Chapter 1 #2
The itch from earlier is back. It urges me to ditch work and act on the new information I dug up.
I remind myself that I can’t let the dark urges of my soul control me.
By noon at Mocha Lisa, I’m ready to crawl into a hole and sleep for the next twenty years like Rip Van Winkle, but a little dose of energy shows up in the form of a loud, five-foot-nine woman that I call my best friend, Blake Jennings.
“Ding! Dong! The bitch is here!” Blake throws her arms in the air as she stands in front of me on the other side of the register.
Half of her short mahogany hair is tied in a knot on top of her head.
Her oversized cream sweater hangs almost to her knees, and her cozy scarf makes me want to curl up on my couch with a fluffy blanket.
Blake rests her hands on her curvy hips. “Where the hell did you go last night? You hung my ass out to dry.”
She knows I don’t swear and is determined to hear me say at least one curse word. She’s convinced herself that if she does it enough in front of me, one day I’ll slip up.
I shake my head, laughing at her vivaciousness. “I’m sorry. It was late. I had the morning shift.”
Yesterday, Blake had a gallery opening to showcase her renowned oil paintings, but her charcoal portraits are my personal favorite.
After the show, we went out to a bar with some of her friends, and when ten o’clock rolled around, I was beat.
Besides, she seemed happy cozied up next to the handsome Henry Cavill look-alike who bought her a drink.
Blake narrows her eyes, pretending to be skeptical, but she knows I’m not a partier when I have work. I like to relax and have fun just like anyone else, but when I have to open Mocha Lisa, I’m in bed early like a grandma.
I shrug a shoulder. “Pumpkin oat milk latte, no foam with a pump of vanilla to make up for bailing?”
Blake cracks a smile. “You know how to worm your way into my heart.”
When I’m done making her drink, I make my own and take my break, enjoying my thirty minutes of freedom sitting with my friend on one of the cushy couches.
She catches me up on what I missed when I left the evening before, and I tell her about my usual morning commute to work. It’s a normal conversation.
Blake gets quiet after she takes the last sip of her coffee. She sets her empty cup down as her gaze darts to the side.
“What’s going on?” I question.
She sighs and clasps her hands together. “I got a news notification on my phone. Normally, I ignore those, but this one caught my attention.”
“What was different about it?”
Blake speaks softly so no one else can hear. “It was about the women who have been killed in the last month and a half.”
I tilt my head to the side. “What did it say?”
“Some think it’s John the Baptist…”
Alarms go off in my brain, and my eyes bounce around the room as if there’s a threat in my immediate vicinity. “That’s not possible. You know it’s not.”
Blake is the only person in my life who knows who my father is. I haven’t confided in anyone else. When I was eighteen, I had people following me around and harassing me. They might as well have had pitchforks and torches.
“I know. I just want you to be careful, okay?” She places her hand on mine.
Covering her hand with my other, I nod my head. “I will.”
“Promise you’ll call me if something happens?”
I nod again.
Her phone beeps, and she checks the screen. “I have to go. The gallery owner needs me to sign some paperwork.” She stands to leave but turns back. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” Waving her off, I even add a smile for good measure.
Her shoulders rise and fall, then she turns and exits into the cold.
When she’s out of sight, my head falls, resting against the back of the couch. I rub my eyes and massage my temples, warding off my impending headache.
This is not what I need right now. Living my day-to-day life is already difficult enough. I can’t add this to my plate as well.
Heaving myself up, I clock back into work and continue my shift.
When the clock strikes two in the afternoon, and other employees show up to take over, I don’t wait around for permission to leave. I clock out, grab my things, and say my goodbyes.
I successfully escape Mocha Lisa and dart away. The train ride back to Brooklyn is uneventful. When I step onto the platform, I finally allow myself to slow down.
A tingle grates over my skin, creating an urge deep in my muscles. I know what I need to do. I know how to get rid of it, but I can’t act on it yet. I have to be smart because I don’t want to be like him.
After my father was arrested, I had to switch to online classes to escape the taunts and threats at school.
It got even worse when someone leaked the address of our apartment online.
