He took another sip of coffee and risked a quick glance around the diner, wondered if his eggs were done cooking, then exhaled slowly. The mid-day lunch rush made for good background noise. He watched a waiter pick up tips from an abandoned table. Erin had wanted to meet away from her apartment, said that she felt helpless there.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“He’s much bolder this time—going to your apartment during the day.”

“For sure. I was only at the store for a half hour,” said Erin. “He was just leaving my apartment when I saw him—I got off the elevator and he was too far away to see his face, but he saw me and slammed my door closed and ran down the stairs.” Erin shrugged. “I had all my groceries—I couldn’t just drop everything and chase him. But at least I saw him. At least I know I’m not crazy.”

“What did he do inside?”

She replied, “Can I have some of that coffee? I’m exhausted.”

“Sure.”

She sipped, and after she sipped, Erin licked the rim of the cup. Greg hated the way it made him feel to watch her do that. He dropped his eyes. “Thanks,” Erin said, pushing the mug back across the table. Just then the eggs arrived. Erin had ordered toast—it came on a plate with a basket of self-serve jellies. The two of them ate in silence.

“Oh,” said Erin, remembering the question. “It didn’t look like he did anything, at first. But then I went to check my e-mail—my account was deleted. Myspace, facebook—all of it. And then when I went to find some other stuff, I saw that he’d erased all my documents, too.”

Greg waited for more and got none. “Anything else?”

“No—but that’s a pain in the ass, Greg. Do you know how much shit I lost?”

“Was he wearing gloves?”

Erin shrugged. “Yeah. I think so.”

“No fingerprints.”

“All my pictures—pictures of my friends, I’ll never get those back. Poems. So much stuff, Greg—” Erin’s voice caught in her throat. Then her eyes watered. Then she frowned, forced a smile, and broke into tears. Sobbing loud, the poor girl lowered her head and let her hair dangle down onto her jellied toast. Greg was tempted to move her hair aside, but instead froze and failed to react at all. He watched her with reluctant empathy. He quietly said, “Hey, Erin. Shh.”

“You know,” Erin started, sniffling, wiping tears from her eyes. “You know what’s going to happen to me. You know what’s going to happen next.”

Greg reached across the table and held one of Erin’s cold hands. She smiled warmly at him and he told her, “Nothing is going to happen to you.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

She laughed a little. Greg pulled his hands back.

After some time, she asked, “Who do you think it could be?”

Greg sighed. “Honestly? I have no idea. I’m starting to think it might be someone who lives in your building—that would explain why surveillance isn’t picking them up. But Heather’s friends with your parents. I’m thinking of talking to them, too.”

Erin rolled her eyes. “My parents—ha. They won’t care. They don’t care about me.”

“That’s not true,” Greg said.

“Oh—and you know?”

He felt unqualified to say anything else, so he didn’t.

“My parents are moving to Florida this month. They still don’t know that I know that—Jennifer told me a year ago about the house they were going to buy. All three of them, since Jen was going to go with them. They’ve never included me in anything they do. They never have.”

Greg found that rant a bit unnecessary. He coughed and said, “Anyway—”

“Sorry,” said Erin, “I just don’t like talking about my parents.”

“Understood.”

“Why do you think I ran away when I was thirteen?”

That night, his wife had cooked stuffed mushroom and ravioli. Thursday, it was the night when they watched The Office, and the episode was perfectly distracting. Greg was so preoccupied spending quality time with Heather that he didn’t mention lunch with Erin until after they’d brushed their teeth and lied down for bed. Heather immediately clicked on the nightstand lamp and turned to Greg, sitting upright, and said, “You went to lunch with who?”

“With Erin Maury,” Greg explained, frowning, “Why?”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“When? At dinner?” Greg had no answer. “I didn’t think of it until now.”

“Lunch—Greg. Why are you having lunch with her?”

“She had new information. Why else? There was another threat—I didn’t even get to tell you about how all her electronics were unplugged and someone shut off her electricity. Then later all her internet accounts were deleted.”

Heather settled back against the headboard and frowned.

“That’s all it was, honey.”

“I know. I believe you.”

“Why so quick to the gun, babe? You have something against Erin?”

Heather shook her head. “I brought her name up with Linda and Frank. They don’t seem too proud of their younger daughter, that’s all. And so then I was just imagining you hanging out with her.”

“It’s only for work, hon.”

“I know. I know. She’s just—they told me how she ran off with some boy when she was thirteen—some druggie kid Linda caught Erin sneaking into the house.” Heather shook her head. “She’d send them photos of herself smoking pot and snorting coke and—I just get the feeling she’s trouble. Linda told me she still doesn’t know why Erin came back to Bishop Hill.”

Greg nodded. He’d heard similar reports—though from Erin’s point of view. Though he didn’t say it aloud, he recalled Erin’s reason for return being to reunite with her sister.

“But—” Heather sighed. “She’s in danger. I know that. She needs your help.”

“I want to catch this guy,” Greg replied.

“I know you do.”

“This might be my last chance.”

“Just be careful, okay?”

“I’m always careful.”

-3-

Everything was covered in plastic. Sheets of foggy plastic draped over the furniture, the bookshelf, the table and chairs. It was the way a room might look before some heavy-duty painting. Erin led Greg into the kitchen where all the cabinets were blocked-off by a plastic barrier. The refrigerator, covered. The barstools, wrapped. They moved to the bedroom and found Erin’s waterbed mattress and frame wrapped in plastic. All this and not a single visible fingerprint.

“How’d he do that?” Greg asked, pointing at the bed.

Erin answered, “I stayed with a friend last night. The fucker had free reign.”

“So he wrapped your apartment in plastic.”

“The whole fucking thing.”

Greg shook his head in awe. Gathering facts, he asked, “What friend did you stay with?”

“A guy. Chad. He’s just a guy.”

“Okay.” He wondered if that was the same druggie boy she’d run away from home with.

Erin blushed. She sighed. “It’s gonna take me forever to get this all unwrapped.”

Greg poked the waterbed. “I’m sure.”

“What do you think it means?”

That was a good question. Greg said, “I don’t have a good answer.”

They stood awkwardly in Erin’s bedroom in a moment of silence. Greg held his breath. Erin pulled on the bottom of her shirt. Finally, after staring blankly at her bed for a while, she perked up and said to Greg, “You wanna stay and help me clean up?”

The crazy thing was that he did. But he knew that was wrong.

“No, I should go,” he decided. “Will you take pictures of this for me, though? I forgot my camera at home—I guess.” He patted his jacket pockets, just in case, but he was pretty sure he’d left the camera charging on the kitchen counter.

Erin shrugged and sighed. “Sure, whatever you need.”

“Thanks.”

“Tell your surveillance guys to keep up the good work,” she added bitingly.  

Greg felt guilty and embarrassed as he left the plastic-wrapped apartment. The way Erin slammed the numberless door shut, he knew she was upset with him. Did that bother him? A little. He felt like the contribution he was making toward the welfare of Erin Maury was partially affected by the way Heather felt about the girl. Partially? No, fully. He could hardly talk to Erin without knowing each syllable was a syllable-too-many as far as Heather was concerned. Knowing that, Greg was finding it hard to help, hard to be devoted. His guilty conscience was a terrible influence.

But so what if Erin was hurt or bored or lonely?—that was her deal. He wasn’t her babysitter, he wasn’t her friend, he was a police officer doing his job.

What mattered was that this was his chance. His last chance.

He was going to catch the killer, and soon.

During the time behind his desk, Greg went over the Maury Girl evidence and waited for Erin to e-mail photographs of the recent vandalism. He read through Jennifer’s journal, fanning back to the first few pages when she began writing in 1995—the first day she joined the traveling Shakespeare crew. What followed that entry were countless others that each described Jennifer—even in her own, unselfishly phrased passages—as a wonderful human. Charitable donations, volunteer work, college graduation, great stories with friends, great stuff about her family—even the elusive Erin, and finally a handful of entries that detailed Erin’s return fifteen months ago and the series of well-intentioned but ultimately unsuccessful family events which Jennifer arranged to inspire family bonding.

Jennifer commented that she’d been much closer with her sister as a kid.

Greg had an estranged brother of his own who he hadn’t seen in over ten years, but he hardly ever thought about him anymore. Still, it seemed possible to reunite with him, if he wished. Erin, however, had apparently been banished permanently from the close-knit Maury Family circle. Her parents never forgave her for running away, for being a self-incriminating failure, as her older sister put it. Her sister always seemed to have compassion for the girl. Jennifer wrote in her final entry: If things do get worse—even though Erin says they won’t—I want everyone to know I loved my sister and I always had faith in her. I know she might think I didn’t, but please, Erin, know that I always knew you were talented and wonderful. I’m sorry that our parents didn’t notice that.

As though on cue, Erin texted him: CHECK YOUR E-MAIL.

Greg mouse-clicked to his inbox.

The message from Erin was a set of fifteen images of various parts of her apartment wrapped in sheets of plastic. So strange—nothing like that had happened to Jennifer. Scrolling down, he watched the images load one by one, guiding him from the bedroom to the bathroom to the kitchen to the livingroom. Then, suddenly, a photograph of Erin’s smiling face with the caption: Woops, how did that one get in there? He was both mesmerized by her large green eyes and perplexed as to why she felt compelled to send him this image. It stuck with him even after he closed the browser, making sure to save the relevant images into a folder, and Greg had Erin’s face burned to his retinas like the spots left from looking at the sun. Her big green eyes—he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Guilt convinced him to delete the e-mail and all record of her photograph.

Erin texted him soon after: No one has cared about me as much as you do.

Greg had to show Heather the message. He didn’t tell her about the bonus photo from the e-mail, though, assuming the situation would benefit from the omission of another stress. Heather read the text again and shook her head and said, “She doesn’t even know you.”

He shrugged.

“Didn’t you only meet her once before? A year ago?”

“Yeah.”

Heather, setting down her glass of white wine, said, “I don’t like this girl.”

“I know.”

“I mean—I didn’t trust her before, but now I just don’t like her.”

“I know.”

Heather said, “I hope she does get killed.”

Greg wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“No. I didn’t mean that. That was a mean thing to say,” Heather apologized, frowning. She looked down at the three remaining sushi rolls on her plate. “I can’t even eat this,” she said, reaching across the table to give Greg back the cellphone. “I don’t like how she’s acting with you.”

“She’s just young,” he offered. “She’s probably just scared.”

Heather rolled her eyes.

Greg felt a rush of sentiment flow out of him. He remarked boldly, “Well what do you want me to do about it? I have to work with her—she’s the victim here, Heather. I can’t stop working on the case only because she’s flirting with me. I can’t help what she does—she’s not my problem. I just want to catch the bastard, alright? That’s all this is for me.”

Heather shrugged. “She sounds like a slut, that’s all.”

“She’s not a slut.”

“You don’t know that. Her parents think she’s a slut.”

Greg rolled his eyes. He stuffed his phone in his pocket and grabbed his empty plate, standing abruptly. This conversation wasn’t helping his muddled mindset. It was enough to spend half the day in guilt-inducing proximity of a pretty girl. But he had to care. He did care, somewhat. Erin didn’t deserve the threats she was receiving—no one did—and her situation wasn’t being helped by Heather’s cruel dislike of the girl. But Greg couldn’t defend Erin. Erin was just a girl, after all, and Heather was his wife, and that was basically as far as the argument could go.

He dropped his dish in the sink and went to the livingroom to watch television.

Heather joined him five minutes later and they silently forgave each other for the awkward tension during dinner. They snuggled and watched Law and Order reruns late into the night.

-2-

It was the day before the killer made his move—if he was following a pattern—and Erin called Greg bright and early to discuss the most recent threat. He kissed his wife goodbye and she told him to drive safe. Greg, coffee thermos in one hand and helmet in the other, opened the garage door and let the sunrise stretch inside. He sat upon the gunmetal motorcycle and took one quick sip of coffee before dawning the helmet. He started the engine, held his breath, and knocked up the kickstand.  

Maybe the salesman had been right. Maybe Greg shouldn’t have bought the bike.

Departing from the garage, he fumbled so much that he nearly drove into Heather’s rose bushes. Balance was still a problem for him—the instructor lied and told him he’d get a knack for it eventually. Greg survived his commute to the station, but barely, still finding it hard to make sharp turns. The salesman told him that buying the motorcycle was a form of quitting. Quitting the Maury Girl case. But he hadn’t ever really quit that case, had he? Greg parked and took off his helmet and sipped from the thermos. No. Look at him now. Right back where it all started.

