Chapter 6 – Aster
ASTER
“I did not take your yogurt cup,” I tell Diego, holding the phone between my ear and shoulder while dipping a spoon into the item in question.
We met five years ago when I moved to town, and although he writes for the Entertainment section, which is focused on brunch spots and pretentious art, we still bonded.
His annoying optimism balances me out from days researching corpses and nights disposing of them.
The slamming of the break room fridge door floods through the line. “I thought you don’t lie?”
“Fine.” I take another bite of the delicious strawberry delight, mumbling the next few words. “I took your yogurt.”
“I knew it!” he screeches, and I rush to pull my ear away from the phone. “You owe me.” I unlock my front door, head inside, and it shuts with a click behind me.
“Wanna meet at the diner later? Gotta finish an article, then I can head over.”
“Yeah, and you’re buying.”
I snort, putting my bag on a hook by the door, then scrape the last few remnants from the plastic container as I head to the kitchen. “I’m telling Dahlia the steak is off-limits.”
“That’s fine. I’m craving a burger anyways.”
“Thank God you’re a cheap date,” I tease, tossing the empty yogurt cup in the trash.
My eyes snag on a dustpan beside it. How did that get there?
I retrieve it and open the cabinet to return it to its rightful place, hand freezing midair.
The mop and broom are swapped. What the hell is happening? “I’ll see you at the diner, D.”
“See you.”
The line goes dead, and I shove the phone in my pocket, eyes darting around the room for anything else out of place.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. Someone’s been in my house.
Were they here when I came for my laptop earlier?
Digging in my pocket, I pull out a switchblade, then comb each room one by one.
Living room—clear. Art studio—clear. In the bedroom, my eyes snag on a photo frame on the dresser that’s thirty-five degrees to the right.
They were in my bedroom. Anger thunders through me.
Did they find my office?
My heart leaps into my throat, and I bolt downstairs, then jiggle the handle to the basement.
It doesn’t budge, which slightly calms my anxiety.
After unlocking it, I descend quickly, rushing past boxes of old articles and the deep freezer.
Thank fuck it was empty today. In the research room, everything is as I left it.
My eyes fall to the door on the back wall leading to my darkroom.
With my knife gripped tight, I take cautious steps toward it.
I rush inside, the tension evacuating my body upon confirming it’s empty.
If someone was here, they’re long gone, and that equally relieves and annoys me.
My eyes snag on a hole in the photo line, and my brows draw together.
Pose fourteen is missing. Clearing the rest of the room, I confirm it.
They left behind the photos of dead bodies and crime scenes—all Solarium-sanctioned, might I add—but pose fourteen of me shirtless in my Reaper mask was taken.
A grin spreads across my face.
Am I being… stalked?
Perhaps it’s innocent, a reader of the paper wanting to learn more about their favorite reporter. I roll my eyes at myself. I’m a good writer, but I’m not pulling-in-psycho-stalker-chicks level good.
It could be the demons from your past coming back out to play. I shove that thought to the depths of my memory, next to the clown that came to my sixth birthday.
Could this be connected to the new truck that’s been on my street? The neighborhood is pretty routine, with rarely a new face or vehicle, one reason why I chose it. So it was a bit out of the ordinary to me when I noticed the old Ford a few days ago.
So much so that I memorized the license plate.
Do I have a textbook case of perpetual paranoia? Probably. But it does keep me alive.
Believing this is some innocent fan infatuation would be preferable, but there’s a gnawing ache in my gut telling me my extracurricular activities may have finally caught up with me.
I’m ridding the world of shitty people—is that so bad?
On my phone, I hurry to the contact for one of my friends who works for Cleosville PD. Okay, so they’re less of a friend and more of a business associate. Sue me.
He answers on the third ring. “Blake.”
“Killian.”
“How may I be of service to you today, sir?” he says flatly, but I laugh anyways. It’s better than his standard “The hell do you want now?”
“I need you to run a plate.”
“Hit me,” he says, and I rattle off the letters and numbers, the clacking of the keyboard coming through the line. He pauses, taking longer than usual. “Why are you having me run this?”
“Since when do you care?”
“Well…” He trails off, and his hesitancy is annoying the hell out of me.
“Spit it out, Killian.”
“The truck belongs to Detective Liam Huxley.”
My brows furrow. Detective Dick? “It wasn’t a police cruiser, it—”
“His personal vehicle.”
“Are you sure?” Given pose fourteen was taken, I assumed it was a woman. Then again, I could be his type too. I’m not one to judge.
“Yes, and that’s all I’ve got.”
“Okay,” I say, wishing for more but happy it’s not less. “Thanks.” And the line goes dead.
Detective Liam Huxley.
I’ve seen him at dozens of crime scenes, and he’s always a bit of an asshole. Dick to reporters, says we’re getting in the way of real investigative work, but I’ve never purposefully spoken to him outside of questioning about an ongoing investigation.
