Always Safest in the Dark

I want to thank you for spending your money on this ebook and helping support independent authors. You are the very backbone of what we do, and without you, none of this is possible. I have spend a considerable amount of time living and growing with these characters as their stories changed and evolved into what they are today; this I have enjoyed immensely. I hope that, as you join the likes of Trevor London and Victoria Anderson on their respective journeys you enjoy your time with them too. This merely the beginning of something grand and exciting for me, and I hope you’ll continue to follow their stories into the future. Once again, thank you for your support.

Part One:

The Devil’s In the Details

Prologue: Session One

The room is cold, lacking any life in its four concrete walls. In the center sits a large metal desk, bolted to the floor. On each side is a singular chair, but only one—the one on the right—is bolted to the floor, held in place in perpetuity. Two doors exist in the room, the one on the left looking no different than any average door, with a gold-coloured doorknob and a tiny glass square as a window into and out of the room. The other door—this one on the right—is a large steel door, with thick cylindrical levers that keep it closed, keeping some things out and others in. The lights in the ceiling shine down brightly, leaving the room, despite its cold appearance, filled with light that is almost blinding to those who enter. The doorknob begins to turn and the door swings open, a man wearing a white coat stepping in and placing a tripod on the floor beside the desk. He leaves the room and soon returns with a small camera, placing it atop the tripod and ensuring that it works, turning the power on. He fiddles with some of the buttons on the camera before powering it down and leaving the room.

Several minutes pass before the doorknob turns yet again, only this time a woman in a white lab coat walks in and sits down in the chair on the left. She has brought a large grey file folder under her arm, which she places carefully onto the table in front of her. She shifts her weight and position in the chair until she is comfortable. Her hair is long, but tied back, wound up in a knot on the back of her head. Her glasses sit on the ridge of her nose, and her complexion is pale, as white as a ghost. Her lips are full and pink, glistening in the light from above as her face shifts expressions as she chews the side of her mouth. She opens the file folder on the desk, flipping through the pages and arrives at the page she is looking for. She pulls her glasses further up the ridge of her nose and begins to read over the information in front of her.

Minutes pass before she closes the folder and places her hand in her coat pocket, pulling out a small notepad, which she places on the desk. Her right hand then reaches into her breast pocket and removes a pencil. For a moment, she twirls the pencil in between her fingers as she stares intently at the large steel door across the room. She then reaches back into her pocket and removes a small recording device. She places this device on the table beside the folder and presses the red RECORD button. The screeching of the metal cylinders on the steel door can now be heard as they turn, the door swinging open. She fumbles with the pencil in her hand as she reaches over to activate the camera.

As the giant door opens, a man steps out into view. He is chained at the wrists and ankles, and has trouble walking, the chains tugging at him as he moves. Two guards stand behind him, directing him to step forward and sit down in the chair. The man obliges the guards and sits down. As he looks around the room, he struggles to open his eyes, choosing instead to squint to alleviate the pain from the intense light present in the room. His reaction is that of someone being exposed to bright lights for the first time in a long while, the incessant hum of the lights in the room enough to drive him mad. As he struggles to get comfortable in the chair, he realizes that it does not move. He sighs, resigned to his discomfort. The woman looks toward the guards, who now stand on the opposite end of the door. She motions that all is okay, waving her hand at them. The guards close the door, and again the harsh sound of the metal cylinders moving fills the room for a moment, replacing the hum of the lights.

Are you comfortable? The woman asks. The man does not respond, his head hung low and staring directly at the ground. His hair is long and unclean, disheveled in a way that is akin to a rat’s nest. His face is covered in a lengthy brown beard, having not had access to any shaving devices in a long time. Are you comfortable? She asks again, hoping that he will respond. Again, he does not. We need to get started, she states, hoping that something will garner his attention. She shifts the camera in her direction for a moment. The camera now pointed directly at her, she begins to recite, This is Doctor Lemire, performing first interview with subject 566366.

As she finishes speaking, she returns the focus of the camera to the man sitting in the chair, slouched over and unresponsive. She again tries to get his attention by speaking, Are you ready to begin? We have many things…

The man interrupts her, his head still hung low, …does it matter? He asks, almost mumbling.

I’m sorry? I didn’t catch…

…does it matter, I said, he responds with more force in his voice.

Does what matter? Lemire asks, confused, her left eyebrow now raised.

If I’m comfortable. You’ve got me in here in chains, on a chair that can’t move. Look at me; do you think I could possibly be comfortable? The man asks, now apparently angered.

I suppose that was disingenuous of me. Is there anything I can do to help make you more comfortable? She responds, trying to gain his favour.

You could take these chains off, he says, offering a tiny chuckle afterward.

You know we can’t do that.

You can, but you won’t, he offers back.

Again, you are right. We both know that I won’t do that. There are many reasons why we can’t just…

Again, he interjects, Let me guess? You think I’m dangerous. Do I look dangerous to you?

"I’m sorry, but there is more to it than that. Now, I ask again: are you ready to begin?"

The man laughs, his head now raised as he stares at the woman across the table as though staring right into her soul. He offers a half-smile and states, I guess I am; it’s not like I have a choice in this matter.

