Chapter 5 – Lily #2
The door rattles, not budging, and I retrieve the lock picking kit once more.
I spend a few minutes teetering with the mechanism until it finally pops.
Holding my breath, I shove away any negative thoughts of what might be hiding down there and open the door, then leave it slightly ajar behind me.
I will not be getting locked into this man’s basement. Murderer or not.
The stairs creak as I descend them at a sloth’s pace.
A musky smell infiltrates my senses when I hit the concrete floor.
Shining the light around, I see old bankers boxes filling the space, dusty golf clubs, a deep freezer, and—I turn back, dragging myself towards it.
My feet are heavy, and the only thing carrying me across the space is morbid curiosity.
Please don’t have a dead body. Gripping the handle, I take a deep breath. No dead body. No dead body. No dead body.
The lid squeals as I force it open, and my brows pull together at the site of empty aluminum. Power is on, temperature freezing cold, but it’s completely, unmistakably empty. A dark stain on the bottom pulls my attention, and I shine my light at it. Could it be blood?
Why leave an empty freezer on if not as preparation to fill it at a moment’s notice?
I release the lid, and it slams shut. Continuing through the basement, I discover another door that’s slightly ajar. Dagger in one hand, flashlight in the other, I nudge it open, treading carefully into the room.
“What th…” My words trail off as I take in what can only be described as a murder board before me.
There are photos of every Kodak Killer case, news articles, receipts, and more, all tacked to the corkboard and linked together with string.
Not only does he report on all of Kodak’s cases, but he has them posted like a shrine.
Writing about your own kills would be pretty on brand for a narcissistic serial killer.
A door slams overhead, prompting a rattling echo throughout the basement, and my heart leaps into my throat.
Shit!
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Adrenaline surges through my body as I frantically scan the room. Where the hell do I hide?
Options are: the deep freezer, behind the murder board, or… a mysterious sealed door on the far side of the room. Does it lead to a closet? A morgue?
Feels like that’s where I’m heading.
Footsteps thump overhead, and if he notices the door to the basement is cracked, he’ll be down here in seconds. I should have put on double deodorant because I’m sweating like a snowman in a sauna. He might smell me before he sees me. Shit.
Are there cameras I didn’t notice? Or a motion detector? I am so screwed.
Not even my mask can protect me if I’m caught.
The unknown room seems to be the only option, and I rush towards it, cursing myself for getting in this situation.
The door opens, and a sigh of relief escapes as I slip inside.
A red hue surrounds me when I click off the flashlight, and I close my eyes, resting my forehead on the door, listening intently for the faintest of noises.
Although I’m eager to know what’s behind me in this space, I refuse to move or make a single squeak.
Knocking over another bucket of cleaning supplies is not a risk I’m willing to take.
The front door rattles shut once more, and oxygen almost returns to my lungs.
In a desperate attempt to settle my breathing and ensure Aster is really gone, I wait a few minutes longer, passing the time by mentally reciting every verse to “Toxic” by Britney Spears. Classic.
When I’m nearly positive he’s gone, only then do I open my eyes and allow myself to survey the room I’m in. Turning in place, I feel my chest constrict as a chill crawls up my spine.
Cables run across the room with photo paper clipped to them. Some images are fully developed, some still in process, and some he must have hung before leaving this morning.
The Kodak Killer’s publicly shared photographs are unnecessarily graphic, and a sick pit settles in my chest that those are nothing compared to what I’ll see here.
My feet are anvils as I force myself further into the room.
I didn’t come this far to chicken shit out at the last second.
Pausing before the most developed photos, I force my eyes to the prints.
Familiar tattoos and rippled abs stare back at me, and my brows knit together at a row of photos of Aster in various poses.
I come to a hard stop at one of him shirtless, jeans hung low, a skull mask covering the lower half of his face and a knife dragging down the center of his chest. Fucking delicious.
A snorted laugh escapes me, and I throw a hand over my mouth.
The man is developing sexy photographs of himself. Total narcissist.
He could probably make some serious cash with these though…
Rushing through the room, I scan the other drying lines, which include photos of different buildings around the city, mainly warehouses.
On the last drying line, my eyes snag on a photo that’s entirely out of place.
A scene straight out of an episode of Dexter.
Nausea creeps along my esophagus as my skin itches to flee, but I force myself closer.
Dismembered body parts, seemingly of a man, are positioned in an X.
Crimson blood pools around the victim’s limbs.
I rack my brain for a Kodak Killer article with these details but come up empty.
And Kodak hasn’t been known for dismemberment.
Not to this scale at least. He’s decapitated a few victims but usually positions the head on the body for the photoshoot.
This is something entirely different. It’s horrific.
Specific. Seemingly sending a message. One I have no clue how to decipher.
A realization hits me. What if there are more victims? What if the Kodak Killer only shares the victims he wants us to know about?
But why? Just so we’d think there was a pattern? So he wouldn’t be considered for murders in the in between? But why?
I pull out my phone and snap photos to look through later, including Aster’s murder board. His routine puts him out of the house for at least a few more hours, but after seeing that picture, plus nearly being caught, I’m not interested in sticking around and risking it.
There’s a Lily-Huxley-sized space in that deep freezer, and I have no interest in filling it.