In a way, he thought his lackluster motorcycling skills channeled the fact that he wasn’t a quitter. The salesman had been right about that. He’d tried to quit with the bike, but he’d never truly intended to give up, had he?

Either Greg quit and improved his riding skill, or he finished what he’d started a year ago. The bike shouldn’t have been a consolation gift, but a prize. No wonder he couldn’t find his balance—he didn’t deserve it. Greg made his way to his desk and tried to think of other areas of his life that he’d been performing poorly in. His marriage? His job? His health? Not so much. Greg had always been good at keeping work drama out of his daily life. But there was an entire drawer of evidence in his desk devoted to the hope he’d solve the Maury Girl case one day. He’d never let it go.

Because he’d promised Erin that he wouldn’t stop looking.

He spent the morning arranging additional surveillance around Erin’s apartment for the next forty-eight hours. Though decidedly hush-hush about the situation for the sake of a quiet investigation, he chose to invite the entire department into the loop, receiving the suggestion of an in-house officer. Greg hadn’t considered the idea—putting an officer in Erin’s apartment would probably help a lot. So he took a moment to step outside and call her to suggest the idea.

“Can it be you?” she asked.

“Oh—” Greg’s mind went blank, too perplexed by the concept of spending the night in Erin’s apartment, especially considering Heather’s feelings for the girl. Greg hadn’t considered the in-house officer being himself. “Well, no. I don’t think so.”

“Why not? You know the killer better than anyone—I won’t feel safe with anyone but you.”

Greg wanted to say: It’s this way or nothing, Erin.

He should have said: I just can’t, Erin.

But instead he replied, “I’ll see what I can do.”

A few hours later he went to Erin’s apartment to take photographs of the graffiti she’d called him about on his lunch break, and he saw that the livingroom sofa was made-up into a bed. She said, “I already got a spot for you to sleep, see? It’s perfect. You can watch TV. Smoke a bowl. Whatever.”

On the table, blatantly displayed, was her smoking paraphernalia.

“We can get drunk. Whatever. I’d rather be killed when I was drunk, anyway.”

Greg was mostly paying attention to taking photographs of the recent threat. The graffiti was erratic and quick—a hundred streaks of black that covered the walls, bookshelves, pictures, and plants. Some furniture was tagged. Some parts of the ceiling were sprayed. There was so much destroyed and so much paint used that it did not seem deliberately hasty—the killer had spent some time here, doing this, stalking the halls with at least two spray cans, leaving not a single wall untouched.

When he was photographing the bathroom, Erin said, “What’s wrong with you?”

He looked at her. He blinked. Then he showed her the text she’d sent him.

No one has cared about me as much as you do.

“I sent that,” she said. “What about it?”

“It’s a little inappropriate, don’t you think?”

Erin replied, “It’s the truth,”

“My wife doesn’t think too highly of you, honestly.”

“Is that why you don’t want to stay?”

“No. I want to catch the killer. I just want to be honest.”

Erin smiled. “She’s friends with my parents, that’s why. They hate me. They don’t know me like you do,” she said. “And you know if you stay you’ll probably get your chance to catch the killer. Jennifer’s house got graffiti’d like this the day before she died, too.”

Greg was only half-listening. He could already hear what Heather would say about the idea. But could he lie to her? He didn’t want to lie to his wife. But she would make him feel guilty. She would. Maybe not on purpose—she generally understood that work was sometimes more important when it came to law enforcement—but the accusations would be there.

“Do you hear what I’m saying, Greg? I’m telling you I’m probably going to get killed tonight and look how calm I am.” Erin lifted a hand and held it steady. “I’m not shaking. I’m not scared. Because I know you’re going to stay with me tonight—just one night—and we’re going to catch my sister’s killer. Together. I know we will. That’s why I’m not scared. That’s why I sent that text.”

Greg sighed. He looked at the girl for a moment.

She said, “If I was trying to steal you from your wife, I’d kiss you right now.”

He made no response.

“But I’m not,” she added, moving aside. “Go ahead. Didn’t you want to take pictures of what he did in my bedroom? I take an hour out of my day to do laundry and the guy spray-paints the shit out of all my new blankets.”  

Heather cooked salmon cakes filled with rice and bought a twenty-five dollar bottle of cabernet. Dinner was phenomenal. Those cooking classes she was taking at the junior college—hoping one day to open a restaurant—were really paying off. Greg bought a motorcycle, Heather signed up for culinary lessons—they each dealt with post small-town murder syndrome differently. Greg complimented her profusely, but Heather never smiled back. He sighed and sipped cabernet and sat quietly.

“I’ve never felt like I was losing you before,” she confessed.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

Greg did. He’d been busier this past week than he’d ever been in the past twelve months. It was a sudden change. The shorter workdays had allowed them to spend a lot of time together and out of that comfort came a routine. But with the return of the Maury Girl killer, Greg was suddenly being tugged away. For work, yes, and for the safety of a young woman, yes, but still being tugged away nonetheless. It had been an exhilarating few days for Greg but now he was beginning to see the toll it had on his marriage. He wasn’t quite sure how to fix that.

“One night,” he said.

“On the couch?”

“Of course on the couch. And I doubt I’ll be sleeping.”

Heather sighed. “You know I’m not going to be able to sleep, either. I’ll be too worried. If you miss a single text I’ll be over there in a second to check on you.”

Greg smiled and nodded. “I know. I can call you and keep you updated—hourly, if you want.”

“No, no.” She laughed. “I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine.”

“I know this is awkward for you. I will make it up to you.”

“You better.”

He was glad she was letting the tension slide. The truth of the matter was Erin needed protection and, for better or for worse, she had bonded with Greg. The relationship, however, was irrelevant. Greg tried his best to explain that to Heather. He wouldn’t let the situation get uncomfortable. He would keep a professional distance. This was about catching a murderer, not testing his fidelity. Heather seemed to be confusing the two.

-1-

Midnight. Erin was sitting at the dining room table shuffling a deck of playing cards. Greg watched Leno at a quiet volume. When her wrist-watch beeped to mark the turning of the day, Erin looked over at Greg and said, “Here we go.”

It seemed odd to think the killer would follow his pattern so precisely that murdering Erin on the fifth day was truly his goal. Did he not think that the same police department that investigated the Maury Girl case would be responsible for this one, too? Greg had agreed to be the in-house officer simply with hope to delay any such attack, doubting that anything would happen. There were six undercover squad cars parked on the road outside. No one suspicious would be able to sneak by.

“So what did you wife say?” Erin asked, shuffling and reshuffling.

“About what?”

“Staying here. With me.”

“Not much.”

“You’re lying.”

“We trust each other.”

“She’s so worried you might be fucking me right now—I bet that’s all she’s thinking about right now, huh?” Erin remarked. “I would be so worried if my husband stayed at some girl’s apartment.”

Greg turned away. He was already so guilt-ridden. Why’d she have to rub it in?

“But you’re a good guy, Greg. You’re too nice to do that to her.”

“I know.”

She laughed. The sound of shuffling stopped. When Greg turned to see what she was doing, she tilted her head and asked, “Who do you think is prettier? My sister or me?”

“Huh?”

“You heard me,” she said. “I always thought my sister was prettier.”

“Um—”

“You don’t have to answer. I know what you think.”

Greg probably would have said Jennifer, in all honesty, if only because Jennifer’s generosity and high-spirits made her much more attractive than the careless attitude Erin exuded. What the younger sister mastered more than her sibling, however, was the allure of a car-crash scene, the allure of danger and disaster. To the eyes of a status-quo kind of guy like Greg, that was a temptation he wished to avoid. Not that he didn’t trust himself—he simply felt vulnerable to it.

Erin got up and stretched. “I’m kinda tired,” she said.

“You should sleep.”

“You’ll stay up and protect me?”

Greg nodded.

Erin crossed into the livingroom and put her hands on Greg’s shoulders. He immediately tensed up and wanted to pull away, but she squeezed and pushed him down, gently but with demand. With a groan, Erin said, “You’re not doing anything wrong, Greg. Calm down. I just wanted to say thank you.”

“Thank you?”

She took her hands away. “Yeah. Like—thanks. Gracias. Domo arigato.”

The feeling of her fingers lingered there for a while. Greg turned to face Erin, regretful that the anxiety over his wife’s opinion was such a hurdle for any friendship between them. Was he putting too much thought into Erin’s behavior? Aren’t some people just flirty? He had to remind himself that she was young. He watched her walk down the hall to her bedroom.

At her door, she turned and said, “Between you and me—she’d never find out,” and then slipped out of sight, leaving the door ajar.

Greg was startled out of a daze by his vibrating cellphone. Heather had sent him a text message: Getting any action yet? He laughed quietly to himself, recognizing the sarcastic wit Heather occasionally whipped out. He replied back: Not yet. The orgy starts at four AM.

He smiled. Heather was still awake, probably watching the same late-late television that Greg had stumbled across. Something on Animal Planet about polar bear extinction. Waiting for her response, the officer stretched his arms and yawned. It was just past three in the morning, the deep gut of nighttime, way beyond his bedtime. A glance down the hall showed Erin’s door ajar, as she’d left it, and he thought he could hear her snoring. The apartment building made the usual clanks and groans of any old structure. Greg listened to it as he waited.

Heather replied: Very funny. When are you coming home?

Then there was a bag over his head, a thick heavy material choked his breath short and he gagged, felt rough fabric on his tongue, and tried to yell. The cellphone fell from his hand and he was suddenly being pulled up, backward, over the sofa and down thrashing to the floor. Greg reached up above his head and groped through the blindness for a face or something to punch. He grabbed a wrist and squeezed, but his attacker spun him around onto his stomach. Then he was being sat on—a weight pressed hard on his spine, it felt like someone’s knee—and Greg had his head smashed a few times on the floor. Everything went fuzzy and grim for a moment. He groaned.

A voice said, “Shut your fucking mouth or I’ll cut your heart out.”

Greg obeyed, feeling the grip lifted from the back of his head. The weight on his back slackened and the knee was removed. For a moment he considered fighting again, sensing freedom, but having the bag over his head left him at risk. He didn’t know what he was dealing with here.

But he knew this was the Maury Girl killer.

His wallet was removed. Then: “Officer Gregory Dalton. Nice to finally meet you.”

The voice was deep, but obviously masked. It sounded like anyone’s best impression of James Earl Jones. His arms were pinned under the bastard’s legs and Greg was quickly losing circulation to his numbed fingers. His head ached from the battering. He took as deep of a breath he could muster, then said, “What do you want from me?”

The killer said, “I thought that would be obvious, Greg. I want you to stop looking for me.”

Greg made no response. He closed his eyes and prayed. He thought of Heather’s face.

“Greg—Greg—hello? Will you stop looking for me?”

“Yeah. Yes,” he lied. Of course he was lying. “I’ll stop.”

The killer laughed. “I’m sure.”

“I will.”

“Oh? You promise?”

He would say anything to make sure he could see Heather again. Greg nodded his bagged-head and said, “Yes. I promise. Please—”

“I thought you promised that you’d never stop looking.”

“I will stop. I will. Please—I can’t breathe.”

The killer replied, “You know—I’m not sure I can trust you, now.”

“You can.”

Then the bag was removed from Greg’s head and he was blinded by the bright lighting, his face squeezed by the killer’s gloved hand, his lips smashed together like a fish’s mouth. His eyesight adjusted to the masked face of the killer, all-black save for the two eye-holes where cruel green eyes glared down at him. The killer was wielding a long-bladed knife and used it to keep Greg still while his wrists were fastened together behind his back with plastic-ties. The knife drew blood wherever it poked through his shirt. Once he’d been restrained, the killer allowed Greg to stand up. The blade was consistently pointed at Greg’s chest as the killer led him down the hall toward Erin’s bedroom.

“Let’s get this over with,” said his attacker.

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Have my way with you,” was the answer.

The door had been closed. Greg was told to open it. A concentrated spray-paint odor swept over him, nauseatingly pungent, and he instinctively mistook it for the smell of death. The killer prodded him forward and then clicked on the lamp and shut the door. Greg focused on the waterbed mattress where Erin’s outline still remained on the sheet, though Erin was nowhere to be found. She was gone.