Dr. Lemire takes the notepad from atop the desk, crosses her legs, and places it atop her thigh, now beginning to write notes. She clears her throat before asking her first question. So tell me, subject 566366, what do you remember?

Remember about what? That’s too vague, the man responds, irritated by the poor quality of the question posed.

Fair enough, then. Is there anything that stands out? She asks, hoping that this question might narrow it down a bit.

My memory is fairly hazy…it comes to me in bits and pieces; never anything that can be put together. It’s like a puzzle, where too many pieces are missing.

Interesting. Then what are some of the pieces you do have? Doctor Lemire asks, hoping that he’ll share the little that he does know.

There’s lots of them…they’re all lying there…they’re…

They’re what, subject 566366?

A look of annoyance comes over the subject’s face. They’re all dead. There’s bodies all over the floor. There’s blood…it’s chaos in there.

In where?

I don’t know…

Think, subject 566366. It’s important that you decipher this, she prods.

Damnit, I don’t know. There’s just so many of them. There’s a…

The doctor waits this time, hoping that he will finish his thought, bridging the gap between the memories.

I don’t…I can’t tell where I am…I don’t recognize it.

That’s okay. It’s understandable that there will be some recall problems at first. We can…

No, I see it now. They’re all dead…every last one of them. And there I am, standing there, holding the gun. They’re all dead, and it’s all my fault.

Chapter One: Manila

The sky is jet black, save for the full moon shining down on the city like a spotlight setting the stage. A young woman returns home after a night of work. As she exits the taxi that took her home, she climbs the steps to her apartment building, fumbling around in her purse, searching for her keys. As she reaches the top of the stairs, the doors swing open and a man wearing a trenchcoat and fedora hat steps holding the door open. Evening miss, he says as he allows her to go past him and into the building, stealthily handing her a small manila coloured envelope. She offers a shy smile in response, but does not engage in conversation, grasping the envelope that he has handed to her. As she steps into the building, she looks back—briefly—and the man has disappeared.

Looking forward now, she begins to ascend the stairs to her apartment. Still can’t believe there’s no elevator here, she complains to herself. As she heads toward the third floor, she is taken aback by the lack of sound in the building this evening. Usually, she is met by the sound of children running through the halls, or the cacophonous sound of televisions blaring videogames filled with the unfortunate sounds of machine guns and the cussing of distressed men. While she enjoys the lack of noise at this moment, she can’t help but feel somewhat unnerved by the silence. With that thought, she reaches her apartment, number 323.

As she brings her keys toward the lock on her door, she makes a surprising realization: her door is already open. The hairs on the back of her neck immediately stand up, as her nerves set her on edge. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a can of mace and slowly pushes the door open, ensuring that it makes no noise. As she steps into her apartment, there are items all over the floor. Strewn across the floor are binders, books, broken glass, and other various things that she had placed in other areas throughout the apartment. What was once order, was now chaos. Against her better judgment, she begins to look around, trying to figure out if something is missing; it’s at that moment that she hears a noise coming from the bedroom area.

A once beautiful house sits on an unkempt lot in the suburbs, a painful reminder of what once was and what will never be again. He walks slowly up the front steps toward the front door, his head hung low, his hands filled with large, folded cardboard boxes. He fumbles with his keys as he reaches the door, the keys falling to the ground twice before he manages to locate the proper key with enough grace to bring it to the keyhole. He inserts the key and turns it slightly, the disuse of the lock proving to be yet another foe to his entry. He pushes harder, but to no avail; his hand filled with boxes removing much of the requisite strength from his arms and shoulders. He gently places the boxes on the ground beside him and forces the key to turn, the lock releasing and the door now able to be opened, his barrier to entry now officially overcome.

As he enters the house, the musty air causes him to sneeze, followed by several coughs as the dust slips into his nostrils and throat, polluting his respiratory system. He shuts the door behind him and the light from the outside disappears immediately, the house immediately plunged into darkness. He runs his hand across the left wall, looking for a light switch. Finding one, he presses it upward, but the lights do not come on. Instead, the darkness prevails, the bulbs having been too old and too little used to spark to life after so long. He sighs and steps forward, relying on his familiarity with his surroundings to guide him.

To the left is the living room, a room once filled with the sound of conversation and laughter; a place where so many found solace and comfort during all times of the day. But now? Now that room held nothing but regret and fear, the setting of a profoundly distressing act that was only the first of many in a macabre turn of events that left many lives changed in ways that could never truly be fathomed. No, this room had become something of a monument to sorrow; a place where the memories had shifted from good to bad. He takes only a moment to glance around the room, again recalling what it once looked like, without the use of a light of any kind. The illumination of the room would only serve to enhance its sadness; a short and wholly unnecessary reminder of what it once was.

In a skyscraper in the center of the city, a single light shines out of a glass giant, a symbol of the last worker to leave on this night. In that office, Victoria Anderson is fretting over finishing a chapter of her latest book. As she sits in her office, her hands rubbing her face in frustration, her cell phone rings. As if happy to be figuratively saved by the bell, she grabs her phone and answers it. Anderson.

A voice on the other line answers, Vic? Where are you? Anderson sighs before responding, knowing that she has let someone down…again.

Shit, Elise…I’m still at work. I’m so sorry.

