Chapter 3

Throughout the rest of the day and into the evening, I made sure to keep Kyle equipped with a beer in his hand. I needed him drunk or, more specifically, passed out.

Unfortunately, the only way to do that and not have him grow suspicious was to also drink myself. Which was okay, since it was only beer and my tolerance had always been much higher than Kyle's.

Five hours of TV murders, and God knows how many beers later, Kyle was snoring like an old man, and I was back to being perched on the couch like a child.

For an hour, I stared at the yellow glow through my neighbor's kitchen window. He'd hung a sheet for privacy, but his shadow was clear as he moved back and forth through the space, probably still unpacking. I sighed. He probably wouldn't be leaving anytime soon, if at all. I was just about to give up and drink myself to sleep, when he slung his front door open and meandered towards the truck.

I held my breath in anticipation, heartbeat accelerating as he climbed inside, started the engine, pulled down the driveway.

Was I really doing this?

Taillights disappeared into the distance. I chewed my lip, drumming my fingers against the back of the couch. My gaze darted between the direction he'd driven and his trailer more than once.

Should I? What was the worst that could happen? I snorted a laugh. You're digging your own grave, Joy. It's not like you have a lot to lose.

That thought was all it took to set me into action. I grabbed the last beer from the fridge and popped the top. A final dose of liquid courage, or perhaps, my last meal.

A thrill kept my steps light as I raced across the road to the meth lab. The door was unlocked. Obviously he didn't watch true crime. I didn't care if I made it to Bel Air, I was locking my damn door. Then again, a locked door hadn't stopped a stranger from breaking into my home and stealing my only chance of a life.

I clenched my jaw and shook my head, forcing my mind to focus on my purpose: this shitty trailer. There was no furniture. Just a dilapidated room full of cardboard boxes and charred wood paneling.

The air was stagnant, full of dust, mildew, and overcooked cough syrup. Did the man lack basic senses as well? Maybe he really was a ghost. My nostrils burned, and I gagged as I forced my legs to ignore my brain and step further into the room.

The first box had kitchen scrawled across it in poorly written sharpie. I pull the flaps open and found a skillet, one pot, and a pile of poorly packed silverware. I didn't bother closing it before moving onto the next. Junk. Next one: more junk. Nothing of any importance.

I tilted my beer to my lips and sipped as I stared around the room. There had to be something. I continued down the hall, into the blackened remains of what used to be a livable space, and my nose screamed its displeasure with my life choices. The back bedroom was completely destroyed, but the first one seemed somewhat intact. More boxes filled the center of the room and surrounded a cot positioned against the far wall. I grabbed the first one and opened it. Family photos. Smiling faces on holidays. A pretty brunette with ivory skin. I rustled through them but couldn't find any that included my new neighbor.

Headlights flickered across the room, and I choked on my own saliva. I beat against my chest, trying to stop the coughing fit as I simultaneously searched my brain for an escape plan. Amidst my struggle, a box tumbled to the floor, and pictures scattered across the plywood like a fallen house of cards.

I looked down in a panic, then froze.

No smiling faces or wholesome scenes stared up at me. A bloodbath lay across the singed carpet. A collage of twisted limbs and mutilated bodies. Everything was forgotten as I squatted down and swept through the pile. Women. All women, each one of them dead, most of them illuminated by the eerie glow of a camera's flash. Lifeless. They ranged in age, size, shape. No similarities apart from one glaring detail.

None of them had eyes.

They'd been gouged out, left empty meaty crevices to linger upon lifeless faces.

My heart thundered, palms sweated, hands shook with an intensity that made me fear for my health. My muscles quit working, leaving me uncoordinated and unexplainably cold.

I'd seen photos like this a million times. I'd watched them pop up along my television. Listened to stories of brutalized women. But something about it being there, in front of me. . .

I'd just reached the bottom of the pile when I heard the front door open. It would have been enough to pull me away, would have snapped me out of my shock. I would have left right then if it weren't for my eyes landing on another picture, one that had been covered.

Blonde hair and golden skin. The shape of her chin, the softness of her hands, and the necklace, cheap and made of plastic. She'd worn it since the day I'd given it to her. She'd never taken it off. She'd treated that gaudy pink heart like a crown jewel.

That was how I knew it was her. My mother. A million memories exploded inside my mind: a million I love yous, a thousand goodnight kisses.

Mama hadn't left me.

A rustle sounded from the kitchen, and my focus went back to the soulless man. Rage. Pure, hot and white. It filled me up until I couldn't see straight. I clutched the photo and stood, free hand fisted, shoulders quivering. He did this. He took her. He took everything.

Like a woman possessed, my feet moved with swift purpose. No thought went into what I'd say or do. It didn't matter. All that mattered was her. All that had ever mattered was her.

I caught sight of him long before he did me, and I didn't even hesitate. "You mother fucker!" I screamed, my voice a raw and anguished roar, unrecognizable even to myself.

The man jolted and whipped around. His mouth fell open, eyes widened. "What the fuck are you doing in my house?!" He stomped toward me.

I lifted the picture like a spell against evil, forcing him to look at her, forcing him to see what he'd done to her, to me, what he'd taken.

John, if that was even his real name, froze in place. His eyes darted from the picture to my face, and whatever he saw there made him hesitate.

Something heavy settled upon my chest. My lungs collapsed in on themselves, and it was suddenly all I can do to remain standing. I could see her, clear as day, in my mind's eye. I could hear her laughter.

John took a step back and pointed towards the image. "Do you know that woman?" His words were careful, each one spoken slow and clear, like a hostage negotiator.

"Do I know her?" My voice was raw. "Do I know her!" It turned into a scream. "This!" I gripped the photo, crumbling it with my rough treatment. "This is my mother! Mine!" I beat a hand against my chest. "The only person I had in this world!"

His Adam's apple bobbed, and his chest heaved outward as he sucked in a large breath and blew it out slowly. "I'm sorry," he said, voice softer than it'd been.

My anger grew. "Sorry? You're fucking sorry!"

Slowly and carefully, John reached back and dipped a hand into his pocket. His eyes stayed glued to mine, his other hand held out in a sign of surrender. He pulled out a badge. "Those are crime scene photos," he began, voice still soft. "That woman is one of the Jane Does. My name is Detective John Winters, and I've been investigating this case for the past five years." He returned the badge to his pocket, still keeping his motions slow, and those hollow eyes locked with mine. "I'm sorry for your loss."

I stared blankly as his words settled, seeped in, then repeated inside my head. It suddenly seemed colder. My grip on the photo loosened as a million more thoughts assaulted me, only to all suddenly vanish and leave me empty. The room spun. I stared into those empty eyes, still hollow, still vacant, and I realized. . .so am I.

The picture slipped from my hands just as the world faded to black.

Hope you enjoyed! Next upload next Wednesday!