Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 108342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
“…And I mean, yeah, it’s definitely a serial killer, but he doesn’t look anything like the artist sketch they were showin’ a year or so ago, ya know? I think…” And on and on Carl went until finally, Nikolai was able to wave goodbye and lock the door behind him.
He’d played it cool, surely. Kept a straight face. But that was the least of his worries.
He pressed his forehead against the door, his heart was beating so damn hard, he thought it would jump out of his chest. He grasped his shirt and squeezed. Heart attack? No… Just adrenaline mixed with anger. His mouth ran dry. He stayed that way, glued to that door, for quite some time. Then, he slowly made his way back into the kitchen. Resting his hands on the counter, using it as a crutch, he glared at the television as the music played…
The sounds of Chicano Batman’s, ‘Black Lipstick’ filled the kitchen. He picked up the remote control and wished on a prayer, a tiny, red raven petition as he turned to the local news. The weather update was on. He picked up his phone and typed in Google: Portland Beach murders.
And there it was. The photo of a man named Ethan Jacobson being carted away in handcuffs…
He read the article that was less than four hours old: Arrested for trying to kill his girlfriend… was a suspect of the OOB murders… knew two of the victims… no legal history of violence… two more women came out and said he’d also assaulted them in the past…
He read on and on, and now the love of his life’s voicemail made sense.
He replayed the message again, just as he had when he was driving home from work.
“Baby, it’s me,” came Porsche’s voice. “I know you’re busy at work and can’t answer, but there is so much shit going on regarding this case right now. Something has happened. Something big. I am going to be indisposed for at least the next week or so. I wanted to let you know in advance because there’s … there’s just a lot going on. You told me to not talk to you about the case, so I won’t, but please know that I love you. And I miss you. I’ll see you soon, okay? It might be for only ten minutes,” she chuckled sadly, “But it’ll be soon. Keep my side of the bed warm…”
He played the voicemail again. And again. And again.
When he realized there was no sense in wasting another minute, he got to his feet. He opened a lower kitchen drawer, removing his red book of whispers and a pen. Then, he jotted some things in it. Tears streamed down his face, but he kept on writing. On and on until everything he needed to say, his final plans, were there, written in black ink. When he was finished, he placed the book into a padded mailing envelope, weighed it on his little mail scale that he kept for business at home, then printed out the postage. He wrote a label with an address for it to be sent to, in neat handwriting, then grabbed his truck keys.
Getting in his vehicle, he drove in silence to the post office located less than five minutes away, and dropped it in one of the outside mailing boxes. The post office was closed for the day, but it didn’t matter. This would simply have to do. Time was standing still yet moving far too fast. There was no exact beginning, but there was definitely an end. He reckoned this was the end.
He returned home in a half daze, as if trapped in a dream he had little control of. More of a nightmare…
His head began to spin, his eyes burning to the point of temporary blindness. He fought his urges. His emotions. Someone had to pay for this… someone had to spill their blood. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, catching half of his reflection in a wall mirror. He didn’t recognize himself. The whites of his eyes seemed brighter, but his eyeballs were practically pitch black. He seethed, practically frothing at the mouth…
A chill entered the room. As he looked away from his image, something primal and animalistic came forth. His grunt turned into a growl. His growl into a scream. He could hear glass crashing, breaking all around him as he grabbed his possessions and threw them in a fit of uncontrollable rage.
Crash and burn… His body moved without his permission. He clenched his fists, teeming with disappointment and unadulterated anger.
His shirt was torn off his body by some unseen force. His mind was tormented. His heart—broken into bloody pieces. He glanced at his cellphone lying on the counter and picked it up.
Then, he called her. He was relieved that her voicemail came on. Porsche had a habit of not checking her voicemails on her personal cellphone in a timely fashion. Perhaps, this time, it would work to his advantage.