It’s all right, you know; I get it. I know you’re busy. I’m just calling to make sure you’re okay, you know. How’s everything going?

In spite of her positive spin on the situation, Anderson can tell that Elise is supremely disappointed that she is not at home with her. It seems that tonight, like most nights, is one she’d like to have back, so that she could spend time away from work, at home with the woman she loves.

You know how it is. I’m just stuck on this last part here. I’m having a bit of trouble ending this chapter properly. I just…just feel like I’m not doing them justice, right? The distress in her voice is apparent, and Elise attempts to offer some comfort.

Hey, don’t get crazy over that. If you can’t get it right now, give it time. If anybody’s going to give them what they deserve, it’s you. From the get-go you’ve had this right…

…you know, when I talk to you, everything seems better. It just…

…I know. That’s why I called you. I figured something was keeping you. I know you well enough to understand that this stuff really gets to you. Just take a moment, relax, and get back to it. You’ll get it sooner or later…I know you will. You can’t fret about it too much. Sometimes letting it stew in your head is the best thing for it. I’ve always figured that’s how all the good ones do it. It’s not a simple process, so don’t be forcing it, Elise explains.

A smile forms on Anderson’s face.

It’s so gross to say this, but you always know what to say to me to make it feel better.

That’s what I’m here for. That, and I made us dinner…but, you know.

I know, I know. I’m so sorry about this. I promise I’ll make it up to you. Elise laughs.

You better…you owe me for this one! I made your… As Elise attempts to finish her sentence, Anderson stops her halfway through. It just came to her…how to finish the chapter. It would appear that inspiration strikes at the most inopportune of moments.

I’m sorry babe…I don’t mean to cut you off, but I just figured it out. I gotta go. I’ll be home soon. Thanks again, you’re the best. Anderson hangs up the phone abruptly. She knows that Elise will not be particularly happy with her as a result, but her idea cannot wait; she needs to finish the chapter. She begins typing away furiously as she feels that she finally has it.

Back at the apartment, the woman’s gaze is fixated on her bedroom door, which is closed. The noise came from in there, she tells herself. As she begins to walk slowly toward the bedroom, she thinks twice, realizing that her mace spray may not be enough. Wisely, she heads backward toward the kitchen and searches for a knife. Still holding the envelope, she places it on the kitchen counter next to the knife block. Her knife block is to her left and out of sheer instinct, she grabs the largest knife and again moves slowly toward the bedroom. She knows that this idea is far from wise and she’d probably be better off just running and calling the police, but something instinctual, almost animalistic, drives her to move forward.

As she creeps forward, she hears another noise coming from behind the door. She stops for a moment, waits, and listens for another noise: nothing. As she inches forward, step by step, she continues to lend an ear for any noises coming from the bedroom. Does she open it, or does she wait for another noise to confirm? Or, does she stand near the door and wait for whoever—or whatever—is in there to come out, surprising them with a knife in the back?

She knows she can’t wait, her perhaps morbid curiosity getting the better of her as she arrives at the door to her bedroom. She takes a deep breath and grasps the doorknob, beginning to turn it slowly. The door opens…and the room appears to be empty. Letting out a sigh of relief, she steps into the room. The room has been ransacked, her bed thrown across the room and her dresser having been torn apart as if someone had been looking for something.

As she commences looking over the room, she notices that the closet is slightly ajar. Is someone waiting for her in there; a twisted surprise just ready to jump on her as soon as she looks inside? Alarmed, she edges toward the closet and grips the knife tightly, her knuckles turning a pale white. As she places her hand on the side of the closet door her heart stops as she pulls it open, brandishing her knife. Much to her relief, the closet too is empty. But what were the noises? As the thought is processed in her mind, she feels a cool breeze from her left.

Her eyes dart toward the open window in her room. How did she not see this when she stepped in the room? She heads toward the window and looks outside. The fire escape is empty. She shuts the window and walks out of her room, trying to search for the source of the noise. She looks into the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom and finds nothing. Like her bedroom, the bathroom has been tossed, with items strewn about the floor, another sign of utter chaos. The other bedroom is empty, with no signs of anyone having been in there recently. She breathes a sigh of relief, lets her hand holding the knife to fall to her side, letting her guard down, convinced that the intruder has left.

He has moved on from the living room now, passing through the main hallway and onto the kitchen area. The kitchen is much like they had left it, an empty wine bottle and glass in the middle of the island, several dirty dishes in the sink, a newspaper sitting on the corner of the counter on the right, just under the microwave. The clock on the microwaves flashes hypnotically with the time of 12:00, the only source of light in the enveloping darkness of the house. He places the boxes on top of the island and moves over to the newspaper, squinting to try and read the headlines of the paper. The blackness of the room proves to be too much, so he reaches into his pocket, removing his flashlight.

He shines the flashlight onto the newspaper and reads the main headline: The Collector Strikes Again. He imagines that the last person to have read this might have had a similar reaction to his: one of both fear and revulsion. He imagines being here at that moment, perhaps to provide comfort and safety in such a distressing time. How did it feel to see this? To see something that had such a personal effect on someone? What would it do to you to be constantly reminded of such despair?

