frost drenches me from head to toe as I read: Sincerely, Marcus.
Slamming the car into park and listening to the ping, ping, ping as I grab my gun, leaving the glove compartment open, I then leave the driver door wide open too. I run to Taylor, screaming for him to call backup. At the sight of my gun, panic flashes in his eyes.
“Backup,” he says into the radio on his chest as he reaches for his gun, turning in all directions, searching for whatever’s spooked me.
With my breathing coming in hard, I position myself with my back to the wall and alternate looking between the elevator and the paved road that would lead Marcus down to us.
I’m all too aware that he could escape down a stairwell on the other side of the garage. He could already be gone and more than likely is. Hiding, stalking… he’s probably watching me right at this very moment.
My heart pounds as Taylor screams at me, his gun now pointed at the stairwell next to the elevator, very much catching on that someone’s here.
Sirens wail in the background and I know we’ll be surrounded soon.
And the man I’ve heard called a ghost, the grim reaper… the angel of death… he’ll be long gone but he’ll know my reaction.
With my throat tightening and my lungs screeching to a halt like the tires outside, I can barely breathe.
This is what true terror feels like.
Marcus is here.
He touched me.
Taylor relays the events through his walkie-talkie and several cop cars make their way past us, not stopping and heading to the next floor, searching the darkened place with flashlights.
“How well do you know that man?” I question.
“Who? Steve?”
“Yes!” I say, practically screaming like a crazy woman and feeling a burn at the back of my eyes. “Steve is a wanted suspect. He’s a murderer.”
“You requested him.”
“What?” Disbelief colors the single syllable.
“He met me as I walked up. You requested him!”
He’s the man who was never caught. The cold cases that are turning up again.
We thought he died or moved on when the evidence ran dry and the murders stopped.
Every crime scene I’ve been on flashes before my eyes. The blood, the faces. Vomit threatens to come up as I try to answer Taylor.
“He’s a murder suspect.” I barely manage to say the words as three cop cars park just outside of the exit with their lights flashing blue and red in ominous patterns.
My arms fall to my side and my knees feel like buckling as I brace myself against the wall, my defenses down.
As the doors open and close and more men stream out, their guns drawn, Taylor continues to question me. His voice berates every sense I have.
“He’s the one who left the note…. he’s—” Oh my God. I can barely breathe. He threatened me.
“No. No, they caught the kid who did it. There’s footage.” Blinking back the very real fears wrapping their arms around me, I take in what Taylor tells me. They found the kid, they have him in custody.
“So there are two men out for me?”
“Did Marcus threaten you? What did he do? Tell me everything.”
Taylor’s gaze sinks deep into mine, pleading with me and the numbness inside takes over as I clear my throat and relay everything. The odd feeling between us, the note. The signature.
“I’m going to need that, Miss Jones,” states an officer I hadn’t even realized was beside us, reaching for the note.
“Of course,” I answer but don’t hand it over just yet. “Let me take a picture first,” I add. I don’t wait for his response and the objection is thwarted by Taylor; he knows me too well.
With my back to the two of them and the building surrounded by men in uniform, I photograph the note and a chill comes over me. My fingers slip over the words and I note the lack of indentation, the smooth writing, the curves of each letter.
“We found something,” a voice calls out from the stairwell, coming into view with the slapping of his shoes against the concrete. Staring at him, I wait with bated breath and note there’s something in his hand… he carries it over to where we’re standing, the red and blue lights still flashing across our faces and the stone wall behind us.
“Is it possible he was wearing this?” the cop questions. I’ve seen him before.
It’s short, it’s dark and as I close my eyes and picture Marcus, his sharp blue eyes scold me, forcing my eyes to