The Bachelorette Party, page 2
SUSPECT VEHICLE SILVER LINCOLN.
Glancing around, I realize I’m searching for a silver Lincoln. But of course I don’t find it.
My mom said she wished they had the Amber Alert in her day. Then, her sister might have been found. I don’t know much about Lissa, since she went missing before I was born and Mom doesn’t like to talk about her, but she cries when her birthday comes around. It doesn’t take Freud to trace this as the probable root of my true crime obsession. Someone like an Eric Myers probably took her, someone who slipped away and might still be out there. But they never found him, or her, so we will never know for sure. And that’s what kills my mom.
I put the phone back in my pocket.
“Oh look,” Melody says, pointing. “A farm. How rustic.”
I barely see the farmhouse as we whip by. After a series of detours and missed turns, we are finally nearing our destination. The car shoots snow off in all directions, climbing the long and winding driveway. I keep thinking we must be there, and then we hit yet another turn. At last, an old wooden cabin comes into sight in the distance, dark and brooding.
“Surprise,” Melody trills, jumping in her seat.
“Where the hell are we?” I ask, twisting to get a closer look. “It looks like the set of a horror movie.”
“You’ll see,” she says, as we creep up the long stone driveway. Overgrown trees and bramble arch into an arbor over us. Branches scrape along the windows as we pull closer to what looks like a decrepit hunting lodge.
“Interesting,” I say, since I have no idea what else to say. I put my nose against the cold window as we get closer and closer. The car finally reaches the house. Lainey cuts the engine, the wind whistling around us, rocking our car. We sit in silence a moment as I scrutinize the place.
“Oh my God.”
“Right?” Melody comments, grinning.
“No way.” I huff on the window to get a better look. “Is this really it?”
Lainey reaches over the seat to sock me in the shoulder, the punch both playful and unintentionally painful. “Happy bachelorette party.”
“I can’t believe this,” I say, rubbing my arm from the punch.
Lainey gets out of the car, hurries to the trunk, and pops it open with a creak. “Come on,” she barks. “It’s freezing out here.”
“I’m coming,” I say. Though apprehension spirals in me as I open the car door, still staring at the lodge. Because standing in front of us is the very place featured on the glossy cover of The 666 Killer book.
The hunting lodge where Eric Myers stabbed a woman to death.
And scrawled 666 all over the walls in her blood.
CHAPTER FOUR
JUNE
The Unexpected Killer, Season 4, Episode #18, “The 666 Killer”
“Eric Myers denies it. To this day, he denies it,” Fletcher Fox says.
“And we take a different perspective,” Detective Connor answers, with an air of weary politeness. “As did the courts.”
Fox offers a dramatic pause, a technique he employs more often than necessary. He leans forward in his painfully dated sky-blue jeans and a royal-blue suede vest, his posture suggesting earnest social worker. Meanwhile, Detective Connor sports the classic, never-out-of-fashion bedraggled detective look. He sits back in his chair, his top button straining at a bull-like neck, a fine lace of rosacea across his nose and cheeks.
I swallow the last piece of toast and jam, as Babushka tries to lick the plate. “Hey,” I say, shoving her away, and she answers with an annoyed meow.
“Some have said you just homed in on Eric Myers, and that was that. You didn’t bother to look at any other suspects.” Fox bestows yet another long pause. “How would you answer that accusation?”
“I would answer that they were wrong,” responds the detective, his politeness waning. “We did a very thorough investigation. And I stand by my department’s findings, a hundred percent.” He touches the knot of his tie. “And I’ll say this as well. With everyone we asked, one name just kept coming up, again and again.”
“And that was …”
Fun fact: Fletcher Fox’s real name is Jerry Samuels, the most forgettable name that ever existed. I don’t get why he gets $4.2 million every year, but ratings don’t lie. Viewers love the guy. Toby says I could learn something from him, and she’s probably right.
“That was Eric Myers,” the detective confirms. “Again and again. Eric Myers.”
“And why do you think that is? That people kept coming back to his name?” That’s another Fox special, besides trademark cheesy clichés: his ridiculously easy questions.