“Where is she?” Greg asked. Had he failed her? He would have searched for her if he wasn’t being held at knife-point. “What did you do with her?” he asked the masked face.

Then, in a voice very much not like James Earl Jones, the killer said, “That doesn’t really matter, Greg,” and the voice sounded terribly familiar. The killer reached up and grabbed the mask and pulled it away, shaking strands of hair out of the fabric, and tossed the mask to the cluttered floor. “Because honestly, I’m doing just fine.”

Erin smiled. Greg’s heart sank.

“No—”

“Yep. It’s me.”

This revelation sent Greg spinning back through a years’ worth of evidence and research, the face of the killer filled in with the face of Jennifer’s sister. It had been Erin who killed Jennifer Maury—Erin had been leaving the threats, deleting the accounts. So much of him wanted to believe this was a twisted joke—that Erin was fucking with him. But the way she held the knife, the way she licked her lips and stepped closer to him, it was all too real. Erin killed her sister. But why?

“It can’t be,” he said, stepping back. “Why would you—?”

“I thought you’d want to know that,” said the girl, waving the blade at his chest, biting her lip.

This felt like being cornered by a blood-thirsty vampire.

“I’ll tell you why I did it,” she said, “if you let me give you a blowjob.”

An already malfunctioning brain hardly registered what Erin had said, but Greg reacted appropriately by backing up against the wall and muttering, “No, no, no.”

She laughed at him. She said, “Come on, Greg. It’s a free blowjob. It’ll be fun.”

He began to panic. “No. No fucking way. Stay the fuck away from me.”

“Greg,” Erin whined. “I want to. It’s our last chance.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

She held the knife up and fingered the sharp point, then licked the tip of the blade and the small drop of blood she’d drawn from her fingertip. The seductiveness of the act was lost on Greg who trembled and struggled to wrap his head around the facts. How could it have been Erin? Jennifer had been confiding solely with Erin during the threats—Erin had been the one who told her not to involve the police. It was so obvious, now. But a year later she does it again—to herself?—no. For him. Erin had staged this whole thing to get Greg trapped. All the threats, self-sabotage. The lies—how had he been so clueless? He couldn’t imagine a good motive. To cover her tracks, maybe? Send a message?

“Erin,” he started. “Please. Why are you doing this?”

“Drop your pants. I’ll tell you.”

“Just—please,” Greg had no intention of letting her near him. “You don’t have to do this, Erin.”

“You’re the one who couldn’t give up,” she argued.

Greg stared back, unsure how to respond, and sighed.

“Anyway, it’s not about you. It’s about Jennifer. It’s about being part of a family that doesn’t even care if you’re alive, that’s what.” Erin started toward him, lowering the blade, and she looked him up and down. “Jennifer was always so pretty and so smart and so nice. My parents didn’t even try to love me as much as they loved her.”

Greg gulped.

“I’ve always had a little crush on you, Greg, ever since we met last year. I’ve always had a thing for older guys. You—didn’t you think about me, Greg?”

He shook his head.

She nodded. “I’ve dreamed about this.”

“No, Erin.”

“Yes, Greg. Yes.” 

Erin was inches away from him, gently sliding the sharp edge of the knife across Greg’s stomach—he could feel the cold metal through his shirt. She leaned forward and looked up into his eyes—he was too frightened to look away—and she kissed him. Greg had to improvise the way he handled the kiss as it happened—making sure not to enjoy it at all but also allowing Erin to get her fix, if only to keep her from—

Then she stabbed him in the side of the abdomen—hard, driving the blade all the way to the handle—and pressed her body against his, kissing him more and more passionately, driving her tongue into his mouth with the same intensity as the knife. The pain was incredible and hot and messy. He felt blood flowing down his leg, dripping, and the pain was amplified when Erin yanked the blade out.

He didn’t scream or shout. Greg stayed quiet. He bit his lip and clenched his eyes shut and let himself cry. If he screamed, she’d kill him immediately—he was sure about that. Erin took a step back and said, “See? That wasn’t so bad.” Greg tried to lift his head and look at her through his teary eyes, but had hardly the strength to remain leaning against the wall. The air had been knocked out of his lungs—he gasped and choked. He’d never been stabbed before and was mortified by how much blood he was losing.

“Erin—” he mumbled. “Why?”

She stepped close to him again and stuffed one hand down the front of his pants, diverting some of the blood-flow down by his crotch. The warm blood around his penis was a disturbing sensation and Greg tried to maneuver away. Erin found her target, however, and squeezed hard, rendering him basically useless. Greg gasped and impulsively shouldered forward to push Erin away, but she coerced him away with the knife. “This is what happens when your parents don’t love you, Greg. You run away from home and you get a little fucked up by the real world.”

She began to force his pants down. Greg reacted by trying to kick her away, but she managed to push against his body and his wound in such a way to immobilize him. Erin caught his wandering eyes and said, “Tsk, tsk, Greg. No kicking. If you kick I’ll cut your dick off.”

He tried to put his mind in a different place. He closed his eyes and transported himself into bed with his wife. He put himself at the dinner-table. He put himself in rush-hour traffic. He put himself in a spacesuit on the moon. No matter what he tried to imagine, his in-the-moment awareness alerted him that Erin was going down on him. It was not pleasant. He was in so much pain that an erection was out of the question and he felt no enjoyment from the erotic attention of someone he wanted no such attention from. Greg knocked his head back against the wall and gritted his teeth, struggling with the ropes restraining his hands, and simply wished for this all to be over.

Erin stopped and squeezed. “You’re not into me, Greg?”

“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked.

“Why? You’re gonna ask a girl why she’s giving you head? I’m offended.” She caught his eyes for a moment, crouched in front of him. “It’s because you’re a really nice guy, Greg. It’s the least I can do before killing you.” She poked the tip of the blade into his belly-button, then a bit lower, taking the knife away before passing below the waist. She said, “When I moved home, my parents decided to move to Florida with Jennifer. They were taking her away from me. They didn’t want us to be close.”

Greg could understand why.

“I was so jealous of her, Greg. I always was. One day I just got sick of it. It wasn’t my parents’ fault—of course they loved Jennifer more. She was perfect.” Erin went back to force-pleasing Greg. She did this for maybe thirty seconds, though it felt like a lot longer, and Greg spent all his will-power keeping Heather’s face in his mind, to keep the pain away, to survive. His mind was spinning, his guts churning, and he felt a growing aggression in his veins—he knew that if he had a moment to escape, he would take it, violently if necessary.

She stopped again, still failing to make him erect, and said calmly, “I thought they would love me instead, after Jennifer was dead. I thought they’d remember that they had two daughters, once, and maybe they’d let me in. That’s all I fucking wanted. A fucking family.” Erin sighed and absently handled his limp appendage. “A husband like you. Someone to love. I wanted all the stuff Jennifer was getting.”

Giving up with the adultery, Erin shoved herself away from him and stood, wiping the sides of her mouth. “That was pathetic, man,” she remarked. Greg could care less, grateful to have that sensation gone forever. She said, “That was really for you more than me, Greggy Boy. You might not admit it, but I know you’ve been thinking about fucking me. I didn’t want you going out with blue-balls—figured I’d give you something good to remember me by.”

He shook his head.

She said, “But whatever. I tried.”

His erratic thoughts and befuddled emotions seemed to be balancing out. His spinning head came to a rest and after a few sniffles and deep breaths, Greg felt a little better off. In fact he felt a little bit victorious for how uninspired his response was to her attempts. That meant something—didn’t it? Still the blood flowed from his untreated wound and made him weak. But thank God the girl had stopped. Now his attention was focused on opportunities for escape.

 “My parents never forgot about Jennifer. They never moved on,” Erin explained, sitting on the edge of the waterbed. “They kept telling me about how they knew you and how you were constantly working on the case. I thought everyone would get over her sooner. As long as people keep thinking about her, they’ll never notice me. And Greg—you’re part of the problem. I can’t have you looking for me. Plus if you died saving me from the killer, people might start to care about me.”

Greg was getting himself back together, stab-wound and all.

She asked, “You ready?”

Greg shook his head.

Erin stood and approached him, knife in hand. She had a wicked smirk on her face that revealed how serious the girl was. She was about to kill him. Greg wanted to close his eyes but couldn’t—too afraid of what was about to happen. He watched her step in front of him and slide the blade down the front of his chest, then up his arm, then under his chin. Erin seemed mesmerized by the movement of the sharp steel against Greg’s body and she pressed her body against him while holding the blade against the back of his neck. She slid the weapon down his back and then, leaning forward, she kissed Greg on the mouth and drove the knife into his gut, spearing it upward underneath his rib cage.

A red flash exploded behind his eyes and he gasped—feeling the knife moving around inside of him like some misguided creature, and for a moment he was lifted off his feet. Nothing felt good. Blood trickled from his mouth. His vision wavered between blooming hues and faded grays. Held against the wall for a moment, he felt his body trembling and his guts flinching to get away from the knife.

“Sorry, Greg,” said Erin, dropping him to the floor. She stood over him and licked the blood off her fingers. She said, “No hard feelings, I hope.” and shrugged with a smile. A moment later she laughed and added, “No pun intended,” with a glance toward his crotch.

Greg struggled to breathe, struggled to survive.

Erin crouched down and brushed hair out of Greg’s face. “Aren’t you happy, Greg?” she asked, leaning down to kiss his sweaty forehead. “You finally know who the killer is.”

He was far from happy. So very far from happy.

Erin touched his nose and said, “Boop,” and smiled.

He wanted to kill her.

Then he heard something he never thought he’d hear again: Heather’s voice. He felt like one of those penguins on the Discovery Channel who recognized their mate’s call among thousands. She must have come to check on him—he hadn’t responded to her last text message. Erin growled and quickly moved toward the bedroom door. “Greg! Greg!” his wife shouted. Had she brought more officers? Had she come alone?

Erin hissed, “I’m gonna love this part.”

Greg warned, “Don’t you fucking—”

Then Heather was shouting on the other side of the door. “Greg!” and the knob turned, the door opened inward, and Greg shouted when Erin spun from the corner and stabbed the knife down at Heather’s face. But the woman had come prepared, lifting Greg’s motorcycle helmet to deflect the knife. She must have picked it up from the couch. Erin, caught off guard, stumbled from the misplaced thrust. Heather shoved her away with the helmet.

For a brief moment, Greg caught Heather’s eyes. She didn’t seem to recognize him at first, the bleeding beat-up sack crumpled on the floor, but then her face went pale with horror. When Erin recovered from her stumble, however, his wife’s face went solid with anger and the two women lunged at each other. Greg fought the approaching grayness sucking the power from his brain, wanting to survive long enough to make sure Heather was alright.

Erin screamed and stabbed, but missed again, and Heather used the helmet like a pinball bumper, shoving the scrawny girl against the wall. Then Heather took the opportunity to lift the helmet up and smash it down over Erin’s head, shattering the face-shield, and the impact sprayed a fine mist of blood on the wall behind her. Erin’s eyes rolled up like end credits and she collapsed to the floor.

Heather dropped the helmet and immediately fell to her knees at Greg’s side.

“Baby,” she whispered, leaning down to kiss his forehead, his nose, his lips.

“You saved me,” he said.

“I told you I’d come. I told you I would.”

His mind was fading quickly, drained of blood.

“You were right,” he said. Each word a chore, he wheezed out, “Sorry.”

“No, no, baby. No.” Heather began to cry and lowered her head, covering Greg’s face in her hair—he smelled her flowery shampoo—and then she lifted her eyes back to his. “I’m not losing you,” she said. “I never want to lose you.”

The gray was—it was—it was all so quiet, suddenly.

“I love you,” Greg said.

Then everything went dark.

-0-

A few weeks later, Greg drove to Jennifer Maury’s grave and left her journal there in a plastic zip-loc bag, though he’d added an entry of his own, detailing the turn of events that proved Erin as the killer. He wrote about the ambulance ride, the hospital, the surgery. He explained how the knife hadn’t ruptured anything vital and all the damage was repaired without any effect more lasting than a scar or two. Erin was arrested and convicted of a few counts of murder, along with other previous charges, and sentenced to life in prison. He explained how a deeper investigation into her character revealed the criminal-talents she acquired as a runaway, involving herself in anything from computer fraud to armed robbery to murder. He wondered if Jennifer had known of Erin’s criminally-inclined lifestyle.

