need coffee. I don’t even know what time it is when I flip my phone over. 2:00 a.m.—fuck, this is not how I want to wake.
Hopping over to my room, I change my clothes instantly, brush my teeth, and grab my coffee, attempting to get to the case the Wicked Witch of the West says I just have to see to believe.
The uniforms already have set up the crime tape when I arrive as flashing lights illuminate the night sky. The neighborhood is middle class, somewhere between middle-middle class and upper-middle class. Similar to the neighborhood Gail and Stephen Montgomery live in.
I flash my badge to the uniform in charge of crowd control and slip under the tape. Vanessa, with her deep black hair tied back tight on her head without a piece out of place, and flawless as normal in a black suit, different from yesterday, flags me over. Higgins and her are in a serious conversation.
“Morning,” I begin, and both whip their attention to me. “What do we have?”
“Fuck, it’s not pretty. Not in the least.” This strikes me as odd. He may be a rookie detective, but he was a patrolman for years and saw shit you only see out on the streets day by day. I should know.
“I’m not even going to fill you in, Detective,” Vanessa starts. “I’ll let you walk the scene, and then we’ll talk.” In her demeanor, she’s physically rattled, her fingers shaking, and her face flushed from all color.
“Um, okay.” I reach for my gloves, putting them on, and enter the house. Something’s freaky familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it, not until I turn my attention to the left and see a dining room table with a woman and teenage male, their throats slit, heads lying down, but with the pool of blood, it’s obvious, the cuts are from end to end.
What I’m not expecting is the body on the floor, but it’s not a body, it’s a dummy, a mannequin, that has blood on the neck as if this lifeless doll was taking the place for someone. I continue into the kitchen where the crime lab is taking pictures and gathering samples from the male body on the floor with stab wounds throughout him. I continue to walk, almost fearful of the next corpse, but this time, leaned up next to the refrigerator, is another mannequin. It’s the size of a child. I twist my body away, then continue toward the back of the house, and another body, this one is real, has had the life choked out of her and is lying near the back door.
This is exactly like the murders from Malia’s family, except for the two dummy bodies brought in to represent Malia and her sister, Gracie. Sweat pools at the base of my neck and under my arms, and the room begins to spin. I’ve never gotten over the Strickland crime scene, nor will I get over this scene. Someone has something to prove, and four more innocent people have died because of it.
On the kitchen counter is a note already in an evidence bag. It’s clear, and I can read it, and my heart stops at the words in front of me.
If there would have been a little girl, I would have spared her life, just to make things fair. But it wasn’t my intention to spare Malia Strickland that night. She was crying. I was on my way to find her when I heard footsteps on the front porch. It was you, Detective Shanahan, who caused me to abandon my plans. But now, Malia has become a part of me because of it. And I’ll do anything and everything to keep her safe and keep her as mine. I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Police Angel.
I run through the front doors, Higgins and Matt Montgomery looping their arms around me. “Malia, I’ve got to get to Malia.”
I speed to the Montgomery house—and to steady my heart, I need to set eyes on Malia. The images of the family are eerily familiar to the scene of the Strickland murders. How do I tell her? How do I tell the young girl whose family was viciously murdered that someone used her pain to re-stage yet another massacre?
The uniformed officers were instructed to pick up Malia and take her directly to the Montgomery residence where she’d be most comfortable until I could get to her.
I’m at the front door and Stephen pulls it back to