He flips through the pages of the paper, his light providing the means to read them in the otherwise imposing darkness. The rest of the subjects in the paper prove to be of little interest or concern, mostly written about changes to the city as a whole and the dismal condition of the stock market. He wonders if the last reader saw these and felt the same way, electing to close the paper, only to be met with that distressing headline one last time. Was that what they saw? He leaves the paper as is, and places the empty wine glass in the sink along with the other dishes, before putting the bottle at the edge of the counter. That’s where it would always go, he thought.

Anderson, now finished for the night, saves her important work on her laptop and shuts it down, letting out a significant sigh of relief. She grabs her bag and gets out of her chair, knocking a stack of papers off of the side of her desk. She groans, but refrains from picking them up, knowing they’ll still be there in the morning. Before she leaves, she pulls out her cell phone and calls Elise. The phone rings several times before going to voicemail. I guess she’s sleeping…don’t blame her, she tells herself. Disappointed, she throws on her jacket and leaves her office. As she hurries to the elevator, she nearly bumps into the custodian, Ed.

Jesus, sorry Ed. Here I am in a hurry and I nearly knocked you on your ass.

Don’t worry about it Victoria, happens all the time. Well, not with you…with others. Say, what are you doing here so late anyways?

Working on my book…I swear, that thing will be finished eventually. I kind of get the feeling it’s a running joke around here. Ed shakes his head in disagreement.

No, no, no. What you’re working on, that’s a real good thing. Just don’t give up.

Thanks Ed, I’m glad to hear that.

And with that, the ding of the elevator arriving interrupts what may have remained of their conversation. The doors slide open as though they were an opening to a world beyond the office. The glow of the elevator lights is a welcoming beacon to Anderson and she steps inside and wishes Ed a pleasant evening. As the elevator descends to the ground floor she can’t get his comment out of her mind. Am I doing the right thing here? In spite of what he told her, she continues to have a nagging feeling that something just may not be right, after all. Yet, knowing that there is little time to worry about such things now, she leaves the building feeling accomplished, at least for the time being.

Upstairs, Ed continues to go through the offices, emptying the garbage containers and performing some general clean-up when necessary. As he reaches Anderson’s office, he notices the pile of papers scattered on the floor. I should pick these up; it’d help out Miss Anderson, he says aloud, to no one in particular. He squats down and pulls the papers together into a neat pile and places them on top of her desk. As they hit the desk, a large manila envelope protrudes from the stack of papers, the scribble-like handwriting of Anderson’s name on the front proving to be rather odd. At first, Ed is curious and wants to take a look at it. However, despite his curiosity, his affection for Anderson wins out and he simply empties the garbage and continues on his way. She’ll see it in the morning, he notes. He continues on his way, whistling as he passes through the offices.

Having convinced herself that the intruder is no longer in her apartment, the young women moves swiftly toward the front door and goes to close it. It’s at that moment that she hears a slamming noise coming from the bedroom. As she looks back, not realizing that she has not yet closed her door, she notices that the door has slammed shut. But I closed the window, she tells herself, looking for some personal reassurance. At that very moment, she feels an intense grip on her arm; someone is holding it. She spins around, swinging the knife wildly. The knife nicks the left arm of her attacker, causing them to release their grip. She dashes toward the door of her apartment, hoping to escape.

As she reaches the door, she is slammed hard from behind, her body colliding violently with the door to her apartment, shutting it. The knife in her hand falls to the floor. Still holding her against the door, the attacker reaches down and picks up the knife. Holding it for a moment, still pressing her against the door, the attacker pulls the knife back and spins her around. She’s facing her attacker now, who is wearing a black hood and some kind of mask. The mask is immediately frightening, a doll-like face that has very exaggerated features on a translucent base. The visage is something straight out of a horror movie, which only adds to her striking terror as she stares at the knife held behind her attacker’s back, its sharp edges shining in the moonlight.

Next, she feels a deep pain in her stomach as the knife is forced into her body, the tearing of her flesh and insides sending an intense pain through her nerves. Tears cascade down her face as the pain begins to overcome her. Her attacker throws her to the ground and locks the door quietly behind them. She struggles to crawl across the floor in agonizing pain, hoping to get to the phone at the other end of the room. As she crawls, she leaves a crimson red blood trail behind, changing the colour of the once-white papers on her floor to something far more distressing. She makes it to the phone as her attacker simply waits. Gripping the phone, she attempts to dial, but there is no dial tone, sending her mind into an even more profound state of panic. She turns around to see her attacker standing above her. She gets a better look at her attacker now, the mask still stirring that fear in her, the attacker wearing what appears to be a sleek black hooded jacket with basic jeans and black boots. Based on stature, it would appear that the attacker is a man, but she cannot be sure. She tries to let out a scream, but is unable to as he picks her up off the floor and sets her onto the futon.

As she continues to fight the tremendous pain she feels in her gut, she watches the attacker in front of her. She can feel the blood flowing out of her, each THUMP of her heart pushing more and more plasma out of her at a steady clip, gushing onto the futon. He continues to look through the apartment as she lie in wait on the futon, weeping in agony. Seconds later, the attacker stops in place and presses his hand to his ear.

Not yet, but it has to be here. He waits another moment. Are you sure?