He also shared Heather’s acceptance to a culinary school in Sacramento and the excitement of moving to a bigger city, where a promotional transfer to a new precinct awaited Greg. In other good news, he confessed to selling his motorcycle. He didn’t feel like he deserved it—and nor did he think he’d ever improve his balance. Heather had suggested he add something about Jennifer’s parents enjoying their new home in Florida and “recovering remarkably well after the incident.” He apologized for how people felt threatened by truly authentic people like Jennifer and wished Erin had never come back to Bishop Hill. He said that hell would have a special place for the insane Erin Maury. Then he wrote: In case you bump into your sister in the afterlife, tell her I think you’re much prettier.

-The End-

FIVE DAYS FOR ERIN MAURY
By Chris Fryer
Published at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Chris Fryer


-5-

Greg Dalton never figured out who murdered the Maury Girl—Jennifer Maury—and whoever had killed her was still prowling the streets. He liked to think that her death was a one-time release for the killer, but fifteen years with the police department had proven that most killers are repeat offenders. It excites them, especially when they think they’ve evaded punishment, and many of them pick another victim. Sometimes they just miss the chase.
The Maury Girl—as she became known to all of Bishop Hill—was a beautiful twenty-nine year old stage performer who toured the West Coast with a small acting group and performed Shakespeare for high-schools. She graduated cum-laude from San Francisco State. She volunteered at a retirement home. Benevolent beyond belief, Jennifer Maury was a rare example of a perfect human being, and everyone around town was deeply disturbed by her murder.
A year later, the details were still fresh in Greg’s mind.
His buddies at work were telling him to close the case and forget about it, that the Maury Girl had been dead for a year, that most people would’ve given up after the forensics team recovered no clues and that the trail ended with the girl’s choked corpse.
Then the sister called.
Greg was leaving for home when his cellphone vibrated and her name showed on the display. He answered, curious, having last spoken with Erin Maury over eight months ago. “Ms. Maury,” he started, falling back to the formalities. “What can I do for you?”
Erin sighed. Greg waited.
“It’s Erin,” she corrected. “Remember?”
Greg followed the sidewalk to the parking lot behind the building. In an admittedly weak moment of defeatism, Greg had bought himself a motorcycle to distract from the fact that he had failed Jennifer Maury. Buyer’s remorse began when he learned that a separate class of license was required to drive one. Greg stuck with it, though. As goofy as he thought he looked on two wheels, his early graying hair stuffed away in a huge shiny black helmet, the middle-aged officer enjoyed the rush of a more hands-on commute. He felt so pampered now whenever he drove the police cruiser. “I remember,” he said, setting down his helmet on the seat.
“How are you?” she asked.
He tried to specifically remember the relationship—if any—he’d formed with Erin in the past. He couldn’t recall anything more than a one-time meeting—Erin had been in the background during the investigation of her sister’s death. Greg scrolled through the basic facts: twenty-three, brunette, worked in retail, lived in an apartment downtown. She left home at a young age—maybe thirteen, fourteen—and lived a life of various talents before moving back home. Greg had questioned her for the sake of an alibi and Erin had been vacationing in Europe when Jennifer—
“Greg? Hello? Earth to Greg.”
“Oh—what? I’m here.”
“I asked you ‘How are you?’”
“Fine. Why?” He wondered if she had discovered a new clue. One of the last things they said to each other was a promise to never stop looking for Jennifer’s killer. Surely Greg hadn’t let a day go by when he wasn’t trying to piece together the details. One drawer of his desk was still devoted to the Maury Girl reports and evidence. Surely Erin had been equally distraught, knowing the killer was still at large, free to prey again.
“It’s about Jennifer,” said Erin.
Greg went still with anticipation.
“It’s happening to me too, now.”
“Wha—”
“I think he’s coming after me.”
Greg’s jaw dropped. “He’s back?”
Erin went quiet. He heard her crying. Greg took the moment to pace around the motorcycle and stare blankly at the ground. The killer was back? Of all the things he’d wanted Erin to say, that was low on the list. A new clue, a forgotten detail—yes. But the return of the killer—no. Greg meandered to the nearest wall for something solid to lean against. Erin sniffled and groaned and then forced a weak laugh. She said, “It’s happening just like Jennifer said it did for her. Just how it started—how he picked her.”
“The mailbox?”
“I came home and my name was crossed off the buzzer list.”
Greg switched to officer mode. “What time did you come home?”
“About thirty minutes ago. I wanted to call you. Just you.”
“Okay, okay.” Greg checked his watch. His wife would be home soon, but Heather would understand if he was a little late. Although it was Wednesday and they’d be missing LOST, the modern viewer always had the chance of watching missed episodes online. “I’m on my way,” he told her.

The sound of the revving motorcycle leaving the lot brought him back to the memory of the dealership.
“Looking for a change, eh?” said a young salesman approaching him across the show-floor.
“Just want to save money on gas,” was Greg’s newest excuse.
“Mother Nature thanks you, too.”
“My wife thinks it’s a dumb idea.”
“My advice,” said the salesman, joining him by Greg’s bike of choice. “Take the corners slow.”
Greg nodded. He placed a hand on the gunmetal-gray frame of the motorcycle he’d been most drawn to—this two-wheeler that had the sporty qualities of a racing-bike and the subtle bulk of a Harley, a blend between two extremes Greg felt unqualified for. It had all the flair of a rental car, but that’s all he was looking for.
“I recognize you from TV,” said the salesman.
“Yeah?”
“The Maury Girl—right? A few months ago?”
Greg frowned involuntarily, a habit he wished to break, and nodded. His wife said he was incapable of accepting defeat and that he’d been like that for as long as she’d known him. He would argue otherwise. But regarding his police work, regarding his job, then perhaps Greg was a little excessive. But when Greg failed, others failed with him. Or worse—he failed them.
“Never caught the guy, did you?”
“Not this time.” Greg stared thoughtfully at the motorcycle, knowing that he was only buying the stupid thing because he wanted to break out of this melancholy rut. But it hurt his heart to think he was so distressed that blowing nine thousand dollars was an acceptable bandage. Would anything change? The Maury Girl wasn’t going to come back to life if he bought a motorcycle.
“Just when you thought the crime-rate was getting lower,” said the salesman with a shake of his head. He nodded toward the bike and said, “You’re thinking about this one?”
“I guess so.”
“It’s a sturdy bike. Not too flashy, not too—biker gang, I guess.”
“Yeah.”
“You know,” said the salesman, “this bike won’t fix anything.”
“Excuse me?”
“Guys like you come in here all the time—women, too. Lots of widows. Lots of rich guys who just got divorced who feel like they need a new thrill.” The salesman shrugged. “I never tell them it’s a bad idea because I get paid on commission. But you—I don’t think you need this bike.”
Greg smirked. “I don’t?”
“You need to not give up. This—” he pointed at the bike “—is giving up.”
What the salesman didn’t know was how horrible it felt to have half of his waking thoughts devoted to an obsession. Who killed the Maury Girl? Such a pretty young woman, so full of promise and potential, choked by gloved hands in her own bed. Why? There had been other murders, other drive-by shootings, and other acts of cruelty that had gone unsolved. Bishop Hill was not an ideal town—though it was fairly peaceful in comparison to its larger California neighbors—and Greg wasn’t one of those rookie cops who wanted every case to end with sweet, swift justice. The world didn’t work that way. But what did happen sometimes to any cop, young or old, was compassion. It was an easier job when you did your damnedest not to care, but that was hard to do.
Plus, his wife, Heather, was friends with the Maury Girl’s parents. It didn’t help that Heather would come home from visiting them and tell him how hopeful they were that the killer would eventually be found. They apparently never fully recovered, either, according to Heather. Dropping the Maury Girl case was like trying to quit smoking when a new pack would show up each time he thought he had broken the addiction.
The salesman said, “Maybe you shouldn’t give up.”
Greg grunted.
“Maybe there’s still hope.”
Greg wished that was true. He was suddenly very annoyed.
“Maybe—”
“I’ll take it.”

Erin Maury lived in a ten-story apartment building downtown with flat gray walls in room 104. He’d only been to this apartment once before, when he first met Erin and asked her about her sister. Erin had been cooperative and easy to get along with during the interview, which remained recorded on-tape in Greg’s drawer—he could repeat the interview word-for-word, if asked.
When he stood at the street-side entrance, Greg faced the tenant list and searched for Erin Maury in its alphabetical order. Just as she’d explained in the phone call, the small square beside her door-buzz button was completely blacked out. It appeared to be done by a marker—he could smell the rotten-banana smell of the ink. Curious, Greg touched the ink with his finger. It was still wet. He took a photograph and buzzed for Erin to open the door.
“Come in,” she said over the speaker. The front entrance unlocked.
It wasn’t exactly the same tactic, but it was easy to see the connection. Jennifer Maury never went to the police when the threats began—she went to Erin instead. She’d also written everything down in a bedside journal, evidence that Greg read to memory. On a date that preceded her murder by five days, Jennifer wrote that her mailbox had been completely covered in black electrical tape and that her address numbers were removed from the front of the house. When she told her sister, Erin, about this event the advice was to ignore it and assume it had been the act of dumb kids.
On the day before her murder, Jennifer wrote that she came home and found her face X’d out of a family portrait she had hanging above the fireplace. When she went to put a replacement in the frame, pulling out an old box of albums and loose photos from her bedroom closet, Jennifer screamed. Any photograph that included her had a big black X over her face. Every single one. By then it had been too late for Jennifer Maury to involve the police—she was killed early the next morning.
Tenth floor, 104. Greg didn’t have to knock because Erin was waiting with an open door.
“Officer,” she said, moving aside to let him in.
Her attitude was odd. Greg thought she was dressed a little inappropriately—short shorts and a tightly-fitted t-shirt—and she had a wandering gaze in her eyes that showed little concern for the apparent threat she’d received. But then he smelled the marijuana and he knew why she seemed disconnected. Closing the door behind them, Erin giggled and said, “I needed something to chill me out, Greg. I hope you’re not going to arrest me.”
He’d forgotten how young she was. Twenty-three. Greg had been living in San Francisco when he was twenty-three and hadn’t even met Heather. That was a long time ago, it felt. Greg had a whole decade’s worth of life-experience over Erin, who gracefully twirled her way to the computer across the room, her brunette hair longer than he remembered it from the investigation. Erin turned off the reggae album she’d been playing.
He said to her from where he stood at the door, “I saw your name downstairs on the list.”
“Creepy, huh?” she asked him.
“The ink is still wet.”
Erin nodded, leaning against her desk, arms at her sides.
“You knew?”
She laughed. “No. Sorry. I’m—I smoked a whole J by myself, Greg. I’m sorry.”
Greg shrugged. She wouldn’t be much help to him stoned.
“It’s just—it’s been a whole year, you know?” Erin frowned. “I can’t believe that this is happening to me. Right now. I mean—what else could it be?”
“And this is the only thing that’s happened so far?”
“Yeah. This is it. So far.”
“I can get surveillance on your apartment.”
“Yeah?”
“If it is the same guy, he’ll be back to leave more threats.”
“Like he did with Jennifer.”
Greg nodded. “Well, maybe.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I don’t want to make any assumptions, yet.”
Erin smiled. “Well I think it’s him. And I think you’ll catch him this time.”
Greg let the idea have a party in his brain—felt the satisfaction of justice—and then pushed it away. No use getting worked up too soon. Coloring over Erin’s name could have been the act of dumb kids. There was no way he was going to fall back into that obsessive pursuit again, not after spending so much on a motorcycle in hopes of forgetting the Maury Girl case. If this turned out to be the opening of an old wound, then so it was. But right now Greg wanted to get home to his wife and watch LOST.
“You’re not on duty, are you?” Erin asked, looking at her watch.
“No.”
“Do you—do you have plans? Do you want to smoke a J with me?” Erin asked sweetly with an innocent shrug. She motioned to the couch with a nod of her head. “I rented Amelie,” she added, stepping toward Greg. He took a step backward and she said, “You can interrogate me if you want.”
That’s—” he coughed “—that’s okay. We’ll wait this one out.”
Erin nodded and dropped the smile. “Okay, sure.”
“Call me if something else comes up.”
“Okie dokie.”
As he let himself out and made his way downstairs, Greg touched the wedding ring on his finger and apologized for having allowed adulterous thoughts to enter his mind. Erin was a beautiful young woman with temptation written all over her. It pained him to know he was probably going to spend more time with her. Even being around a girl like Erin felt like cheating. Still, as he neared the bottom floor, he felt a bit of worry growing. If Erin was being targeted in the way Jennifer had been, she had four more days to live.

