Chapter 7 Eddie
Eddie
Coffee. That’s all I need. Just enough caffeine to get me home without driving into a ditch.
The bell over the Gas N’ Go door jingles, and that’s when I see her.
Not behind the counter, but standing in the snack aisle, methodically restocking chips.
Black hair falling past her shoulders like a curtain.
Curves that don’t fit this city’s idea of beauty.
There’s something oddly graceful about her movements, like she’s half underwater, existing in a different current than the rest of us.
She doesn’t notice me watching. Most people don’t. It’s the one skill from my military days that’s actually useful in this job—the ability to observe without being observed.
It’s not her appearance that catches my attention, though she’s striking in her own way. It’s how she holds herself, like someone who’s been broken and put back together with the wrong pieces. Someone who’s wearing their body like an ill-fitting suit.
I grab my coffee from the machine, add enough sugar to make my teeth ache, and drift toward her.
Her head turns slowly as I approach. Blue eyes size me up, calculating, looking for a threat, escape routes, weaknesses. I recognize the look because I wear it myself.
“Can I help you?” Her voice is husky, unused. Like she saves her words for necessity rather than to fill silences.
“Just letting you know I’ll pay for my coffee whenever you’re ready.” I smile, aiming for polite. “Detective Eddie Crowe. Sheriff’s department.”
Something flickers behind her eyes at the mention of the sheriff’s department. Not quite fear, more like recognition. Maybe even purpose. I file that away.
“Sera Vale.” She shifts her weight subtly, redistributing herself, making herself smaller. “Just moved in.”
“Ah, I’ve heard. The old Milligan place on Lakeview, right? The one they say is haunted?” I take a sip of my coffee. It tastes like hot dirt with notes of plastic and a side of crusty socks. “Brave choice.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” she says, but her fingers twitch to her throat, and her eyes drift momentarily toward the window, like she’s remembering something that contradicts her statement.
Lie number one.
“What brings you to Wichita? Not many people choose this place on purpose.”
She gives me a practiced smile that never reaches her eyes. “Just needed a change. Somewhere quiet. Less noise.”
That’s lie number two, maybe three if we’re counting the smile.
Her shoulders are too tense for someone seeking quiet.
Her eyes scan the store every eleven seconds—the door, the windows, the rest of the snack aisle, blind spots.
The habits of someone who expects danger, like someone who’s been hurt before.
“Well, welcome to Wichita,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Though I should warn you, it’s not as quiet as the brochures claim.”
Especially with a serial killer running rampant. And what happened to David Farley just yesterday.
I shake my head to rid myself of the thought.
“It seems peaceful enough,” she replies, turning back to the shelves.
“The quiet ones are always hiding something.” I pause. “Cities and people.”
That gets me a real look. A fraction of genuine interest before her cool mask slides back.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I know before checking that it’s not good news. Nothing good happens at 10:57 p.m.
It’s a text from Vincent: Another body. Red Hands’ signature. Get here.
Then he sends me an address.
The coffee suddenly tastes even worse.
“I should get going,” I tell her, pocketing my phone.
“I’ll ring you up.”
I follow her to the checkout desk, eying her ass but not being obvious about it. It’s round and full, and an image of me grabbing handfuls of it while she rides my cock siphons through my professional exterior.
At the checkout, I get a closer look at her face. There’s a kind of hollowness there that sleep won’t fix. I see the same look in my mirror sometimes.
She rings me up. “One dollar, seven cents.”
I hand her exact change, our fingers briefly touching. Hers are cold despite the warmth of the store. She withdraws her hand quickly.
“Uh, listen,” I begin. “A word of caution since you’re new here. We’ve had some…incidents recently. Careful’s not a weakness. Stay vigilant, okay?”
What I don’t say is that the serial killer targets women who fit her demographic. The Missing Persons bulletin board at the front of the gas station is proof of that.
She stiffens at my words, like I’ve struck a nerve. “I can handle myself, Detective.”
“Never doubted it for a second.” I toss my empty cup in the trash. “But whatever you came here looking for, just make sure it doesn’t find you first.”
Something shifts in her expression. Surprise, maybe, like I’ve seen through her in a way she wasn’t expecting.
“I’m not looking for anything,” she says too evenly. “Just peace and quiet, remember?”
“Right.” I nod, heading for the door. “Good night, Ms. Vale.”
“Night, Detective.”
I walk out, committing everything I’ve already cataloged about her to memory.
Her name’s Sera Vale. Her hair dyed. Dark under the fluorescents, but the roots show signs of being much lighter.
License plate on her beat-up Honda has Wyandotte County tags.
No wedding ring, no tan line where one would be.
Tattoo peeking from her work shirt collar, something angular and dark.
Not decorative, but meaningful, like she’s branded herself with something she never wants to forget.
Eyes that have seen shit they shouldn’t have. That know things no one should know.
Very fuckable ass.
Back in my cruiser, I quickly punch her name into the database, but nothing comes up. No issued driver’s license. No priors. No credit history. No employment history. No social media footprint. No previous addresses.
Either she’s brand new to existence, or she’s cleaned house. Scrubbed herself from the system and changed her name.
I’m about to plug in her license plate number instead when the radio crackles. “Detective Crowe, you copy?”
“Go ahead.”
“Victim identification confirmed. Female, Caucasian, thirty-two. Name’s Margot Ellison. Sheriff wants you at the scene ASAP.”
My fingers freeze on the steering wheel. Margot. The name clicks instantly.
I look back at the gas station, where Sera is restocking the chips again.
Margot Ellison. The former Gas N’ Go clerk with the bright smile who’d lived here since high school. Got herself a new apartment, new boyfriend. Was reinventing herself, people said. Going back to school finally for her nursing degree.
The same Margot who’d filed a harassment complaint against Rick, the gas station manager, about a month back right after she quit.
Is Rick Red Hands? Is he capable of the kind of gruesome, ritualistic murders we’ve been finding? His car isn’t here in the parking lot, so where is he?
A sudden, inexplicable feeling of protectiveness floods my veins as I watch Sera through the store window. She’s a complete stranger, but I recognize a haunted soul when I see one. She could also be a potential next victim, of either Rick or Red Hands, or both if they’re one and the same.
She’s not mine.
But I’ll make sure no one else gets to pretend she’s theirs.