ATLANTA GEORGIA
7th March, 2022

VINCE

Vince’s house stood dark and desolate (desolate, meaning it looked uninhabited) on the street. His house was the one trick-or-treaters never dared knock on. It was the house children made horror stories about as they crossed the street, saying it belonged to the Boogeyman or the Wicked Witch of the West or whatever kids these days found scary.

It wasn’t that his house looked haunted or had boarded up windows or peeling paint or long, far-reaching cobwebs or blood spatter on the walls. No, it was just as well maintained as the next house. It just had a vibe to it. Like something bad had happened inside it. Of course, something bad had actually happened inside it. Clara had died in that house.

Or maybe his house was called haunted because for five years, ever since Clara died, his lights had never come on.

The no-lights thing was a sort of self-imposed punishment. Clara had been scared of the dark since before he’d even met her. She’d told him on their first date that the dark reminded her of the time she was burgled and almost raped in a back alley as she was coming home from work. It made a weird kind of sense to Vince to punish himself by living through one of Clara’s worst fears since he’d failed to protect her, to keep her safe. Not that he was punishing himself very much. He was almost always not at home. When he came home, he usually came home to sleep. Nothing else.

Sometimes, he wondered why he even paid the electricity bill. Oh, right. You needed electricity to operate a microwave, which was where most of his meals came from.

Ironically, the darkness had been the first sign that something was amiss on that day five years ago. Clara had never switched off any lights. When she was home, every room —whether she was in it or not— had to have light. She had only allowed Vince to switch them off when she was already in bed staring at the luminescent glow of her night light. Years of therapy had failed to get her over her fear of the dark. So, when Vince had arrived home late that night to find his house shrouded in a wave of darkness so thick you could almost touch it, he’d known subconsciously that something was wrong.

The mess had been the second and the most outstanding sign. The mess was what had taken him from assuming that danger was afoot to plain running around the house in circles looking for Clara. Clara had never made messes. She had been a clean freak to the point of OCD.

Vince had torn through two guest bedrooms before finding her in their bed, dead. There’d been no blood. Just a trickle of crimson down her nose. The scene hadn’t been as gruesome as most murders generally were, but it was still disheartening to find Clara like that; so pale, so calm, so. . .dead. Later, Vince would find out that Clara had been strangled. 

Slipping his key into the lock and twisting, Vince entered his house. The smell of chemical lemons and bleach caressed his sinuses. His sister had passed by. Ever since Clara had died and his house had become a crime scene, his sister, Jessie, had taken it upon herself to become his maid after finding him passed out drunk under a pile of dirty laundry and pizza boxes ten days after Clara’s death. She’d taken a spare key and would come every Friday without fail to clean his house and do his laundry because Vince couldn’t be bothered.

The post-Clara era had not been good for him.

Vince made a beeline for the fridge, opened it and took out a soda. The lone bottle of beer in his fridge, which he kept to convince himself that he was strong enough to resist temptation, was calling his name, and he almost picked it up, then pinched himself. He had been sober for two years. No point in ruining his sobriety now.

The drinking had started after Clara, and like all things that had started after Clara, it had gotten out of control. He contemplated calling his sponsor then abandoned the idea. He would call when the urges got really bad —headache bad.

“Why keep a beer in your fridge to tempt yourself? Just throw it away.”

Vince whirled, gun in hand, finger on the trigger, ready to fire, and stopped only when he saw that it was his sister dressed in a checkered white suit that seemed to glow in his dark house. “What the fuck, Jessie? Jesus, don’t do that again. I could have killed you.”

Jessie smiled, lifting what looked like a takeout bag. “I only stayed so that I could give you this. It’s seared salmon, and charred green beans with pasta. And before you ask. The salmon was seared in olive oil, not butter. I know you kick up a fuss over calories. There is a lemon in there that you can squirt all over the salmon to make it healthier. Lemon makes everything healthier. You know how to use a microwave, right?”

“I know how to use a microwave. Thank you very much.” Vince said, picking up the bag and placing it on the counter. “You don’t look good when you lie, Jessie. I can’t see your facial expressions in the darkness, but I can tell that you are lying. You never bring me food. Why are you really here?”