He sat for a moment parked outside of his home and thought: but why?
There was no way that Greg couldn’t let the similarities of the threats get to him. But it was such a small clue—the blacked-out name on the buzzer list. That was hardly as distressing as an entire mailbox cocooned in electrical tape. Still—the fact was that this was happening five days before the anniversary of Jennifer’s death. What was he supposed to make of that? One big coincidence? The murderer was back to kill the other sister.
Why the other sister—why Erin? Was this a personal vendetta against the Maury siblings? A disowned brother come back to destroy them? It was bothersome enough that one of the Maury daughters had been killed, a woman born from a respectable family with nothing but care for mankind, the Princess Diana of Bishop Hill. To lose both would create a different fear in the community. A killer who targeted whole families and off’ed them annually one at a time. How terrifying that was—Greg had to shake the idea out of his head and hop off the motorcycle—stumbling a bit, as he still often did. He stored the bike and went inside.
Heather greeted him in the livingroom, cellphone in one hand and the other on her hip, and she said to him, “I was just about to call you, Gregory. I thought the food would get cold.”
“Am I that late?” he wondered aloud, taking off his coat and dropping it over the back of the sofa. He caught a look from his wife that said without a phone call, any amount of time is late. “Sorry,” said Greg, moving to his lovely apron-wearing wife. He brushed golden hair away from her face and kissed her lips. He said, “It smells delicious. Lasagna?”
“Your favorite.”
Greg smiled. “What’s the occasion?”
Heather shrugged. “I dunno. It’s Wednesday. Anyway—go wash up. I wanna finish dinner in time to watch LOST,” she said, shooing him away and returning to the kitchen.
Greg stood a moment longer in his warm livingroom and appreciated everything about his life, still feeling that twang of guilt from his visit with Erin. He admired the plants Heather had hung from the ceiling, long droopy ivy leaves dangling down like dogs’ tongues. A framed photograph of them sharing vows on their wedding day above the crackling fireplace. This part of his life, his real life, had seemed invincible to the trauma of his work life until now. Now he looked around and feared that the return of the Maury Girl killer somehow threatened this peace. The smell of baked dinner, the love of a gorgeous wife, the comfort of a home.
He came back from changing his shirt and taking off his shoes and met Heather in the dining room where she’d set another excellent display of culinary delight, catching her in the act of pouring a glass of red wine. He pulled out a chair for her and she sat, thanked him, he thanked her, and they spent fifteen minutes eating while Greg gave compliments to the chef after every third bite.
Then, as they sipped wine and digested the meal, Greg said, “Erin Maury called me.”
“Maury Maury?”
“Yeah.”
“What did she want?” Heather asked with a small hint of distrust.
“It’s interesting, actually.” Greg set down his glass. “It’s about the case.”
“Oh?”
“Well remember how Jennifer Maury’s mailbox was taped up?”
“Sure.”
“And then five days later—” he let the fade-out speak for itself.
“The same thing happened to Erin? Doesn’t she live in an apartment?”
“Yeah—they—whoever did it—they blacked out her name by the door buzzer.”
“And she thinks it’s the killer? The same guy?”
Greg shrugged. He had no other facts to work with. “I’m not sure, yet. It’s creepy that this is happening almost exactly one year later. But just in case I did have them put a surveillance team on the apartment. Erin seems pretty convinced.”
“I bet she’s terrified,” said Heather.
“She’ll be fine. We’ve got surveillance.”
That was what Jennifer didn’t have in her favor—extra help. She’d confessed in her journal that she was being too stubborn about the situation, wanting to take care of it on her own. The threats were never physically harmful, simply huge inconveniences. A stolen license plate. Deleted online accounts. Cancelled credit-cards. Jennifer Maury’s only flaw was adamant independence. But both her and her sister—the only one she’d confided with during her last five days—had been naïve, thinking that Jennifer could endure. Now Erin would hopefully recognize the benefit of involving the police, even with something as petty as a blacked-out name on the tenant-list.
“Do you think it’s the same guy?” Heather asked.
“I don’t want to, but I can’t help it.”
“Going after the other sister.” His wife shook her head. “That’s cold.”
“It’s weird,” Greg said, pausing to organize his thought. “This is happening now right when I was starting to give up. I think I was really ready to close the case.”
Heather smiled and looked at her watch. “No you weren’t,” she said, standing up. She was one to know, too, having been around for the past year when hardly a night went by when she didn’t catch him looking through the Maury Girl reports. But she’d encouraged him to keep looking—said it was good to pursue a challenging goal. “Come on, workaholic. We got time for you to make popcorn.”

-4-

At 2:05am, Greg’s cellphone rang. He dreamily slipped out of sleep and groaned, focusing on the red display of the nightstand alarm-clock, and then reached through the shadow for the horrible glowing, ringing thing. He answered it without checking the display.
“Hell—hello?” he mumbled. Heather moaned but remained asleep.
“Greg?”
“Ugh—” he turned the phone over to check the caller ID. “Erin?”
“Sorry, Greg. I had to call you. It’s an emergency.”
He slowly rolled around and sat upright, leaning against the headboard. With his free hand he rubbed his wife’s back and blinked until his eyesight returned. His dark bedroom seemed alien and foreign at this hour. “Emergency? Are you okay?”
“I heard him outside. He stole my door number.”
“What?”
“Oh—my door number. I’m one-oh-four. He took the numbers off the door.”
The same thing had happened to Jennifer.
“You heard him?”
“I thought I did, then I was sure I did, but when I went to look—he was gone. I was too scared to open the door for a while. I wanted to call you an hour ago.”
Greg yawned and sighed. His breath tasted like wine and ricotta cheese.
“What should I do?” Erin asked. She sounded wide-awake, as expected in her situation.
“Don’t worry. Lock your doors. Um—put a chair under the handle.”
“I thought you said this place was under surveillance,” she said.
That was supposedly true. Greg had no reason to doubt that a squad car wasn’t parked in front of her building. It was unsettling that the culprit had snuck by that defense. It was much too early to put meaningful thoughts together, however, and he hadn’t the brain power to talk to Erin. He groaned and said, “I need to sleep, Erin. I’m sorry. If anything happens—call the cops.”
“Okay, Greg,” she said with a huff. “Sorry to wake you.”
“It’s okay.”
“Oh,” Erin chimed sweetly, “and I want to apologize for how I acted when you came over. I’m sorry if I was a little forward. I was just—you know—weed makes me act funny like that.”
“Okay.”
“Goodnight,” she added.
Greg hung up and went back to bed.

Sure enough, the 104 was missing from Erin’s door. Greg knocked and sipped coffee from a thermos, waiting in the hallway, and he heard Erin’s footsteps approach from the other side. She opened the door wearing sweatpants and a charcoal-smudged white shirt. With a big sigh she motioned for Greg to come in and explained, “I’ve been painting all morning—couldn’t sleep, ya know? Painting—not painting. I mean drawing.” She pulled at the bottom of her shirt, revealing cleavage—Greg cursed himself for glancing. Erin noticed, laughed, then said, “Jesus, Greg, you blush like a schoolgirl.”
“Just tell me what happened,” Greg said, annoyed.
He’d been on his way to the station when Erin called with news of more threats.
“I already did. He broke in, unplugged all my shit, then turned off my power.”
She pointed to the television in the livingroom, the lamp in the corner, and the computer by the hallway closet—all the cords of which were deliberately removed and coiled on the floor. Erin led him to the kitchen where all the countertop appliances had been similarly unplugged. Greg asked, “This is exactly how you found it when you woke up?”
“I didn’t hardly sleep more than an hour,” Erin replied, leading him down the hall to her bedroom. He hesitated a step before following her. “Come in. I want to show you the creepy part.”
Her bedroom was a messy collection of laundry piles and stacks of bills and overfilled garbage cans. Thin blankets were hung on the wall. It smelled like incense. A candle chandelier swung from the ceiling above a large waterbed. Greg hadn’t been in a room this hippied-out since his college years. Here, too, everything had been unplugged from the wall—an alarm clock, a neon NO PARKING sign in the corner, the small TV on the cluttered dresser. A warm wind blew morning air through beaded windowblinds. Erin said, “Look on the bed.”
Under the blankets, an outline of a body had been marked in black marker.
“That’s how I woke up—in that pose. He did that.”
Greg was baffled. How bizarre this was—marking Erin like the corpse of a crime-scene. It was an overt gesture, overly symbolic. He stepped closer to the bed and reached down, tempted to touch the ink—thinking they’d probably be able to cross-reference this ink with the one used to vandalize the tenant list. He took a photograph and then reached for his cellphone to call forensics.
“What do you think? You think it’s him?” Erin asked, crossing her arms over her chest.
“It’s becoming more apparent,” Greg offered.
She said, “It’s okay to agree. I know you think it’s him, too.”
He let that slide as the phone rang and forensics answered.
Then she said, “I’m not scared, Greg. Not with you here.”

On the second day of Jennifer’s threats, her power was shut off, too. When she called to have it restored, the company was unclear how the information was altered—said it was probably a memory malfunction or human error. They apologized and restored the power and Jennifer continued to avoid police involvement. Her appliances, as well, had been unplugged during the night while she slept in her bed. In her journal, she’d written: Maybe it’s the previous owner of the house come back to haunt me, maybe they’re trying to scare me into moving.
Greg put the journal down and leaned back in his desk-chair.
This was day two for Erin.
He’d willingly opened up the evidence drawer and taken out a few things from the Maury Girl case. The journal, some photographs, a newspaper article. The photographs were Polaroid’s that Jennifer took of the various threats she received: the taped-up mailbox, the missing address numbers, the unplugged appliances. Greg flipped through the photos again with a concerned sigh. Dated in order of appearance, the threats grew progressively worse. One set of photos showed how the windows in her home had been nailed shut from the inside and how all her door locks were replaced. Another set showed her car with missing license plates and a scratched-out VIN number. Then he looked over photos of the graffiti.
What this all meant was that things were going to get worse for Erin Maury.
Greg couldn’t deny that any longer.
Erin apparently thought Greg would save her. She’d remained calm throughout, probably thanks to a consistent cannabis intake, and that was good and bad. Good because she could view the scenario with a level-headed attitude, but bad because Erin was putting a lot of faith in the competence of others—mainly himself. That only made Greg feel more responsible for her well-being, knowing she wasn’t capable of taking care of herself. How old was she? Twenty-three? She knew nothing about life. She had so much more to live for—it was traumatizing to think someone was planning to murder her.
He decided to put more men on the case. He ordered more surveillance around Erin’s apartment and then called forensics back to check on that ink sample. Yes, the ink from the bed was the same from the list. The killer was using a black permanent marker this time instead of electrical tape, but the threats were just as bothersome.
When Greg left the station for lunch, Erin texted his phone: I saw him!