“Well, there’s the obvious, of course,” the detective says, with a chuckle.
Fletcher Fox responds with a chuckle as well (though it seems in poor taste to be chuckling about a serial murderer).
“And then there was the eyewitness statement from the survivor. Leigh Jones,” Detective Connor says. “An extremely reliable witness. More than most, I would say.”
“So he matched the EFIT?” Fox asks, throwing another softball out there. Right on cue, the Electronic Facial Identification Technique appears on the screen.
There’s something unsettling about these computer-generated faces. I have a certain nostalgia for the old-school sketch-artist caricatures. Now all the suspects look like video game villains.
“Perfectly. Matched it a hundred percent. Blue eyes. Tall,” the detective says.
I jot this down, squinting at the EFIT. Blue eyes. Tall.
Babushka tries to bat my pen.
“And then, of course,” Fox says, a smile playing on his lips. He literally somehow gets a smile to play on his lips. “That very crucial detail.”
“Yes, of course,” the detective answers. “Crucial.”
A picture of a smiling Nicole White and then a frowning Eric Myers swoop onto the screen, followed by an overdramatic voice-over.
“What did Eric Myers have that clinched it for detectives? Find out. When we return to … The Unexpected Killer.”
I press pause on the ham-fisted cliffhanger, when suddenly hands are around my neck.
A hot whisper in my ear.
“Boo.”
“Jay,” I yell at him, jumping up in the seat. “You scared the hell out of me.”
He half sits on the desk, facing me with a Cheshire grin. Babushka slides under his arm for some pets, and Jay obliges. “You watch too many serial killers shows.”
I push away my breakfast plate, spilling toast crumbs, which Babushka pounces on. “Fletcher Fox is actually much more frightening than any serial killer.”
Jay lets out a low baritone laugh. It’s a lovely laugh. He crosses his arms, his shoulders straining the fabric of his soft blue shirt. He wears the shirt a lot ever since I told him it’s my favorite. The bright blue color brings out the silver-blue in his eyes. Jay effortlessly nails the casually wealthy look, an understated yet bespoke button-down, and indigo creased jeans that cost more than my last paycheck.
Sometimes I still can’t believe we’re dating, let alone getting married, like characters in a novel, with an over-the-top meet-cute.
I had just gotten over Chris and wasn’t looking for anyone. I was buying a round for some Crimeline interns after work, and a drunk asshole kept badgering me. To my right, I heard this uber-sexy Australian accent.
“Oi, mate. She’s not into you. Move on.”
The drunk buffoon puffed his chest up in one of those oh-yeah-what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it maneuvers, and then staggered back, stunned. I didn’t even see the punch. The drunk guy’s friends scuttled him away and, with my mouth open, I turned to look at this ridiculously handsome man. Smoldering, if I had to pick an adjective.
I said something witty like “Um, hi,” and he rubbed his hand and said, “I know I’m supposed to act all macho and everything, but I think I just broke my bloody knuckle.” So, I dunked his hand in my Moscow mule, though it didn’t fit very well, and said, “How’s that?” And he laughed that musical laugh and said, “I’m thinking I should marry you.”
Of course he was joking. At least, I thought so.
“You going to work?” I ask, feeling shiftless in my pajamas, even on my remote day.
“Meeting Eli for breakfast,” he says.
“Mmph,” I say.
I don’t much like Eli, probably because he doesn’t much like me. He’s a glad-hander, always dressed in garish suits, his laugh as loud as his linebacker body. I wouldn’t care, if I didn’t catch his expression when we first met, his lips curling with disdain. He clearly saw me as beneath him (and Jay) and was unpleasantly surprised to learn of our engaged status a few months later.
Jay says Eli likes me fine, that I’m just paranoid about our age difference. Maybe he’s right. But then again, Jay might be blinded by his own self-interest. They have a symbiotic relationship. Eli brings his hedge fund some heavy-hitting clients, and in return, Jay makes Eli a lot of money.