She tries her hardest to scream, now able to let out a large shriek that would be sure to wake the neighbourhood. The attacker walks over and smacks her across the face with great force, the impact feeling as though she had been smacked across the face with a lead pipe, her sense of pain enhanced by her declining state. She whimpers as he begins talking to her.

If you scream again, I’ll kill you.

She tries to fight off the pain and respond to him.

You’re…you’re…goin…to kill me…anyways, aren’t you? The attacker laughs, a maniacal cackle that rivals that of a super-villain.

You’re right. But if you cooperate, I’ll make it as quick as possible. If you didn’t swing a knife at me, I wouldn’t have had to stab you in the first place; that’s on you. Now, you need to listen to me and tell me what I need to know.

Go to hell! She spits in his face, in too much pain to realize that it wouldn’t have the desired effect with his mask covering him up. Unaffected, he smacks her again.

Where is it? The sooner you tell me where it is, the sooner this will end.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why are you doing this to me?

The attacker sighs and walks over to the bedroom, opening the door. He disappears into the bedroom. Listening, she can hear him throwing stuff around in there, looking for whatever it is that he seeks. She hears him speaking in the bedroom. She tries her best to hear what he is saying, but cannot make anything out. He returns back to her and kneels down in front of her.

Where is it? He asks, his tone evidence of his quickly disappearing patience.

I don’t know what you’re talking about! She shouts, hoping that someone can hear the increased volume of her pleas.

He’s left the kitchen now, heading up the stairs and into the upper hallway, leading to several of the other rooms. The first room on the left is a little boy’s room. He steps inside, his flashlight bouncing wildly around the room as he struggles with the boxes yet again. Pulling himself together, he gazes around the room, the state of it something that he finds both depressing and strangely comforting. Like a moment trapped in time, the room speaks to events far beyond those of the present. And like the living room before it, the room has a double-meaning that changes it from one thing to something else entirely.

He kneels down near the child’s bed and reaches under, pulling out a baseball mitt and a ball. He grabs one of the boxes and unfurls it, placing the baseball and glove inside. Moving over to the dresser area, he opens the drawers one by one and places the clothes into the box. Over the course of twenty minutes, he manages to empty out much of the room, the room now no longer the image of a young boy’s room, but an area of the house without any kind of identity. Before leaving the room, he places the boxes down on the floor, next to the bed, standing motionless in the open doorway and looking toward the bathroom door, presently closed.

He takes a deep breath and moves in front of the bathroom door. He places his hand on the doorknob, and images begin to flash before his eyes; he remembers it all as though it had happened yesterday. The images continue to haunt him to this day; a frightening menagerie of pain and loss that does little to calm his soul in this place. He lets go of the knob, afraid to open the door; afraid to let even more images cloud his mind. But he knows that he has to face it; that, after so long, there is little else left to do. Steeling himself, he returns his grip to the doorknob and turns it slowly, the door opening to something he remembers far too vividly.

And then, he sees it, a ghostly image of him kneeling down over a lifeless body, his sobbing echoing through the room as he tries to will the corpse back to life. It seems the ghosts of this house will continue to haunt him for a very long time…

Her attacker places the knife against her throat. He begins to drag it across her neck, drawing blood, before stopping, suddenly.

No, that won’t do. That would draw far too much…

What are you talking about? She asks, her resolve something to behold given her current predicament.

He stands up, now having removed the knife from her proximity. He hears a knock at the door; a consistent banging and yelling coming from outside of the door. He wants to ignore it, but he chooses not to, electing to peer through the peephole to see who it is. Looking down, he notices that it is a tiny old lady slamming her fist on the door.

They’re going to call the police if you don’t answer, she says, trying to goad her attacker into opening the door. He waits a moment, and the noise stops. He checks the doorway and notices that the old bag is gone.

He laughs and turns back to her, the knife twisting and turning in his hand, the light in the room bouncing off its shiny surface in his hand as the blood flows off its tip and splatters on the floor, forming elegant droplets that leave a trail toward her. As he marches across the room, he catches a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye: it’s the manila envelope that lies on the counter in the kitchen. A smile forms on his face, although she cannot see it. Instead, she simply wonders why he has changed his trajectory, now heading for the kitchen instead of her.

As he reaches the kitchen, he whisks the envelope from off of the counter, tearing it open immediately. He looks inside to find a small notebook. This pleases him. He has now found what he was looking for. It was now time to wrap this all up. He walks back toward his victim, but passes right by her, instead heading for the bathroom. She struggles to lean over and catch a glimpse of what he is doing in the room, but the pain is too much, forcing her to simply lie back in wait for when he returns. As she waits, she hears the sounds of glass breaking and items being thrown about; she assumes that he is trashing the bathroom further, his reason currently a mystery.

Soon, he returns to her side, and grabs her by the hair. He whips her off the couch, her body hitting the floor like a tonne of bricks as he drags her toward the bathroom. She tries to fight, but the pain coupled with the loss of blood prevents her from putting up any kind of meaningful resistance. As they reach the bathroom and she sees how it has been staged, she understands what’s going on: he’s trying to make it look like a break-and-enter.