Sitting across from the young woman, Greg felt that twang of guilt in his gut. He avoided eye-contact, at first, but then felt like doing so was detracting from his professional demeanor. Erin stared right back, though, and Greg gulped. He took another sip of coffee and risked a quick glance around the diner, wondered if his eggs were done cooking, then exhaled slowly. The mid-day lunch rush made for good background noise. He watched a waiter pick up tips from an abandoned table. Erin had wanted to meet away from her apartment, said that she felt helpless there.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“He’s much bolder this time—going to your apartment during the day.”
“For sure. I was only at the store for a half hour,” said Erin. “He was just leaving my apartment when I saw him—I got off the elevator and he was too far away to see his face, but he saw me and slammed my door closed and ran down the stairs.” Erin shrugged. “I had all my groceries—I couldn’t just drop everything and chase him. But at least I saw him. At least I know I’m not crazy.”
“What did he do inside?”
She replied, “Can I have some of that coffee? I’m exhausted.”
“Sure.”
She sipped, and after she sipped, Erin licked the rim of the cup. Greg hated the way it made him feel to watch her do that. He dropped his eyes. “Thanks,” Erin said, pushing the mug back across the table. Just then the eggs arrived. Erin had ordered toast—it came on a plate with a basket of self-serve jellies. The two of them ate in silence.
“Oh,” said Erin, remembering the question. “It didn’t look like he did anything, at first. But then I went to check my e-mail—my account was deleted. Myspace, facebook—all of it. And then when I went to find some other stuff, I saw that he’d erased all my documents, too.”
Greg waited for more and got none. “Anything else?”
“No—but that’s a pain in the ass, Greg. Do you know how much shit I lost?”
“Was he wearing gloves?”
Erin shrugged. “Yeah. I think so.”
“No fingerprints.”
“All my pictures—pictures of my friends, I’ll never get those back. Poems. So much stuff, Greg—” Erin’s voice caught in her throat. Then her eyes watered. Then she frowned, forced a smile, and broke into tears. Sobbing loud, the poor girl lowered her head and let her hair dangle down onto her jellied toast. Greg was tempted to move her hair aside, but instead froze and failed to react at all. He watched her with reluctant empathy. He quietly said, “Hey, Erin. Shh.”
“You know,” Erin started, sniffling, wiping tears from her eyes. “You know what’s going to happen to me. You know what’s going to happen next.”
Greg reached across the table and held one of Erin’s cold hands. She smiled warmly at him and he told her, “Nothing is going to happen to you.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
She laughed a little. Greg pulled his hands back.
After some time, she asked, “Who do you think it could be?”
Greg sighed. “Honestly? I have no idea. I’m starting to think it might be someone who lives in your building—that would explain why surveillance isn’t picking them up. But Heather’s friends with your parents. I’m thinking of talking to them, too.”
Erin rolled her eyes. “My parents—ha. They won’t care. They don’t care about me.”
“That’s not true,” Greg said.
“Oh—and you know?”
He felt unqualified to say anything else, so he didn’t.
“My parents are moving to Florida this month. They still don’t know that I know that—Jennifer told me a year ago about the house they were going to buy. All three of them, since Jen was going to go with them. They’ve never included me in anything they do. They never have.”
Greg found that rant a bit unnecessary. He coughed and said, “Anyway—”
“Sorry,” said Erin, “I just don’t like talking about my parents.”
“Understood.”
“Why do you think I ran away when I was thirteen?”

That night, his wife had cooked stuffed mushroom and ravioli. Thursday, it was the night when they watched The Office, and the episode was perfectly distracting. Greg was so preoccupied spending quality time with Heather that he didn’t mention lunch with Erin until after they’d brushed their teeth and lied down for bed. Heather immediately clicked on the nightstand lamp and turned to Greg, sitting upright, and said, “You went to lunch with who?”
“With Erin Maury,” Greg explained, frowning, “Why?”
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“When? At dinner?” Greg had no answer. “I didn’t think of it until now.”
“Lunch—Greg. Why are you having lunch with her?”
“She had new information. Why else? There was another threat—I didn’t even get to tell you about how all her electronics were unplugged and someone shut off her electricity. Then later all her internet accounts were deleted.”
Heather settled back against the headboard and frowned.
“That’s all it was, honey.”
“I know. I believe you.”
“Why so quick to the gun, babe? You have something against Erin?”
Heather shook her head. “I brought her name up with Linda and Frank. They don’t seem too proud of their younger daughter, that’s all. And so then I was just imagining you hanging out with her.”
“It’s only for work, hon.”
“I know. I know. She’s just—they told me how she ran off with some boy when she was thirteen—some druggie kid Linda caught Erin sneaking into the house.” Heather shook her head. “She’d send them photos of herself smoking pot and snorting coke and—I just get the feeling she’s trouble. Linda told me she still doesn’t know why Erin came back to Bishop Hill.”
Greg nodded. He’d heard similar reports—though from Erin’s point of view. Though he didn’t say it aloud, he recalled Erin’s reason for return being to reunite with her sister.
“But—” Heather sighed. “She’s in danger. I know that. She needs your help.”
“I want to catch this guy,” Greg replied.
“I know you do.”
“This might be my last chance.”
“Just be careful, okay?”
“I’m always careful.”

-3-

Everything was covered in plastic. Sheets of foggy plastic draped over the furniture, the bookshelf, the table and chairs. It was the way a room might look before some heavy-duty painting. Erin led Greg into the kitchen where all the cabinets were blocked-off by a plastic barrier. The refrigerator, covered. The barstools, wrapped. They moved to the bedroom and found Erin’s waterbed mattress and frame wrapped in plastic. All this and not a single visible fingerprint.
“How’d he do that?” Greg asked, pointing at the bed.
Erin answered, “I stayed with a friend last night. The fucker had free reign.”
“So he wrapped your apartment in plastic.”
“The whole fucking thing.”
Greg shook his head in awe. Gathering facts, he asked, “What friend did you stay with?”
“A guy. Chad. He’s just a guy.”
“Okay.” He wondered if that was the same druggie boy she’d run away from home with.
Erin blushed. She sighed. “It’s gonna take me forever to get this all unwrapped.”
Greg poked the waterbed. “I’m sure.”
“What do you think it means?”
That was a good question. Greg said, “I don’t have a good answer.”
They stood awkwardly in Erin’s bedroom in a moment of silence. Greg held his breath. Erin pulled on the bottom of her shirt. Finally, after staring blankly at her bed for a while, she perked up and said to Greg, “You wanna stay and help me clean up?”
The crazy thing was that he did. But he knew that was wrong.
“No, I should go,” he decided. “Will you take pictures of this for me, though? I forgot my camera at home—I guess.” He patted his jacket pockets, just in case, but he was pretty sure he’d left the camera charging on the kitchen counter.
Erin shrugged and sighed. “Sure, whatever you need.”
“Thanks.”
“Tell your surveillance guys to keep up the good work,” she added bitingly.
Greg felt guilty and embarrassed as he left the plastic-wrapped apartment. The way Erin slammed the numberless door shut, he knew she was upset with him. Did that bother him? A little. He felt like the contribution he was making toward the welfare of Erin Maury was partially affected by the way Heather felt about the girl. Partially? No, fully. He could hardly talk to Erin without knowing each syllable was a syllable-too-many as far as Heather was concerned. Knowing that, Greg was finding it hard to help, hard to be devoted. His guilty conscience was a terrible influence.
But so what if Erin was hurt or bored or lonely?—that was her deal. He wasn’t her babysitter, he wasn’t her friend, he was a police officer doing his job.
What mattered was that this was his chance. His last chance.
He was going to catch the killer, and soon.

During the time behind his desk, Greg went over the Maury Girl evidence and waited for Erin to e-mail photographs of the recent vandalism. He read through Jennifer’s journal, fanning back to the first few pages when she began writing in 1995—the first day she joined the traveling Shakespeare crew. What followed that entry were countless others that each described Jennifer—even in her own, unselfishly phrased passages—as a wonderful human. Charitable donations, volunteer work, college graduation, great stories with friends, great stuff about her family—even the elusive Erin, and finally a handful of entries that detailed Erin’s return fifteen months ago and the series of well-intentioned but ultimately unsuccessful family events which Jennifer arranged to inspire family bonding.
Jennifer commented that she’d been much closer with her sister as a kid.
Greg had an estranged brother of his own who he hadn’t seen in over ten years, but he hardly ever thought about him anymore. Still, it seemed possible to reunite with him, if he wished. Erin, however, had apparently been banished permanently from the close-knit Maury Family circle. Her parents never forgave her for running away, for being a self-incriminating failure, as her older sister put it. Her sister always seemed to have compassion for the girl. Jennifer wrote in her final entry: If things do get worse—even though Erin says they won’t—I want everyone to know I loved my sister and I always had faith in her. I know she might think I didn’t, but please, Erin, know that I always knew you were talented and wonderful. I’m sorry that our parents didn’t notice that.
As though on cue, Erin texted him: CHECK YOUR E-MAIL.
Greg mouse-clicked to his inbox.
The message from Erin was a set of fifteen images of various parts of her apartment wrapped in sheets of plastic. So strange—nothing like that had happened to Jennifer. Scrolling down, he watched the images load one by one, guiding him from the bedroom to the bathroom to the kitchen to the livingroom. Then, suddenly, a photograph of Erin’s smiling face with the caption: Woops, how did that one get in there? He was both mesmerized by her large green eyes and perplexed as to why she felt compelled to send him this image. It stuck with him even after he closed the browser, making sure to save the relevant images into a folder, and Greg had Erin’s face burned to his retinas like the spots left from looking at the sun. Her big green eyes—he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Guilt convinced him to delete the e-mail and all record of her photograph.
Erin texted him soon after: No one has cared about me as much as you do.

Greg had to show Heather the message. He didn’t tell her about the bonus photo from the e-mail, though, assuming the situation would benefit from the omission of another stress. Heather read the text again and shook her head and said, “She doesn’t even know you.”
He shrugged.
“Didn’t you only meet her once before? A year ago?”
“Yeah.”
Heather, setting down her glass of white wine, said, “I don’t like this girl.”
“I know.”
“I mean—I didn’t trust her before, but now I just don’t like her.”
“I know.”
Heather said, “I hope she does get killed.”
Greg wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
“No. I didn’t mean that. That was a mean thing to say,” Heather apologized, frowning. She looked down at the three remaining sushi rolls on her plate. “I can’t even eat this,” she said, reaching across the table to give Greg back the cellphone. “I don’t like how she’s acting with you.”
“She’s just young,” he offered. “She’s probably just scared.”
Heather rolled her eyes.
Greg felt a rush of sentiment flow out of him. He remarked boldly, “Well what do you want me to do about it? I have to work with her—she’s the victim here, Heather. I can’t stop working on the case only because she’s flirting with me. I can’t help what she does—she’s not my problem. I just want to catch the bastard, alright? That’s all this is for me.”
Heather shrugged. “She sounds like a slut, that’s all.”
“She’s not a slut.”
“You don’t know that. Her parents think she’s a slut.”
Greg rolled his eyes. He stuffed his phone in his pocket and grabbed his empty plate, standing abruptly. This conversation wasn’t helping his muddled mindset. It was enough to spend half the day in guilt-inducing proximity of a pretty girl. But he had to care. He did care, somewhat. Erin didn’t deserve the threats she was receiving—no one did—and her situation wasn’t being helped by Heather’s cruel dislike of the girl. But Greg couldn’t defend Erin. Erin was just a girl, after all, and Heather was his wife, and that was basically as far as the argument could go.
He dropped his dish in the sink and went to the livingroom to watch television.
Heather joined him five minutes later and they silently forgave each other for the awkward tension during dinner. They snuggled and watched Law and Order reruns late into the night.

-2-

It was the day before the killer made his move—if he was following a pattern—and Erin called Greg bright and early to discuss the most recent threat. He kissed his wife goodbye and she told him to drive safe. Greg, coffee thermos in one hand and helmet in the other, opened the garage door and let the sunrise stretch inside. He sat upon the gunmetal motorcycle and took one quick sip of coffee before dawning the helmet. He started the engine, held his breath, and knocked up the kickstand.
Maybe the salesman had been right. Maybe Greg shouldn’t have bought the bike.
Departing from the garage, he fumbled so much that he nearly drove into Heather’s rose bushes. Balance was still a problem for him—the instructor lied and told him he’d get a knack for it eventually. Greg survived his commute to the station, but barely, still finding it hard to make sharp turns. The salesman told him that buying the motorcycle was a form of quitting. Quitting the Maury Girl case. But he hadn’t ever really quit that case, had he? Greg parked and took off his helmet and sipped from the thermos. No. Look at him now. Right back where it all started.
In a way, he thought his lackluster motorcycling skills channeled the fact that he wasn’t a quitter. The salesman had been right about that. He’d tried to quit with the bike, but he’d never truly intended to give up, had he?
Either Greg quit and improved his riding skill, or he finished what he’d started a year ago. The bike shouldn’t have been a consolation gift, but a prize. No wonder he couldn’t find his balance—he didn’t deserve it. Greg made his way to his desk and tried to think of other areas of his life that he’d been performing poorly in. His marriage? His job? His health? Not so much. Greg had always been good at keeping work drama out of his daily life. But there was an entire drawer of evidence in his desk devoted to the hope he’d solve the Maury Girl case one day. He’d never let it go.
Because he’d promised Erin that he wouldn’t stop looking.
He spent the morning arranging additional surveillance around Erin’s apartment for the next forty-eight hours. Though decidedly hush-hush about the situation for the sake of a quiet investigation, he chose to invite the entire department into the loop, receiving the suggestion of an in-house officer. Greg hadn’t considered the idea—putting an officer in Erin’s apartment would probably help a lot. So he took a moment to step outside and call her to suggest the idea.
“Can it be you?” she asked.
“Oh—” Greg’s mind went blank, too perplexed by the concept of spending the night in Erin’s apartment, especially considering Heather’s feelings for the girl. Greg hadn’t considered the in-house officer being himself. “Well, no. I don’t think so.”
“Why not? You know the killer better than anyone—I won’t feel safe with anyone but you.”
Greg wanted to say: It’s this way or nothing, Erin.
He should have said: I just can’t, Erin.
But instead he replied, “I’ll see what I can do.”