Jay leans in to kiss me now, and I notice the bruise under his eye has turned from eggplant to yellow-gray, the half-moon shape almost faded entirely now. I reach out to touch it, and he captures my hand.
“I’m sorry about that,” I say.
Shaking his head, he kisses my hand with an air of chivalry, then stands up from the table. “See you later,” he says.
CHAPTER FIVE
NOW
I stamp my boots on the frayed rug, then take off my gloves, wincing as the fabric catches my scabby knuckles. “This place is amazing,” I say, gazing around.
“We know how much you love haunted houses,” Melody says, blowing on her hands. “So we figured … why not a real one?”
She’s right. I’ve dragged them to every spooky Halloween haunted house I could find, sometimes miles away. Nightmare Manor, The Haunted Screampark, The Headless Horseman’s Farm … the bloodier the better. But I’ve never been to an actual murder house.
“How did you guys find this place?” I ask.
“Vrbo,” Melody says, then makes a cartoonish brrr sound. She still has her hat on, a red-checkered hunting hat with earmuffs. I can’t figure out if she wears it ironically or not. She rubs her arms in her oversized pea coat. “They actually mention it in the write-up,” she says, putting on a spooky voice and waggling her fingers. “The haunted 666 house.”
“Plus it was cheap.” Lainey unzips her coat in a sharp motion. “Because it got mostly one stars.”
“Yeah, well,” Melody says, kicking off her boots. “It’s the ghoulish thought that counts.”
I take off my boots with some reluctance. The place is freezing. “You think there might be functioning heat at least?” I ask. I can still see my breath.
“Hopefully,” Melody says, in a singsong voice. Smoothing her hand against the wall, she finds the light switch and flips it on with a thunk. The overhead light buzzes and flickers, lighting the room a dull, gloomy gray.
Lainey spots the thermostat. “Jesus. This thing was set at fifty-five.” She twists the knob, the hum of the heating unit immediately sounding.
Walking on the knotty wooden floor in my thin socks, I pass the teeny square kitchen and venture into the great room. A chipped fieldstone hearth covers one wall, with a matted sheepskin rug on the floor. Two mismatched sofa chairs sit in each corner, and a forest-green leather loveseat, lined with cracks and scratches, faces the fireplace. I can’t help but picture the black-and-white crime scene overlaid on the room, a woman crumpled on the floor, her limbs askew, a black slash over her eyes to protect her identity.
And blood on the wall, 666. The numbers dripping.
I shiver.
“It’ll be warm in our sleeping bags at least,” Melody says, misreading the gesture. She starts wandering around the room to investigate and grabs a heavy metal tennis racket that was leaning against the hearth for some unknown reason. “Tennis, anyone?” she asks, taking a swing. She examines the racket, plucking the strings. “This is so random.”
“It is that,” I answer.
She puts the racket back down with a clunk, wandering about again. “There’s supposed to be a bedroom too somewhere. With a bathroom and a shower.”
I plop onto one of the sofa chairs. “Bachelorette Girl calls the bedroom,” I say.
Melody opens one of the doors and peers down. “This one’s the basement,” she says, her voice echoing. She keeps walking, then opens another door with a creak. “And here’s the bedroom.” Then she pauses. “Oh my.”
With that intro, Lainey and I hop up to join her, crowding the doorway to see a small room with a twin bed, a rough, gray flannel blanket tucked in with military precision around it. There is indeed a shower in the corner, with a childish plastic curtain decorated with bright yellow ducks. The curtain hangs half open, revealing rings of rust on the concrete floor.
“On the other hand,” I say, stepping out of the doorway. “Bachelorette Girl doesn’t really want the bedroom.”
“Yeah,” Lainey says, retreating as well. “That’s gonna be a hard pass for me too.”
“We’ll just sleep together in the great room,” Melody says. “OG slumber party.”
But the thought makes me stiffen.
Almost unconsciously, I check my phone to see if Jay has texted. But he hasn’t. Then again, I don’t have any signal right now. If he had called or texted, I probably wouldn’t have gotten it.
Lainey flops onto the sheepskin rug. “I can’t believe vegan Melody got a place with a dead animal rug.”
