Date Night

1. Starla

Chapter 1

Starla

“ I sn’t that where they found the body?” Braylon stares at the grass-covered area in amazement.

He isn’t the only one.

I’m just as captivated by the scene.

Nothing stands out. The grass is green and lush. The large oak tree is full of thick branches and leaves.

The small area overlooks the horizon, giving an almost perfect view of the city while also offering nearly perfect privacy.

The perfect place for a romantic date and also the perfect place to stage a body.

It’s the last place the city’s most famous serial killer left his final victim.

The local news crews had a field day when the monster was still active, but there hadn’t been another killing in the last five years.

The Date Night Killer was officially old news. No one wanted to report on old news.

That’s why I know the piece I want to do will take the world by storm; I just have to get the people in this small town to open up.

Not something many of them are too happy to do.

The Date Night Killer is a black mark on the soul of this town, and they want nothing more than to pretend it never happened.

I can’t allow that.

I’m sure this documentary will put me on the map in the journalism world, so I’m going through with it no matter who has a problem with it.

“Yeah, they found the girl right there against the tree, tied up and with rose petals sprinkled around her.” I shake my head and move closer to the space.

Looking down at the area, there’s no hint of what happened there. It’s as if the earth itself tried to swallow up the bad memories and cover them up with perfectly manicured grass.

“You really think we’re going to find out more than what the police reported?” Braylon asks, a glint of excitement in his eyes.

“I don’t know what we’re going to find, but I can tell you this: if everything was already out in the open, the local PD wouldn’t be bitching so much about me doing this documentary. No, there’s more, and we’re going to find it.” I smile wide at Braylon and slap him a high five.

This is definitely going to be the documentary of the year.

The high of seeing the crime site plummets to a depressing low the minute I walk into my rental home.

It’s the first time I’m seeing it in person. I set everything up online via Craigslist. Of course, the pictures look nothing like the real thing.

The real thing is nothing more than a shit show.

It’s a small one-bedroom house. It’s more than enough space, but that’s the only good thing I can say about it.

The living room is stained and has a strong odor to it. The paint is peeling off the lemon-lime colored walls. The furniture is run down. It’s so bad I’m almost scared to sit. I could buy a few pieces while I’m here, but that would mean I’d have to use my limited resources. Either I use everything I have to get this documentary off the ground or I live comfortably. There’s no in-between.

With a sigh, I grab my suitcase and walk to the back where the bedroom is.

The quilt on the bed looks like it’s seen better days, but luckily I brought my own. I don’t go anywhere without it.

Carefully, not to pull any of the threads, I grab the quilt from my suitcase.

A frog forms in my throat as I see all the patches. My mother worked on this quilt for nearly a year, making sure to find the perfect ones. Ones that reminded me of her.

She knew I’d need it after she was gone. I press the familiar fabric to my face and inhale. I’ve washed it, but I swear I can still smell her perfume.

“Oh, Mom, I miss you,” I whisper to no one in particular.

I collapse onto the bed and wrap the quilt around my body.

Closing my eyes, I let the tears I’ve been trying to hold back wet the musty-smelling pillow under my head.

“Just a minute. I’ll lay here for just a minute,” I promise myself while I sob at the thoughts of my mother’s final days.

Images of her sunken face lined with pain and exhaustion flash behind my eyelids, and I cry harder.

She fought so hard for so long. When she first passed away, I’d been angry at her. I couldn’t understand how she could let herself get so sick.

My mother made sure I had everything I could ever want and need, but she did it at her own expense. She never bought herself anything new, she never splurged on a pretty piece of jewelry, and she definitely never went to the doctor.

Not until it was too late.

By the time she made her appointment, her ovarian cancer was already in stage three.

She fought hard, but after two years of pain, she died.

Now that I’m a little older, I know she didn’t die on purpose. I’ve let go of the anger, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let go of the grief.

The tears blur my vision, and I blink to try to clear my sight.

As the room comes back into focus, I look down at my bag; papers are sticking out from the side.

Research from the Date Night Killer case.

“I’m going to make you proud, Momma. Just wait and see.” I wipe my tears with the corner of the quilt as I reach down with my free hand and pull out the papers.

My mother sacrificed her entire life for me; the least I can do is give this my all.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have anything to say.” The door closes in my face.

It’s the third house Braylon and I have been to—the third house where the door was closed in my face.

“This is impossible.” Braylon shuts off the camera in his hand and stuffs it back into the small protective bag.

“It’s like he’s their personal Beetlejuice or something. Like if they talk about him, he’ll reappear.” I shake my head, forcing some of the frustration to seep out of my body.

“Well, you know they never actually caught him. He just stopped,” Braylon wags his eyebrows.

“Of course I know.” I shove his arm and point to a small café on the corner.

It’s no use knocking on any more doors today. No one is going to talk to us.

The smooth, warm scent of freshly brewed coffee slams into my nostrils as Braylon and I make our way inside.

There’s no line, so we walk right up to the counter.

“What can I get you folks today?”

My eyes track up to the menu, and I mentally do a tally of how much budget I have left.

It’s definitely not enough to splurge on any extravagant empty calories.

“A medium black coffee,” I answer quietly.

“Same for me,” Braylon adds on before giving the cashier behind the counter a sweet grin.

I step over to the side while the two of them small talk and flirt with each other.

Honestly, I’m not paying much attention. Instead, I’m worried about the deadline I promised myself I’d meet.

There’s a film festival back in New York I want to get my documentary into. That isn’t going to happen if I can’t get it off the ground.

“That sounds like a great idea.” Braylon nudges me in the side, and I jerk out of my daydream.

“Hmm, I’m sorry?”

“Always working.” Braylon tsks and stares at me pointedly. “I was just telling Missy that we were looking for a few more people to help with the documentary. You know, like natives, people who know all the places to visit.” Braylon hitches one of his eyebrows, angling his body so that Missy doesn’t see him.

Braylon may have been trying to get in good with the pretty barista, but he was also working our angle as well.

One of the main problems with doing a documentary about a town killer is that most everyone in the town wants to forget about it. They definitely don’t want to talk to a stranger about it. The hope is that if they see a familiar face, the locals might be a bit more receptive.

Braylon and I need this, and all it takes is a bit of harmless flirting.