A few hours later he went to Erin’s apartment to take photographs of the graffiti she’d called him about on his lunch break, and he saw that the livingroom sofa was made-up into a bed. She said, “I already got a spot for you to sleep, see? It’s perfect. You can watch TV. Smoke a bowl. Whatever.”
On the table, blatantly displayed, was her smoking paraphernalia.
“We can get drunk. Whatever. I’d rather be killed when I was drunk, anyway.”
Greg was mostly paying attention to taking photographs of the recent threat. The graffiti was erratic and quick—a hundred streaks of black that covered the walls, bookshelves, pictures, and plants. Some furniture was tagged. Some parts of the ceiling were sprayed. There was so much destroyed and so much paint used that it did not seem deliberately hasty—the killer had spent some time here, doing this, stalking the halls with at least two spray cans, leaving not a single wall untouched.
When he was photographing the bathroom, Erin said, “What’s wrong with you?”
He looked at her. He blinked. Then he showed her the text she’d sent him.
No one has cared about me as much as you do.
“I sent that,” she said. “What about it?”
“It’s a little inappropriate, don’t you think?”
Erin replied, “It’s the truth,”
“My wife doesn’t think too highly of you, honestly.”
“Is that why you don’t want to stay?”
“No. I want to catch the killer. I just want to be honest.”
Erin smiled. “She’s friends with my parents, that’s why. They hate me. They don’t know me like you do,” she said. “And you know if you stay you’ll probably get your chance to catch the killer. Jennifer’s house got graffiti’d like this the day before she died, too.”
Greg was only half-listening. He could already hear what Heather would say about the idea. But could he lie to her? He didn’t want to lie to his wife. But she would make him feel guilty. She would. Maybe not on purpose—she generally understood that work was sometimes more important when it came to law enforcement—but the accusations would be there.
“Do you hear what I’m saying, Greg? I’m telling you I’m probably going to get killed tonight and look how calm I am.” Erin lifted a hand and held it steady. “I’m not shaking. I’m not scared. Because I know you’re going to stay with me tonight—just one night—and we’re going to catch my sister’s killer. Together. I know we will. That’s why I’m not scared. That’s why I sent that text.”
Greg sighed. He looked at the girl for a moment.
She said, “If I was trying to steal you from your wife, I’d kiss you right now.”
He made no response.
“But I’m not,” she added, moving aside. “Go ahead. Didn’t you want to take pictures of what he did in my bedroom? I take an hour out of my day to do laundry and the guy spray-paints the shit out of all my new blankets.”

Heather cooked salmon cakes filled with rice and bought a twenty-five dollar bottle of cabernet. Dinner was phenomenal. Those cooking classes she was taking at the junior college—hoping one day to open a restaurant—were really paying off. Greg bought a motorcycle, Heather signed up for culinary lessons—they each dealt with post small-town murder syndrome differently. Greg complimented her profusely, but Heather never smiled back. He sighed and sipped cabernet and sat quietly.
“I’ve never felt like I was losing you before,” she confessed.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
Greg did. He’d been busier this past week than he’d ever been in the past twelve months. It was a sudden change. The shorter workdays had allowed them to spend a lot of time together and out of that comfort came a routine. But with the return of the Maury Girl killer, Greg was suddenly being tugged away. For work, yes, and for the safety of a young woman, yes, but still being tugged away nonetheless. It had been an exhilarating few days for Greg but now he was beginning to see the toll it had on his marriage. He wasn’t quite sure how to fix that.
“One night,” he said.
“On the couch?”
“Of course on the couch. And I doubt I’ll be sleeping.”
Heather sighed. “You know I’m not going to be able to sleep, either. I’ll be too worried. If you miss a single text I’ll be over there in a second to check on you.”
Greg smiled and nodded. “I know. I can call you and keep you updated—hourly, if you want.”
“No, no.” She laughed. “I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine.”
“I know this is awkward for you. I will make it up to you.”
“You better.”
He was glad she was letting the tension slide. The truth of the matter was Erin needed protection and, for better or for worse, she had bonded with Greg. The relationship, however, was irrelevant. Greg tried his best to explain that to Heather. He wouldn’t let the situation get uncomfortable. He would keep a professional distance. This was about catching a murderer, not testing his fidelity. Heather seemed to be confusing the two.

-1-

Midnight. Erin was sitting at the dining room table shuffling a deck of playing cards. Greg watched Leno at a quiet volume. When her wrist-watch beeped to mark the turning of the day, Erin looked over at Greg and said, “Here we go.”
It seemed odd to think the killer would follow his pattern so precisely that murdering Erin on the fifth day was truly his goal. Did he not think that the same police department that investigated the Maury Girl case would be responsible for this one, too? Greg had agreed to be the in-house officer simply with hope to delay any such attack, doubting that anything would happen. There were six undercover squad cars parked on the road outside. No one suspicious would be able to sneak by.
“So what did you wife say?” Erin asked, shuffling and reshuffling.
“About what?”
“Staying here. With me.”
“Not much.”
“You’re lying.”
“We trust each other.”
“She’s so worried you might be fucking me right now—I bet that’s all she’s thinking about right now, huh?” Erin remarked. “I would be so worried if my husband stayed at some girl’s apartment.”
Greg turned away. He was already so guilt-ridden. Why’d she have to rub it in?
“But you’re a good guy, Greg. You’re too nice to do that to her.”
“I know.”
She laughed. The sound of shuffling stopped. When Greg turned to see what she was doing, she tilted her head and asked, “Who do you think is prettier? My sister or me?”
“Huh?”
“You heard me,” she said. “I always thought my sister was prettier.”
“Um—”
“You don’t have to answer. I know what you think.”
Greg probably would have said Jennifer, in all honesty, if only because Jennifer’s generosity and high-spirits made her much more attractive than the careless attitude Erin exuded. What the younger sister mastered more than her sibling, however, was the allure of a car-crash scene, the allure of danger and disaster. To the eyes of a status-quo kind of guy like Greg, that was a temptation he wished to avoid. Not that he didn’t trust himself—he simply felt vulnerable to it.
Erin got up and stretched. “I’m kinda tired,” she said.
“You should sleep.”
“You’ll stay up and protect me?”
Greg nodded.
Erin crossed into the livingroom and put her hands on Greg’s shoulders. He immediately tensed up and wanted to pull away, but she squeezed and pushed him down, gently but with demand. With a groan, Erin said, “You’re not doing anything wrong, Greg. Calm down. I just wanted to say thank you.”
“Thank you?”
She took her hands away. “Yeah. Like—thanks. Gracias. Domo arigato.”
The feeling of her fingers lingered there for a while. Greg turned to face Erin, regretful that the anxiety over his wife’s opinion was such a hurdle for any friendship between them. Was he putting too much thought into Erin’s behavior? Aren’t some people just flirty? He had to remind himself that she was young. He watched her walk down the hall to her bedroom.
At her door, she turned and said, “Between you and me—she’d never find out,” and then slipped out of sight, leaving the door ajar.