Still holding the knife, he throws her to the floor, where she lands on her back, facing up at her attacker. She begins coughing, and blood spews forth from her mouth, landing on her attacker’s clothes. He nonchalantly wipes it away and lifts the knife into the air. He drives the knife downward, plunging it into the area just under her ribcage. She feels the edge of the knife nick her rib bone as a burning sensation takes over her body as the knife enters. He releases his hand from the knife, leaving it in her body.

She flinches, but only for a moment as her eyes open and close and she struggles to survive. She coughs several times, more blood shooting forth from her mouth, dripping to the side and flowing down her face, pooling on the floor below her head. He stands over her now, saying nothing. With her last ounce of energy, she tries to speak.

Just…just…

Save your energy. It will be over soon, he responds.

But she will not listen; she has something to say that she just has to get out.

Tell me…who are you…why did you… She coughs again; more blood.

He laughs and places his hand over the mask pulling it up, revealing his face. Her eyes grow wide, her face now one of undeniable shock. She knows who this man is; she recognizes him. Seeing her face, a smile forms on his as she pulls the mask back down, shielding his identity once again. He steps over her and leaves the room, heading back toward the bedroom. He opens the bedroom window and steps out onto the fire escape. He pulls the window down, shutting it, and kicks it in with a swift boot, breaking it from the outside.

Back in the bathroom, the floor is littered with household items thrown about; the mirror shattered into shards of glass; the shower curtain torn from its hanger. And in the middle of it all lies a young woman awash in a bath of crimson, her lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling.

Chapter Two: Hole in the Wall

Victoria Anderson awakes to an empty bed, something she is not particularly used to. As her eyes dart around the room, she is confused that Elise is no longer beside her. Looking toward her nightstand, she sees that it is now 7:15 am and she knows that it’s time to get her ass out of bed. As usual, her day starts early and will likely end late, much to her chagrin. Rolling out bed, she lets out an audible shit noticing that she slept without changing out of her work clothes yet again. She steps into the bathroom and has a look in the mirror. Jesus Vicki, what did you do to yourself?

Her usually straightened red hair is a frazzled mess, a sure sign of her propensity to put work first. What little makeup she wears is smeared all over her face, giving her the look of a demented circus clown. She turns the faucet on and begins wiping her face clean, attempting to restore some of her dignity before heading out into the kitchen area. The cold water splashes against her face, making her feel instantly refreshed. After cleaning her face, she walks toward the kitchen, calling out, Elise! Babe, are you here? Elise! Confused, she reaches the kitchen to find Elise preparing a breakfast for her, wearing a band tee shirt and yoga pants, with earbuds in her ears as she dances back and forth.

Elise is about five foot six, with short black hair and red streaks. Her skin is pale, her left arm covered in a large black and red rose tattoo, a stark contrast to her milky-white skin. Her body is slender, no heavier than one-hundred and fifteen pounds. Her left foot has her only other tattoo, a crown and hearts covering the top of her foot, a personal favourite of Anderson’s. Her face is youthful and her eyes are green, filled with a vibrant energy, a feature that Anderson absolutely cannot get enough of.

Her face is shaped like a heart, and is, for Anderson, a constant reminder of the deep affection she feels for her. Anderson cannot remember a day when Elise was not there, having become a permanent fixture in her life. The music is blasting out of her earbuds, and it is no wonder that she didn’t hear Anderson’s shouts. Sneaking up behind her, she wraps her hands around her hips and kisses her neck gently. Good morning. Elise jumps and spins around, pulling the earbuds out of her ears and stopping her music.

Damn lady, you scared the shit out of me! They both laugh and offer a shy smile to each other.

Sorry! I called out to you a bunch of times, but you and those bloody headphones.

They’re called earbuds, hon. Headphones are what…

Yeah, what old people use, right? One of these days you’ll stop making me feel like I’m so much older than you.

Doubtful, she responds, offering a sly wink.

Is the paper here? Anderson asks.

I put it on the table there for you. I even opened it up to the section you like.

Okay, thanks a lot. As Anderson begins to walk over to the table, she thinks twice and returns to Elise’s side. Looking her directly in the eye, she begins to speak, Hey, I’m so sorry about last night. I just…

Elise’s eyes shift downward. It’s okay. I know what this is doing to you. I know how important…

Anderson interrupts, placing her hand on Elise’s cheek. …hey, you’re important to me too, you know. You should know that. If I could have been here, you know I would have. I’ve been too absent lately. I promise that when this is all over, it’s all about me and you. I’ll take an extended vacation…just me and you.

Elise laughs, returning her gaze to Anderson. I get it, I do. Seriously, don’t worry about it at all. Things happen sometimes. Besides, I’m proud of what you’re doing. You know how lucky I am?

Please… Anderson’s face is now bright red, a consequence of what she sees as some totally undeserved and inaccurate compliments.

I am. Elise repeats. Anderson thanks her and gives her a kiss on the lips before heading over to the table. Elise continues to cook breakfast, often sneaking a glimpse of her partner while she reads the newspaper. So tell me, what’s on the agenda for today?

Uh, I’ve got another interview.

You’re not done with those yet? How many have you done? Elise asks.

At least a few dozen. I’m really trying to get every side of this thing included. I don’t want to leave any stone unturned, you know.