Police were slow to respond to my 911 calls, so I changed my last name from Bartlett to Foster and moved apartments immediately after I finished high school.
I never attended Davis College, as my father had wanted, and I refused to make an appearance at his trial.
Agent Marreli showed me the evidence they had compiled that led them to my father the night he was hauled off in handcuffs.
Even though my father never admitted to the murders, I knew it was him.
Marreli was right. The evidence was damning.
The smell of stir fry drifts to my nose from Taki Yuki as I find it increasingly difficult to put one foot in front of the other. I’ll order ramen after I’ve taken a nap.
Trudging up the stairs to my apartment, I find a small, wrapped package on my doormat. It’s no larger than the size of my fist.
Who would send me something? Not many people know I, John’s daughter, live here. Did someone release my address again?
Shoving the box into my bag, I look over my shoulder, waiting for someone to pop out and yell, “Gotcha!”
When that doesn’t happen, I scramble to get my door unlocked and duck inside my apartment.
My apartment looks just as I left it. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s not a total dump.
The kitchen is big enough for one person, which is all I need.
I got my couch second-hand from someone online.
A tall cube shelf divides the space in two, creating a makeshift living room and bedroom.
On the other side of the shelf is my desk, my bed, the bathroom, and a sliding door that leads to my little balcony.
I lean my back against the door to take a deep breath, but before I can shut it, I’m pushed forward as someone shoves the door back open.
“What the…” I whirl around with my hand in my bag, gripping a carbon fiber handle. I’m ready to whip out the sharp blade of my knife when a familiar face walks through the door.
Nate Reed. My boyfriend.
I’m not in the mood for this.
“What are you doing here?” My question comes out sharper than I intended.
Nate hits me with his ice blue irises. “Can’t a guy drop by to see his girlfriend?” He takes a step toward me, but I move back. He tries to keep the hurt look off his face, but it’s plain as day.
We met one night when Blake took me clubbing, and he was at one of the places we went. He was cute, and Blake convinced me to give him a chance, so I did. He’s a good-looking guy. Tall, pretty hair, nice smile. But he texts me nonstop, and he tells me all the time how rich his dad is.
I haven’t dated much, and I got tired of the string of bad dates. And anyone who did stick around for more than a week eventually left for the same reason…
Nate slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I came by to hang out. I figured we could order dinner in, cuddle on your couch, watch Netflix…”
I’m really not in the mood for that.
Shaking my head, I move around Nate to open the door all the way. “Not tonight, Nate. I’m tired, and I’ve been on my feet for hours. I’m going to turn in early and get some sleep. I have another opening shift tomorrow.”
Nate pouts. He actually pouts.
A thirty-year-old man stands in my apartment and pouts like a child when I tell him that I’m not in the mood to have sex tonight.
How is this my life?
“Come on, Savannah. We’ve been going out for a while now—”
I cut him off to correct him. “It’s only been a week.”
Nate continues as if I didn’t speak at all. “And I was hoping that we could…you know.”
My eyebrows shoot up and just about fly off my face. “Are you serious?”
“Well…” He fidgets, like he’s embarrassed to confirm. “Yeah.”
I don’t hesitate to respond. “No.”
“But…”
“It’s time for you to leave,” I insist and wave my hand toward the empty hallway outside my apartment.
The hurt look on Nate’s face morphs into anger. “Fine. But this is over.” He motions his hand between us.
Rolling my eyes, I spit out a sarcastic reply as he stomps out. “I’m so sad.”
“You know what? You’re lucky I even went out with you!” He points a finger in my face.
I scoff. “You took me on two horrible dates. One was to a sports bar where you couldn’t stop staring at the waitress’s boobs, and the other was to a so-called ‘toy museum’ where there were headless dolls in fish tanks.”
“I told you that I wasn’t staring at her boobs! She had a stain on her uniform!” He shouts as his face turns red.
“You’re pathetic.” My lips tighten into a thin line.
“Is it so wrong that I wanted to spend time with my girlfriend?” His gestures get bigger as his frustration increases.