Greg was startled out of a daze by his vibrating cellphone. Heather had sent him a text message: Getting any action yet? He laughed quietly to himself, recognizing the sarcastic wit Heather occasionally whipped out. He replied back: Not yet. The orgy starts at four AM.
He smiled. Heather was still awake, probably watching the same late-late television that Greg had stumbled across. Something on Animal Planet about polar bear extinction. Waiting for her response, the officer stretched his arms and yawned. It was just past three in the morning, the deep gut of nighttime, way beyond his bedtime. A glance down the hall showed Erin’s door ajar, as she’d left it, and he thought he could hear her snoring. The apartment building made the usual clanks and groans of any old structure. Greg listened to it as he waited.
Heather replied: Very funny. When are you coming home?
Then there was a bag over his head, a thick heavy material choked his breath short and he gagged, felt rough fabric on his tongue, and tried to yell. The cellphone fell from his hand and he was suddenly being pulled up, backward, over the sofa and down thrashing to the floor. Greg reached up above his head and groped through the blindness for a face or something to punch. He grabbed a wrist and squeezed, but his attacker spun him around onto his stomach. Then he was being sat on—a weight pressed hard on his spine, it felt like someone’s knee—and Greg had his head smashed a few times on the floor. Everything went fuzzy and grim for a moment. He groaned.
A voice said, “Shut your fucking mouth or I’ll cut your heart out.”
Greg obeyed, feeling the grip lifted from the back of his head. The weight on his back slackened and the knee was removed. For a moment he considered fighting again, sensing freedom, but having the bag over his head left him at risk. He didn’t know what he was dealing with here.
But he knew this was the Maury Girl killer.
His wallet was removed. Then: “Officer Gregory Dalton. Nice to finally meet you.”
The voice was deep, but obviously masked. It sounded like anyone’s best impression of James Earl Jones. His arms were pinned under the bastard’s legs and Greg was quickly losing circulation to his numbed fingers. His head ached from the battering. He took as deep of a breath he could muster, then said, “What do you want from me?”
The killer said, “I thought that would be obvious, Greg. I want you to stop looking for me.”
Greg made no response. He closed his eyes and prayed. He thought of Heather’s face.
“Greg—Greg—hello? Will you stop looking for me?”
“Yeah. Yes,” he lied. Of course he was lying. “I’ll stop.”
The killer laughed. “I’m sure.”
“I will.”
“Oh? You promise?”
He would say anything to make sure he could see Heather again. Greg nodded his bagged-head and said, “Yes. I promise. Please—”
“I thought you promised that you’d never stop looking.”
“I will stop. I will. Please—I can’t breathe.”
The killer replied, “You know—I’m not sure I can trust you, now.”
“You can.”
Then the bag was removed from Greg’s head and he was blinded by the bright lighting, his face squeezed by the killer’s gloved hand, his lips smashed together like a fish’s mouth. His eyesight adjusted to the masked face of the killer, all-black save for the two eye-holes where cruel green eyes glared down at him. The killer was wielding a long-bladed knife and used it to keep Greg still while his wrists were fastened together behind his back with plastic-ties. The knife drew blood wherever it poked through his shirt. Once he’d been restrained, the killer allowed Greg to stand up. The blade was consistently pointed at Greg’s chest as the killer led him down the hall toward Erin’s bedroom.
“Let’s get this over with,” said his attacker.
“What are you going to do to me?”
“Have my way with you,” was the answer.
The door had been closed. Greg was told to open it. A concentrated spray-paint odor swept over him, nauseatingly pungent, and he instinctively mistook it for the smell of death. The killer prodded him forward and then clicked on the lamp and shut the door. Greg focused on the waterbed mattress where Erin’s outline still remained on the sheet, though Erin was nowhere to be found. She was gone.
“Where is she?” Greg asked. Had he failed her? He would have searched for her if he wasn’t being held at knife-point. “What did you do with her?” he asked the masked face.
Then, in a voice very much not like James Earl Jones, the killer said, “That doesn’t really matter, Greg,” and the voice sounded terribly familiar. The killer reached up and grabbed the mask and pulled it away, shaking strands of hair out of the fabric, and tossed the mask to the cluttered floor. “Because honestly, I’m doing just fine.”
Erin smiled. Greg’s heart sank.
“No—”
“Yep. It’s me.”
This revelation sent Greg spinning back through a years’ worth of evidence and research, the face of the killer filled in with the face of Jennifer’s sister. It had been Erin who killed Jennifer Maury—Erin had been leaving the threats, deleting the accounts. So much of him wanted to believe this was a twisted joke—that Erin was fucking with him. But the way she held the knife, the way she licked her lips and stepped closer to him, it was all too real. Erin killed her sister. But why?
“It can’t be,” he said, stepping back. “Why would you—?”
“I thought you’d want to know that,” said the girl, waving the blade at his chest, biting her lip.
This felt like being cornered by a blood-thirsty vampire.
“I’ll tell you why I did it,” she said, “if you let me give you a blowjob.”
An already malfunctioning brain hardly registered what Erin had said, but Greg reacted appropriately by backing up against the wall and muttering, “No, no, no.”
She laughed at him. She said, “Come on, Greg. It’s a free blowjob. It’ll be fun.”
He began to panic. “No. No fucking way. Stay the fuck away from me.”
“Greg,” Erin whined. “I want to. It’s our last chance.”
“I don’t want anything from you.”
She held the knife up and fingered the sharp point, then licked the tip of the blade and the small drop of blood she’d drawn from her fingertip. The seductiveness of the act was lost on Greg who trembled and struggled to wrap his head around the facts. How could it have been Erin? Jennifer had been confiding solely with Erin during the threats—Erin had been the one who told her not to involve the police. It was so obvious, now. But a year later she does it again—to herself?—no. For him. Erin had staged this whole thing to get Greg trapped. All the threats, self-sabotage. The lies—how had he been so clueless? He couldn’t imagine a good motive. To cover her tracks, maybe? Send a message?
“Erin,” he started. “Please. Why are you doing this?”
“Drop your pants. I’ll tell you.”
“Just—please,” Greg had no intention of letting her near him. “You don’t have to do this, Erin.”
“You’re the one who couldn’t give up,” she argued.
Greg stared back, unsure how to respond, and sighed.
“Anyway, it’s not about you. It’s about Jennifer. It’s about being part of a family that doesn’t even care if you’re alive, that’s what.” Erin started toward him, lowering the blade, and she looked him up and down. “Jennifer was always so pretty and so smart and so nice. My parents didn’t even try to love me as much as they loved her.”
Greg gulped.
“I’ve always had a little crush on you, Greg, ever since we met last year. I’ve always had a thing for older guys. You—didn’t you think about me, Greg?”
He shook his head.
She nodded. “I’ve dreamed about this.”
“No, Erin.”
“Yes, Greg. Yes.”
Erin was inches away from him, gently sliding the sharp edge of the knife across Greg’s stomach—he could feel the cold metal through his shirt. She leaned forward and looked up into his eyes—he was too frightened to look away—and she kissed him. Greg had to improvise the way he handled the kiss as it happened—making sure not to enjoy it at all but also allowing Erin to get her fix, if only to keep her from—
Then she stabbed him in the side of the abdomen—hard, driving the blade all the way to the handle—and pressed her body against his, kissing him more and more passionately, driving her tongue into his mouth with the same intensity as the knife. The pain was incredible and hot and messy. He felt blood flowing down his leg, dripping, and the pain was amplified when Erin yanked the blade out.
He didn’t scream or shout. Greg stayed quiet. He bit his lip and clenched his eyes shut and let himself cry. If he screamed, she’d kill him immediately—he was sure about that. Erin took a step back and said, “See? That wasn’t so bad.” Greg tried to lift his head and look at her through his teary eyes, but had hardly the strength to remain leaning against the wall. The air had been knocked out of his lungs—he gasped and choked. He’d never been stabbed before and was mortified by how much blood he was losing.
“Erin—” he mumbled. “Why?”
She stepped close to him again and stuffed one hand down the front of his pants, diverting some of the blood-flow down by his crotch. The warm blood around his penis was a disturbing sensation and Greg tried to maneuver away. Erin found her target, however, and squeezed hard, rendering him basically useless. Greg gasped and impulsively shouldered forward to push Erin away, but she coerced him away with the knife. “This is what happens when your parents don’t love you, Greg. You run away from home and you get a little fucked up by the real world.”
She began to force his pants down. Greg reacted by trying to kick her away, but she managed to push against his body and his wound in such a way to immobilize him. Erin caught his wandering eyes and said, “Tsk, tsk, Greg. No kicking. If you kick I’ll cut your dick off.”
He tried to put his mind in a different place. He closed his eyes and transported himself into bed with his wife. He put himself at the dinner-table. He put himself in rush-hour traffic. He put himself in a spacesuit on the moon. No matter what he tried to imagine, his in-the-moment awareness alerted him that Erin was going down on him. It was not pleasant. He was in so much pain that an erection was out of the question and he felt no enjoyment from the erotic attention of someone he wanted no such attention from. Greg knocked his head back against the wall and gritted his teeth, struggling with the ropes restraining his hands, and simply wished for this all to be over.
Erin stopped and squeezed. “You’re not into me, Greg?”
“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked.
“Why? You’re gonna ask a girl why she’s giving you head? I’m offended.” She caught his eyes for a moment, crouched in front of him. “It’s because you’re a really nice guy, Greg. It’s the least I can do before killing you.” She poked the tip of the blade into his belly-button, then a bit lower, taking the knife away before passing below the waist. She said, “When I moved home, my parents decided to move to Florida with Jennifer. They were taking her away from me. They didn’t want us to be close.”
Greg could understand why.
“I was so jealous of her, Greg. I always was. One day I just got sick of it. It wasn’t my parents’ fault—of course they loved Jennifer more. She was perfect.” Erin went back to force-pleasing Greg. She did this for maybe thirty seconds, though it felt like a lot longer, and Greg spent all his will-power keeping Heather’s face in his mind, to keep the pain away, to survive. His mind was spinning, his guts churning, and he felt a growing aggression in his veins—he knew that if he had a moment to escape, he would take it, violently if necessary.
She stopped again, still failing to make him erect, and said calmly, “I thought they would love me instead, after Jennifer was dead. I thought they’d remember that they had two daughters, once, and maybe they’d let me in. That’s all I fucking wanted. A fucking family.” Erin sighed and absently handled his limp appendage. “A husband like you. Someone to love. I wanted all the stuff Jennifer was getting.”
Giving up with the adultery, Erin shoved herself away from him and stood, wiping the sides of her mouth. “That was pathetic, man,” she remarked. Greg could care less, grateful to have that sensation gone forever. She said, “That was really for you more than me, Greggy Boy. You might not admit it, but I know you’ve been thinking about fucking me. I didn’t want you going out with blue-balls—figured I’d give you something good to remember me by.”
He shook his head.
She said, “But whatever. I tried.”
His erratic thoughts and befuddled emotions seemed to be balancing out. His spinning head came to a rest and after a few sniffles and deep breaths, Greg felt a little better off. In fact he felt a little bit victorious for how uninspired his response was to her attempts. That meant something—didn’t it? Still the blood flowed from his untreated wound and made him weak. But thank God the girl had stopped. Now his attention was focused on opportunities for escape.
“My parents never forgot about Jennifer. They never moved on,” Erin explained, sitting on the edge of the waterbed. “They kept telling me about how they knew you and how you were constantly working on the case. I thought everyone would get over her sooner. As long as people keep thinking about her, they’ll never notice me. And Greg—you’re part of the problem. I can’t have you looking for me. Plus if you died saving me from the killer, people might start to care about me.”
Greg was getting himself back together, stab-wound and all.
She asked, “You ready?”
Greg shook his head.
Erin stood and approached him, knife in hand. She had a wicked smirk on her face that revealed how serious the girl was. She was about to kill him. Greg wanted to close his eyes but couldn’t—too afraid of what was about to happen. He watched her step in front of him and slide the blade down the front of his chest, then up his arm, then under his chin. Erin seemed mesmerized by the movement of the sharp steel against Greg’s body and she pressed her body against him while holding the blade against the back of his neck. She slid the weapon down his back and then, leaning forward, she kissed Greg on the mouth and drove the knife into his gut, spearing it upward underneath his rib cage.
A red flash exploded behind his eyes and he gasped—feeling the knife moving around inside of him like some misguided creature, and for a moment he was lifted off his feet. Nothing felt good. Blood trickled from his mouth. His vision wavered between blooming hues and faded grays. Held against the wall for a moment, he felt his body trembling and his guts flinching to get away from the knife.
“Sorry, Greg,” said Erin, dropping him to the floor. She stood over him and licked the blood off her fingers. She said, “No hard feelings, I hope.” and shrugged with a smile. A moment later she laughed and added, “No pun intended,” with a glance toward his crotch.
Greg struggled to breathe, struggled to survive.
Erin crouched down and brushed hair out of Greg’s face. “Aren’t you happy, Greg?” she asked, leaning down to kiss his sweaty forehead. “You finally know who the killer is.”
He was far from happy. So very far from happy.
Erin touched his nose and said, “Boop,” and smiled.
He wanted to kill her.
Then he heard something he never thought he’d hear again: Heather’s voice. He felt like one of those penguins on the Discovery Channel who recognized their mate’s call among thousands. She must have come to check on him—he hadn’t responded to her last text message. Erin growled and quickly moved toward the bedroom door. “Greg! Greg!” his wife shouted. Had she brought more officers? Had she come alone?
Erin hissed, “I’m gonna love this part.”
Greg warned, “Don’t you fucking—”
Then Heather was shouting on the other side of the door. “Greg!” and the knob turned, the door opened inward, and Greg shouted when Erin spun from the corner and stabbed the knife down at Heather’s face. But the woman had come prepared, lifting Greg’s motorcycle helmet to deflect the knife. She must have picked it up from the couch. Erin, caught off guard, stumbled from the misplaced thrust. Heather shoved her away with the helmet.
For a brief moment, Greg caught Heather’s eyes. She didn’t seem to recognize him at first, the bleeding beat-up sack crumpled on the floor, but then her face went pale with horror. When Erin recovered from her stumble, however, his wife’s face went solid with anger and the two women lunged at each other. Greg fought the approaching grayness sucking the power from his brain, wanting to survive long enough to make sure Heather was alright.
Erin screamed and stabbed, but missed again, and Heather used the helmet like a pinball bumper, shoving the scrawny girl against the wall. Then Heather took the opportunity to lift the helmet up and smash it down over Erin’s head, shattering the face-shield, and the impact sprayed a fine mist of blood on the wall behind her. Erin’s eyes rolled up like end credits and she collapsed to the floor.
Heather dropped the helmet and immediately fell to her knees at Greg’s side.
“Baby,” she whispered, leaning down to kiss his forehead, his nose, his lips.
“You saved me,” he said.
“I told you I’d come. I told you I would.”
His mind was fading quickly, drained of blood.
“You were right,” he said. Each word a chore, he wheezed out, “Sorry.”
“No, no, baby. No.” Heather began to cry and lowered her head, covering Greg’s face in her hair—he smelled her flowery shampoo—and then she lifted her eyes back to his. “I’m not losing you,” she said. “I never want to lose you.”
The gray was—it was—it was all so quiet, suddenly.
“I love you,” Greg said.
Then everything went dark.

-0-

A few weeks later, Greg drove to Jennifer Maury’s grave and left her journal there in a plastic zip-loc bag, though he’d added an entry of his own, detailing the turn of events that proved Erin as the killer. He wrote about the ambulance ride, the hospital, the surgery. He explained how the knife hadn’t ruptured anything vital and all the damage was repaired without any effect more lasting than a scar or two. Erin was arrested and convicted of a few counts of murder, along with other previous charges, and sentenced to life in prison. He explained how a deeper investigation into her character revealed the criminal-talents she acquired as a runaway, involving herself in anything from computer fraud to armed robbery to murder. He wondered if Jennifer had known of Erin’s criminally-inclined lifestyle.
He also shared Heather’s acceptance to a culinary school in Sacramento and the excitement of moving to a bigger city, where a promotional transfer to a new precinct awaited Greg. In other good news, he confessed to selling his motorcycle. He didn’t feel like he deserved it—and nor did he think he’d ever improve his balance. Heather had suggested he add something about Jennifer’s parents enjoying their new home in Florida and “recovering remarkably well after the incident.” He apologized for how people felt threatened by truly authentic people like Jennifer and wished Erin had never come back to Bishop Hill. He said that hell would have a special place for the insane Erin Maury. Then he wrote: In case you bump into your sister in the afterlife, tell her I think you’re much prettier.


-The End-