That’s my girl, always being so thorough. Elise smiles at Anderson.

Yeah, but not to your benefit, apparently. Anderson offers, sarcastically.

"Shut up! I told you: what you’re doing is good work. Hell, it’s really great work. You and I both know that."

I suppose you’re right. Just, it sometimes tears at me, you know.

What does?

This book. I mean, am I really doing the right thing? I set out to do them justice, but does this really accomplish anything? I mean, it’s just a book, right? Anderson is visibly distressed by this line of thinking, a reality that Elise is acutely aware of.

But that’s exactly the point: this is how you get it out there. Nobody got to hear their sides of the story. It was everything you read in the newspapers and magazines, and then when the TV shows did their take on it. You know, all the bullshit stories?

Hey, watch it! You know I wrote some of those stories!

Elise laughs heartily. Yeah, I do; and that’s what makes this so important. You have been involved in all of this from the beginning. So stepping up and giving these people a voice is extremely important. No one else is going to do it. Besides, this is the kind of thing you’re great at.

Seriously…do you really think that? Or is this just some crap to get me feeling better?

Can’t it be a bit of both?

Too funny.

"Come on, you know it’s how I feel. Of course it’s meant to make you feel better, but you should feel better, because it’s one hundred percent true. I’m not just with you ‘cause you’re cute you know?" Elise explains in an attempt to raise Anderson’s spirits; it seems to be working.

Like I said last night, you always know what to say.

See, I’m good at things too!

Most definitely. By the way, what are you making for breakfast anyway?

It’s a surprise, but you’ll like it.

So who called this one in? Detective London asks.

One of the neighbours; said they came out of their apartment this morning and saw that the front door was open. Had a peek inside and saw that the place was a mess, so they called us. It’s pretty crazy in there, from what I hear.

Jesus, Williamson, how much of this shit goes on in this city? It seems like it gets worse every year.

It does…it does. That’s the whole problem…won’t stop. Detective Williamson runs his large hands across his face, a sign of the enduring stress he is facing as part of his job as detective.

Williamson is an old and large gentleman, with a round belly that is reminiscent of Santa Clause. His face is a symbol of his extensive experience and years on the job, weathered from a life of hard drinking and constant stress. His hair is thin and ashy gray, often combed to the side. More often than not, he finds that he has to brush it to the side to keep it out of his face. His face is always clean shaven as he seems to miss the whole appeal of any kind of facial hair. That’s the way it should be: smooth and clean he tells others when asked. His view of manhood is antiquated, but he views it as ‘classic’. Most times, he wears a long grey coat, a white dress shirt, a black tie, and suspenders to hold his pants up. Realistically, the suspenders are the only things that keep his pants on as they struggle against the might of his rotund stomach. C’mon London, let’s get in there.

As the detectives walk toward the stairs into the apartment building, they are met by two fellow officers who are watching the entrance. The officers greet them with the usual morning, detectives as they reach the top of the stairs.

Morning fellas. What’s all the commotion over there? Williamson directs the officers’ gaze to the right side of the building, where they have erected a barricade and are holding off members of the public, who seem to have been worked into a frenzy.

Not really sure. Once we got here, there were already people lined up. From what I gather, it seems to be a close community, and they don’t seem to really trust us. The officer explains.

Humph. Typical. Williamson grumbles.

Leave it alone, Harlan. London knows exactly why Williamson is annoyed at the bystanders behind the barricade, but he figures they have more important things to do than listen to another of his unwarranted rants about members of the public. The officer on the right gives London a second glance and has a perplexed look on his face. London returns his look and says, Morning officer. How are you today? The officer is taken aback for a moment and fumbles with his words.

…uh, morning Detective London. I’m good, given the circumstances. Good to have you here. The other officer now has a look of disgust on his face, embarrassed for his colleague.

Thanks. We’ll head inside now. Third floor right? The officers nod in agreement and London and Williamson head inside. As they do so, the officer on the left starts reprimanding the one on the right.

What the hell is wrong with you, dumbass? Why you gotta act like an idiot? He asks sternly.

Sorry, sorry. I just…I thought he was out of the game, you know. After all that…

Just shut up and leave it alone. Do your job. It’s a good thing they don’t pay you to think.

As London and Williamson climb the stairs to the third floor, Williamson begins to complain yet again. Is there no elevator in this place? Jesus…

London laughs, slightly amused at the continual whining of his partner. Harlan, it’s three flights of stairs. Maybe you cool it a bit on the donuts and soda, and you won’t have to worry about such simple things.

It’s a young man’s game, London; a young man’s game. London smiles and continues up the stairs toward the third floor. When they reach the third floor, they are greeted by several officers watching the entrance to the apartment building. At first glance, London notices the mess in the apartment with items scattered across the floor and the long blood trail leading toward the futon.

London and Williamson, right? The officer watching the door asks.

Yeah, that’s us. We got the call a few minutes ago. That looks pretty serious.

It’s pretty bad in there. You guys’ll have to see if for yourselves though. We’ve got the neighbours all around trying to figure out what’s going on. I don’t want anyone knowing about the details until absolutely necessary. The officer points out a sergeant inside the apartment. Go talk to the sarge over there and he’ll fill you in on the details. London and Williamson thank the officer and head into the apartment. Walking over to the sergeant, London cannot help but look over the apartment, trying to pick up on clues.