“I checked,” Melody answers. “The owner said it was ethically sourced.”
Lainey snorts. “I doubt the sheep thought so.”
“Why don’t we get a fire going?” Melody suggests, pointedly changing the subject. “Now, let’s see … where are the matches?” she says, surveying the pile of logs stacked against the hearth. A rusty axe leans against it, next to the tennis racket. A few charred logs remain on the grate. Her eyes rove around the room. “Matches … matches … matches …”
“I’ll find some,” I mutter, climbing off the sofa.
Wandering around, I pull out a side table drawer, which sticks, then squeaks open. A flat, old-fashioned compass slides around. Pens. Random keys. Rubber bands. No matches. So, I check out the small cube of a kitchen, the hardwood floor scratched and warped. Two schoolhouse wooden chairs crowd the butcher block table. The appliances feature a grimy minifridge and a grimier electric stovetop. I open one of the wooden cabinets, revealing a few random cans of soup, and on the shelf above, mismatched cups, bowls, and plates.
“Any luck?” Melody calls.
“Not yet,” I answer, opening another drawer to find cheap cutlery, and yet another drawer with a spool of twine and more pens.
“Come on,” Lainey yells from the family room. “It’s freezing in here.”
Opening another junk drawer, I find a Swiss Army knife, various coins, random keys, rainbow-colored rubber bands, and … matches. “Got them,” I call back.
I check one more drawer for more in case we run out, but it holds just one object—a long sharp kitchen knife. A vision breaks through of Eric Myers grabbing it. Stabbing Nicole White over and over again.
I slam the drawer shut.
CHAPTER SIX
JUNE
Dear Alex,
Thanks for using the messaging system.
In answer to your first question, yes, I would love to do an interview. I understand that it has to be virtual. If you can set it up, I’ll be there. (It’s not like I have anywhere else to be, lol.)
Now, onto your other questions, which are certainly reasonable.
I do know about the The Unexpected Killer episode. I saw it on television here. (Bizarre, right?) One of the guys told me that was meta. I have no idea what that means. But anyway, I decided not to even be in it. They asked me. But it was going to be a frame job, I could tell that right away. Let’s just say, the show got a lot of things wrong. So here are the facts, okay?
The EFIT picture. WHAT A JOKE! That was their big piece of evidence, right? I’m really sorry for Leigh Jones and all she went through. But she was in shock, right? You can’t really trust what you see in that situation. Even so, let’s take what she said as valid for now. She said he had blue eyes. BLUE. She was definite on that point.
My eyes are not blue, they are green. The lawyers said that in the right light they might look blue but that’s just complete bullshit. They don’t look blue at all. They are definitely green, I repeat. Green.
I consider this argument, which seems wanting. From the courtroom close-ups, his eyes appeared a sort of blue-green, more blue in some, more green in others. And this isn’t exactly an Elton John song. In the shadowy light, Leigh Jones picked the best color she could. So no, I’m not buying that.
1. She also said the killer was tall. I’m not short, but I’m not that tall either. I’m five-eleven. They booked me at six feet but they didn’t even measure me. That’s just what they booked me as. I know I’m not six feet. Most of my friends are over six feet so I know that for sure.
This argument seems similarly lame. First off, I highly doubt they didn’t measure him. His mugshot probably shows his exact height. And anyway, Leigh Jones said he looked about six feet. It’s not like she was carrying a ruler.
2. THE GUY WAS WEARING A BALACLAVA!!!! How could she really even tell what he looked like when she couldn’t see his face. (I don’t own a balaclava by the way).
Yeah, okay. He might have a point about the balaclava.
So you may be wondering why didn’t I tell my lawyer all this, well I DID tell my my lawyer all this but he sucked. He just wanted me to plead guilty so he could move on to another case. But I couldn’t afford a real one, you know?
Anyway, you sound really smart—being a journalist and all. I never graduated from high school, but I’m working on my GED for when I get out of here.
Because believe me, Alex. One of these days, I will get out of here.
Sincerely,
