Inhospitable Place
Chapter Eight
After Fran leaves on her wild goose chase, I start pacing the apartment. The sun is going down, and the city is slowly melting into darkness. Obviously, Francesca has completely lost her mind. Hopefully someone at the police station will enlighten her. Better yet, the guy will get caught and she's going to go back to Pittsburgh and get her own damn life.
But for some reason, there is unease in my chest. I text Hunter. I need to hear him. I need him to laugh at this and tell me how insane it all sounds. "We need to talk. It's important. Fran thinks you're a serial killer. Lol." I wait for the phone to vibrate, but it stays silent. The longer I stare at it, the worse I feel.
I walk from the living room, to the studio, to the bedroom, and back, all the while Bruno follows me, confused. I go to the closet, and start rummaging through Hunter's clothes, checking his pockets. A lighter, a few business cards, spare cash, a broken watch. Nothing that would signal a serial killer. I should feel comforted, but I don't.
I walk to the bathroom and go through his drawer. Again, nothing that's suspicious. Francesca has me paranoid for no reason, and I'm starting to feel as crazy as her.
I check my phone again. Still no answer.
My imagination starts seeing the bodiesÑone by one. Dead green eyes, and a splatter of blood around the mouth. I breathe in. It's not possible. Not Hunter. He's been here for me, throughout everything. He's been caring and loving. How can I even suspect him of this? We've slept in the same bed for so long. If he wanted to kill me, I'd already be dead. I go to the bathroom and take a Xanax. I need to relax. I need to focus on something else.
Derek. I promised him I'd have my doggy dance class ready to go by next week. But I'm out of shape and haven't danced in a year. I need to come up with some type of program. I go into my studio/Hunter's makeshift bedroom and move the blow-up mattress out of the way. I pace the room a few times and start stretching, when my foot presses on a wooden tile that emits a shallow sound. I take my foot off, then press down one more timeÑsame noise. I get down on my knees and pry the tile up with my nails, breaking one in the process.
"Fuck," I cuss, noticing the blood from my finger. But I've done it, it's loose. I take it out and stare with shock and fascination. It's shaved down, and in the small space underneath there is a tiny box. I reach down and take it out. Something inside of me trembles. Don't open it, it screams. But I have to.
Underneath the lid there are plastic cards. I pick one up. It's a driver's license. I recoil and drop the box. I draw a shaky breath. It must be the Xanax. I must be hallucinating. Except I'm not. The box is real, I can feel it. I pick the cards up again, there are 8 totalÑ6 from Connecticut, and 2 from Pennsylvania. I gasp in horror as I recognize the faces in the pictures. They are all victims of The Hartford Menace. And they are all buried underneath the floor of my dance studio.
I jump up at the sudden sound of my cellphone vibrating on the floor. I pick it up and read the message from Francesca.
"I'm with Detective Albright at the police station. I suggested my train theory to him, and he's requested the train footage from the days Jason and Michael were on there in the weeks of their disappearance. It might take a while to get it. I'm staying here for now. At best I can help him exclude Hunter. At worstÉ" she trails off.
But I can't digest what she'd said because suddenly I feel a presence in the room.
By the time I look up, he's standing beside me. And then, as if someone had turned the lights off, everything goes black.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.