This has gone on long enough. I don’t care what he thinks of me. I just want him out of my life. “I’m going to ask you again. Leave or else I’ll make you wish you’d never met me. It won’t be pretty. I’ll do more than just throw a fit at your workplace. I’ll make you bleed.”
Nate’s face pales at my threat. “You’re crazy! This is so over! I don’t want to date a fucking psycho!” He runs out like he’s on fire and searching for a bucket of water.
His words, though spoken in fear, still hold truth.
I am crazy. I am a psycho.
My hands vibrate as I slam my door and lock it up again. With Nate finally gone, I pull out the box I found earlier. Setting it on my kitchen counter, I gently tear open the wrapping. Inside is a velvet jewelry box. The kind of box someone gets from an expensive store.
I snap open the box, and the piece I find inside causes me to stop breathing. I almost become catatonic.
A gold pendant necklace with a small daisy the size of a nickel and a diamond in the middle.
I hate daisies.
Only my father called me that.
Beneath the chain of the necklace is a note typed on a torn piece of paper.
For the pure of heart and body who walk among the unholy.
Love,
Your Shepherd
I slam the box closed and drop it in my kitchen trash.
How did he send this? How could he even afford it? How does he know where I live?
The urge from earlier grows into a need. I have to listen. I can’t ignore it.
I drop my knife on my bed and dig through my purse, retrieving the papers I printed this morning at The Circuit. Then, changing my clothes, I go through my ritual.
Hair up, thick black eyeliner, knives in my pockets, gloves on, boots double-knotted.
I look myself over in the mirror to make sure everything is in place. Grabbing the papers, I fold them up and tuck them inside my thin black jacket. With it being winter, the sun sets early, which means I don’t have to wait long.
Teaching myself patience has paid off. I clear my mind as I sit on the edge of my bed. Facing my balcony, I close my eyes and practice diaphragmatic breathing.
As soon as the sun dips below the line of buildings, the warmth of its rays leaves my face, and my eyes snap open.
Standing from my perch, I raise my neck gaiter to cover my mouth and nose and step outside.
Having done this many times before, I don’t have to actively think as I climb down the fire escape.
I stick to the shadows, blending in with my black clothing, as I slip down the street and follow the route I mapped out earlier on my computer. I go unnoticed the whole way, taking alleys and back roads.
When I get to the right building, I easily scale metal ladders and balconies on light feet and make it up to the fourth floor. The blinds are open in the window, giving me the perfect view of my target.
With the way his TV is positioned, I can make out his reflection through the screen.
He sits in a recliner with his feet up and a bowl of popcorn resting on his beer belly.
He’s only wearing boxers, and I have to push away the gag that wants to come out of my mouth.
He laughs at the sitcom on his TV and shoves another handful of buttery popcorn in his mouth.
I can see the oil on his fingers from here.
With expert precision, I lift the bottom rail of the window inch by inch. He doesn’t notice since his back is to me, and his attention is fixed on the screen. When there’s enough space, I slide in and sneak up behind him.
In a few swift movements, I pull one of my knives out and wrap my arm across his front, placing the sharp edge of the knife by his ear.
With my other hand, I grab a fistful of hair and pull, exposing the full length of his neck.
I don’t waste time as I flex my arms, applying pressure with the knife and slicing him open from ear to ear. Blood sprays from the cut.
His grubby hands attempt to stanch the blood flow as I move to the side of the chair and bend down, placing my mouth next to his ear.
“I am your atonement.”
Then I stand to my full height and watch as the life leaves his eyes. I don’t move again until his hands drop, and he takes his last breath.
I retrieve the papers from inside my jacket, unfold them, and set them on his chest. With the knife still in hand, I raise it above my head and bring it down, stabbing through the sheets and his heart.
A single tear slips free from the corner of my eye as relief consumes my chest, and I can finally breathe again.
Escaping the way I got in, I slip away like I was never there.
His body will be found eventually, and they’ll know it was me. Everyone will know I was here.
I don’t do this for recognition. I don’t do this for fun.
I do it because I have to. I don’t have another choice.
I really am a psycho.