Ah, Detective London…already looking for somethin’, eh?

You know me. How are you doing, Hank? London shakes hands with the sergeant and introduces his partner. This is my partner, Detective Williamson. Williamson, this is Hank Miller; he’s a hell of a guy.

Trust me, this guy’s full of shit. Sergeant Miller offers. Good to meet you Williamson. And London, it’s good to see you, but it’s a damn shame the circumstances that bring us together. I mean, shit.

Isn’t it always? I figure it’s the nature of the job, right? But fill us in, Hank. What happened here?

From what we’ve been able to gather here, it looks like a break-in gone pretty bad. We’ve got a broken window in the bedroom which we believe is where the perp entered. He starts going through the owner’s stuff and it turns out she’s home. He comes out of the room, they struggle—which explains this crazy mess here—he stabs her and she ends up dead on the bathroom floor. It looks like she was just home at the wrong time. That’s the working theory we’re going with right now.

All right, so you want us to have a good look around then? London asks.

Yeah, of course. That’s why you guys are here: to do what you do best. Just make sure you take a look at the victim first. Miller leaves the detectives to their work as they begin looking around the apartment. First, they head to the bathroom, where they have been told that the victim can be found. Entering the bathroom, they find CSU members going over the scene, snapping photographs and marking evidence. Both the techs continue their work without acknowledging either detective before leaving the room to go elsewhere. London and Williamson observe the scene before trying to break it down.

So what do you think, London? Williamson asks.

She seems young. Did anyone get an ID on her?

Not yet. There was nothing in here with any kind of identification on it. I guess the perp took her IDs; probably going to use her credit cards and all that, explains Williamson.

Sounds like a possibility. So we’ve got two stab wounds here. It looks like, based on the positioning, that it was the second one that did her in, London surmises, pointing at the gaping wound in her stomach. She’s got some bruising here on her face too. What do you think that’s from?

London, don’t we leave this kind of shit to the coroner? Do you have to try and figure out everything right away? Williamson’s face is scrunched, seemingly tired of London trying to be a know-it-all.

You never let it go, do you? We need to figure this out. It can’t hurt to know as much as possible, can it? Williamson grunts and London continues to investigate the victim’s body. Looking at her face, blood has dried around her mouth, dripping to the floor; no doubt a result of her coughing up blood earlier. Her eyes are still open, lifeless and empty. Her hair is long, black and straight. The victim is of Asian descent and her skin is now pale, her cold body having been relieved of its lifeforce. She is slim, likely just over one hundred pounds and looks relatively healthy. Her makeup is smeared, likely a result of the struggle and ensuing trauma she experienced as a result of her stabbing. She is wearing a white tee-shirt and black pants, the tee shirt stained with the crimson red of her blood. There doesn’t seem to be any evidence of sexual assault. Her clothes are intact, and outside of the blood stain…

She seems to be the only thing in here that is relevant. Everything else is in its place. This seems like the place where it all ended. Let’s figure out where it began, London, Williamson suggests, pointing in the direction of the kitchen. London agrees and they turn their attention to the kitchen. On the opposite end of the apartment is the kitchen, closed off from the rest of the apartment. On the wall leading to the kitchen is a large painting of a skyline. To London, it looks somewhat familiar but he just can’t place it.

A nice painting, no? London asks Williamson.

Eh. Not really my style London. I like the ones that are based on movies. Give me a nice Pacino or De Niro one, and I’m good.

Don’t let anyone ever tell you you’re not refined and classy, my friend.

Up yours, London.

London laughs and heads into the kitchen, followed by Williamson. Looking around, the kitchen has grey countertops and wood coloured cabinets. Overall, the kitchen is in significantly better shape than what they have seen of the apartment so far. Only one cabinet door has been broken off its hinges, and the items that are on the counter are seemingly in their place. London continues to examine the area, looking for even the smallest thing out of place. Within seconds, he finds it: there is a single knife missing from the wooden block on the counter.

Miller, did CSU check in here yet? London calls out.

Not yet. What’s up?

Have ‘em come in here and dust the knife block. There’s a knife missing and I want to know who had their hands on it.

All right, noted. I’ll have them take a look.

London finishes looking around the kitchen, and finding nothing else worthwhile, he moves into the dining room. The dining room is tiny, holding only a white round table. The table is surrounded by four chairs, one of which is out from under the table. On the walls around the table are several more paintings, each one of a different skyline. This person really loves their skylines, eh London?

It would seem so. Do you see anything odd?

What’s all this? Williamson moves to the chair that is out from under the table and points to several pieces of paper sitting on top of the table.

What have you got there Harlan?

I’m looking. Williamson gives the papers a once over and realizes that they are receipts.

Where are they from? London inquires.

Seems they’re from a Strega Café. Ever heard of it?

I think it’s a few blocks away from here. Why would they be on the table like that?

Dunno. Seems weird to have just a few receipts lying around. We’ll have to look into it.

Definitely.

The detectives move to the left and back into the living room. In front of them is an overturned wicker chair with a red cushion. To its right is a small white end table with a telephone charger. Blood is smeared on the end table and phone charger.