Chapter 26
Chapter
Twenty-Six
HIM
I have to admit, I can be envious at times.
In elementary school, I felt envious of the other kids who brought their shiny new toys to play with after Christmas break, while I was left with nothing—because my cheating, deadbeat father had left us for his mistress.
In middle school, while everyone else got trendy new clothes, I had to make do with threadbare hand-me-downs—because my alcoholic, coked-up mother was too busy blowing her money to get her next fix.
In high school, I envied my classmates who had the luxury of being accepted into their dream colleges thanks to their families’ affluence, while I knew I would be stuck drowning in student loan debt—because the system is rigged to favor those born under privilege.
Envy is an ugly emotion, that is a fact. But jealously.
Now that is so much worse.
I thought I could handle it—play the dorky journalist, Blake Sullivan, during the day. Then I can be myself at night. On and off, just like a switch. But Gwen always runs to him for comfort, confides in him her worries. We fuck, yeah, but she doesn’t let me in the place that truly matters.
She likes him, might even prefer him over me. And I’m fucking sick of it.
Playing the goody two-shoes is suffocating. While there are benefits to being charming in that manner, it makes me feel trapped. I want to shed my layers and show the person beneath my facade—the man who is ambitious, passionate, and willing to take risks for something greater than himself.
I can’t help but wonder if she’d still love me if she got to know this version of myself. All I want is for her to see me, to understand me like only she can. We are the same underneath it all. But with every step forward I take with Gwen, I find myself two steps back. If I’m ever going to get through to her, then something needs to change.
The time for her final test is approaching.
And I must ensure that she passes.
I take a sip of my coffee and yawn, lingering in the parking lot of the Fallbank Chronicle as my thoughts spiral. It’s going to be a long day. I arrived at the office early to work on the story assigned to me by William. He wants an article about a new development project being proposed for downtown—a stage theater. Make it compelling, he said. As if I don’t know my shit.
I finish my coffee, leave the empty cup in the center console for future me to deal with, and step out of the car. Pulling the strap of my bag higher up my shoulder, I head toward the building. I pass a nondescript black SUV, which immediately gives me pause. Ignoring the unease that creeps in, I continue on my way.
I enter the Chronicle, making my way to my computer. The office is still relatively empty, apart from a couple of coworkers tucked away in their respective spaces. Sitting down at my desk, I power up my PC and begin compiling my notes on the development—including the budget, timeline for completion, and other pertinent details.
As I type, I can’t help but steal a glimpse now and then at the SUV. It seems innocuous; no one is in or around it, and nothing seems amiss. But what if they’re here for me? Shaking off the thought, I mentally berate myself for being paranoid and turn my attention back to my writing. I get back into the groove of things when someone places a hand on my shoulder.
It’s David, his gaze trained on the drawn blinds of William’s office. “He’s been in there a long time.”
I crane my neck, peering across the room. “Do you think something’s wrong?” I ask apprehensively.
“It is rather odd for him to be holed up in there for so long, isn’t it?” he says, his voice betraying a hint of worry.
I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant despite my rising fears. “It’s probably nothing,” I say lightly, though with little conviction.
The door to William’s office creaks open. Behind him are two men in black suits. The three of them exchange hushed words before William comes towards us .
“Who are they?” I ask, my voice a murmur as I grip the edge of my desk.
David shakes his head, perplexed. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he murmurs back in response.
As William approaches, my heart races. Both David and I stand up, uncertain of what is about to happen. I quickly survey the room, noticing some of the other employees stealing curious glances at the boss’s office and in our direction.
“There’s some federal agents here,” William says, leaning closer. “They want to interview people.”
“About what?” David inquires.
“The murders that have been happening around here,” William answers without hesitation.
Blood rushes to my head. Normally, I’m meticulous about covering my tracks. But between that fucking detective harassing us at the funeral and these clowns showing up at my workplace, I can’t afford to slip up. Nor can I afford to continue postponing my plans.
“Fuck,” David mutters. “Do they have an idea who the killer might be?”
William shrugs. “They haven’t said, probably because they don’t want to compromise their investigation. But they want to talk to all of us, so I suggest you both cooperate.”
I stiffen at the thought of being interrogated by federal agents. David must have noticed my reaction because he puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
“It’s going to be okay,” he says. “We just need to answer their questions honestly, and we should be fine.”
I fasten on a mask of stoicism and rise from my chair. “I’ll go first.”
“Remember your rights,” William says.
I nod and walk past him. As I head for William’s office, I feel everyone’s eyes on my back, which only further serves to twist my stomach into tighter knots. My mind races with possibilities. They must suspect something. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be here asking questions. All I can do now is steel myself for whatever comes next—and hope there will be no unpleasant surprises.