“To convince you to talk to Mom. Please? Just say hi at least. God, Vince it’s been five years.”

Vince was in no mood to talk to his mother. “Yeah, I’m not doing that.”

Jessie walked into a stream of light from the street lamp outside. Vince could now see the pained expression on her face so clearly. “Please? For me?”

“Don’t play that card with me, Jessie. You know why I’m not talking to Mom. If you keep this up, I will stop talking to you, too.”

Jessie raised her arms in surrender. “Sheesh, Vince. Anyone ever told you that you are so talented at keeping grudges?”

Vince smiled, his teeth flashing white in the darkness. “Only you.”

“Can’t blame a girl for trying, right?” She kissed him on the cheek. “I love you, Vince. More than you’ll ever know. I just don’t want you to look back on this moment and regret it. All things considered, she’s your mother. She gave birth to you. She stayed when Dad abandoned us.”

Jessie had played her cards well. She’d ended by guilt-tripping him. She was a master manipulator, manipulating juries and judges to get the worst of the worst criminals off. Maybe it was ironic that while one sibling worked to put the bad guys away, the other worked to get them out of jail. He shouldn’t have danced this dance with her. He always lost. And now there was a ninety percent chance he was going to call his mother and say hi. “Fine, I’ll think about it.”

“I’m so happy right now I could almost kiss you.” Jessie hugged him. “Have a goodnight brother. And turn on the damn lights. You can’t keep living in the dark. I mean that literally and figuratively.” Jessie said as she closed the door.

Alone in his own house —mice, cockroaches, and other such house vermin excluded—, he googled Daisy, a task that had been uppermost on his mind since leaving Quinn’s house. He figured that if he was going to work with her, it was only wise to get to know her a little better.

Google churned up an unhealthy amount of information on Daisy. It often surprised Vince how much information was out there for everyone to see. The world was no longer a private place. Everyone was minding everyone’s business.

The first article on Daisy was a news piece from five years ago about a bad accident that had killed her parents leaving her the sole heir of a large fortune. Vince saw the amount she inherited and his eyes almost left their sockets. Daisy was rich. As in blow your socks off rich. As in almost millionaire rich. As in invest in the stock market rich. Vince wasn’t exactly a pauper, but he wasn’t blow your socks off rich, either. Not even close.

It was annoying that the article seemed to focus more on the fact that Daisy would inherit several hundred thousand dollars than on the real details of the accident. Still, Vince was able to learn that Daisy’s parents had been driving out of town early one Monday morning and they’d been run off the road by a truck. They had died instantly. The driver of the truck had fled the scene and had never been found.

Well, that partially explains her anger.

The rest of the news articles were all related to the Fairytale Killer. They were all lauding Daisy for her efforts in catching a man who had abducted twelve women in San Francisco in the span of two years and had raped and killed them, laying out their bodies in a macabre manner in various public places. His first victim had been placed in a glass coffin similar to that of Snow White, earning him the name.

Vince’s esteem of Daisy went up a few notches when he learned that in catching the Fairytale Killer, she’d almost become his next victim. But she’d fought hard, using not only wit but strength to fight off and subdue him. Vince regretted all earlier judgements he’d made of Daisy’s character. He’d been wrong. She deserved to be a detective.

Way to go, Daisy.

Eyes burning, Vince decided that he’d learned enough about Daisy to work with her. He turned off his phone, plunging himself into darkness, took off his flannel shirt and lay on his couch. He was too lazy to get up and microwave the food. He wasn’t even that hungry anyway. But tired he was. He would probably sleep there. On the couch.

His phone buzzed on his stomach signalling a text message. It was a text from Daisy.

Hey, it’s Daisy. I’m sorry about earlier. Can you come to my house and we discuss the case? I have some information you are going to want to see. I’ll send you the address.

Vince squinted at the text message. Daisy was extending an olive branch. Without meaning to, his lips quirked up in a smile. He was going to see Daisy. At her house. This night was looking up.

★☆☆

Now, the next two chapters are going to be fire for those that love drama and romance. Stay tuned.