I take a deep breath as I walk into William’s office, where the agents sit at a table. “I’m Blake Sullivan,” I say, shutting the door behind me. “My boss said you wanted to talk?” One of them motions for me to sit. I do so, taking a seat opposite them, bracing myself for what’s coming.
“I’m Agent Carter,” the taller, slimmer one greets. He reaches over the table to firmly shake my hand, then indicates his partner with a tilt of his head. “And this is Agent Stone.” Stone gives me a critical once-over as Carter adds, “We have some questions for you.”
If I act hostile, it could only make things worse. And even if I had a knife, those guns strapped to their sides would make quick work of me. “Okay,” I say, maintaining a neutral expression.
“Mr. Sullivan,” Carter begins as Stone pulls out a notepad. “You came into work pretty early. Are you always this overly punctual?”
“I try to be. I have pride in my work,” I answer, folding my hands on my lap. “My mother always said the early bird catches the worm.”
“And where is your mother now?” Carter asks.
Six feet under, if I had my way . “Back home, in New York,” I lie. “My father died when I was young.” I do not know if he’s alive, nor do I give a shit.
“You went to college there?” Carter probes as Stone scribbles down a few lines in the notepad. I nod, and Carter follows up with, “Where at?”
“River Valley University,” I reply. I need to feed them controlled nuggets of truth—because too little information will make me look suspicious. But I must be careful not to implicate myself. “Major in writing, minor in journalism.” Not a complete lie .
“Interesting,” Carter says. Though his face remains impassively polite, there’s an aura of intimidation just underneath the surface. He’s fishing for information—what exactly, I’m not yet sure. “So what brings you down here, to Fallbank?”
“I wanted a fresh start, and a small town down here in Pennsylvania seemed like a good place for that,” I answer, keeping my gaze trained on him.
Their eyes bore into me, searching for any opportunity to poke holes in my story. Stone writes something down, flips a page, and waits for his partner to continue the interrogation.
“We understand that you and William have been working together for some time now,” Carter says. “Can you tell us exactly why he brought you on board?”
I’m prepared to answer his questions candidly— anything to get these two off my ass. “I sort of just stumbled into it. William desperately needed a copy editor, and I applied. My degree only had so much to do with it.” I push my fake glasses up the bridge of my nose. “I got a promotion to staff writer later.”
“Have you ever been tasked with writing about any of the murders?” Carter asks.
I maintain my composure. “Yes, I have.”
Carter and Stone exchange a look before Carter asks, “Could you tell us what type of research you did for those articles?”
I lift my chin, my tone even. “I interviewed the victims’ families, friends, and neighbors about their lives leading up to the murders. Then I compiled my findings to get a better understanding of what happened, and maybe why.”
Carter nods slowly. “I see. It sounds like you had plenty of opportunities to learn about the crimes firsthand.”
More than you know . “I can’t say that I discovered anything new or groundbreaking,” I say, shrugging. “Not anything more than what the police released to the public.”
Stone glances at me, and my skin prickles with unease; I can see that he’s trying to read me. “Do you have any theories of your own? About who the killer could be?” he asks, his voice deceptively calm.
I shake my head. “No, not really. Just personal speculation about why someone might commit such horrible crimes—nothing concrete. ”
Carter looks at me with a friendly smile, but I don’t think he’s entirely convinced. “Thank you for your time,” he says, once again reaching over to shake my hand.
“No problem,” I say before standing up. “Anything else you need from me?”
Carter shakes his head. “That’ll be all. Have a good day, Mr. Sullivan.”
I plaster on a friendly smile and head to the door. Stone takes another long look at me, his expression unreadable as I leave. Once I’m back at my desk, out of earshot, I let out a sigh of relief. My nerves are on edge; it’s clear that Carter and Stone wanted something specific. But what?
“Are you okay?” David asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I’m fine,” I answer, giving him a tight grin. “They’re looking for someone else to interview, if you wanna go next.”
“A sacrifice for the pyre?” David says in an exaggerated, dramatic manner. “No thanks. I’ll pass for now.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Honestly, if you want my opinion, they must be getting desperate if they’re coming here for answers.” I want to believe my own words, but something’s still nagging at me. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.
David nods in agreement as he returns to his work. I do the same, though my mind wanders. If it comes down to it, and things come to a head, I need to make sure I’m prepared—including having an exit strategy. Maybe a trip out west, far from the muggy summers of the East Coast, is just what the doctor ordered. Or perhaps the southwest; there are a lot of places to hide out in Texas.
The two of us—my Little Finch and I—could use a vacation.
The day stretches on, painfully slow. After work, I quickly pack up and head out, eager to escape. As I drive home, I mentally list everything I need to stow away.
It’s time to put that storage unit to good use.