Looks like that’s about to change.
I’m not a patient man, so I may or may not have tipped off the local heroin supplier that their right-hand man was planning a coup. And voila, a crime scene was born.
When I got to the construction site on 47th Street, I almost felt bad upon seeing they’d buried the guy alive in concrete.
The only parts of him visible are the back of his head and a hand.
But if the intel from my sources is true, that man would have been more dangerous than the current supplier, so it feels like a win-win.
Cleosville PD will be busy chiseling out the body for hours, but it was a good excuse to get to Liam. There’s no way I’m planning a run-in at the police station when I’m unsure of his motives. If he’s watching me, it’s not on the books or he’d have needed a warrant to search my house.
Whatever he’s up to, I don’t like it.
Why is he following me?
Who is he working for?
I can’t imagine he’s doing this out of his own volition. There’s a .02% chance it’s due to my late-night activities. I’m very discreet. Very selective. And very careful.
He’s not yet at the scene, and I remain out of sight along the perimeter.
A wave of relief floods through me when he finally shows.
After twenty minutes, I hustle over as the first journalist to arrive.
Liam’s interviewing the foreman from the construction company where the body was found.
The same foreman I paid a little visit to, ensuring he asked specifically for Detective Liam Huxley, unless he’d like to end up like our embedded friend here.
The foreman steps away, and I make my move. “Detective Huxley,” I call out, and he turns to find me, gaze dropping to my press badge, then rolls his eyes in annoyance.
“I don’t have time for interviews,” he says flatly, a hand stuffed in his pocket and zero recognition in his blue eyes as he looks me over.
Of all the times he’s blown me off, is he really going to pretend he doesn’t even recognize me?
Is it part of his act so I don’t suspect him of casing my house?
“Can you just answer me one question?” I ask, trying to prolong the conversation, holding my tape recorder towards him.
He holds up a finger. “One.”
Shit. I didn’t think this through. “Do you think this was the work of the Kodak Killer?” I blurt and he blinks at me, expression bored.
“When has Kodak left a body behind? I’d think by being the lead journalist on every single article regarding them, you’d be able to answer to that.” So he does know who I am.
“Then who do you think it was?”
“When I figure it out, you’ll be my first call,” he deadpans, walking away without another word. Such a douche.
He’s either a very good actor or I’ve been totally off about this whole thing. Although I do suppose his job requires some level of a poker face.
Guess we’re gambling tonight.
The crime scene run-in was a bust, so here I sit in my car across from Liam’s house, which is much nicer than I expected for a detective’s salary.
It’s three stories of beautiful rust-colored brick with large windows overlooking the bay.
This type of real estate is nearly impossible to obtain in Cleosville unless you’re loaded or inherit it.
His cruiser and personal car are both parked in the driveway, and I’m waiting for him to leave so I can get an idea of whatever the hell he’s up to.
It’s five in the morning, sleep has eluded me for thirty-three hours, and I may have just seen a unicorn dancing near the front door. If nothing happens by seven a.m., I’ll go home and take a well-deserved rest.
Daydreams take over. One in particular that’s floated around my mind for the past week. The nameless woman with the blonde-and-pink hair that I can’t stop thinking about.
While returning to routine was the right call, I’m still annoyed for not getting her name.
I’ve even been doing some late-night cardio hoping for another run-in, but alas, nothing.
Instead, I sit here pathetically fantasizing about a beautiful stranger who’s consumed most of my brain space as of late.
I’ve almost exhausted my list of made-up meet-cutes when the front porch light flickers on. “Showtime,” I mutter to myself.
A woman steps out the door, and I fly forward in my seat, my nose pressing to the glass of the window as she locks it behind her.
Am I hallucinating? She has blonde hair that blends to pink, a tight tank top hugging her everywhere just right, low-rise blue jeans on, and a large tote on her shoulder.
She’s absolutely stunning. And she’s also the woman who forced me to break routine the other night when I spotted her hanging from a tree like an adorable suspicious little koala.
I squeeze my eyes shut, and when they open, she’s still there.
Are you real, gorgeous?
She skips down the steps to the driveway and unlocks the old truck. Liam Huxley’s truck.
My mind whirls. Everything I thought I figured out moves to the recycling bin.
Is she stalking me? Was she watching me from the tree when she fell? Was I always her target? Is that why she wouldn’t give me her name?
The truck’s engine roars to life, yanking me out of my spiral, and a moment later, she’s reversing out of the driveway, then speeding off. My brain kicks back on. I start my own vehicle and tail her.
What are you up to?
We drive for five minutes, and it’s only when we make the final turn do I realize we’re on my street. My lips part open as I watch her park in the spot across from my house.
Well, I guess that answers the “who’s been watching me” question.
I’ve never had a stalker before. In fact, I’m rather flattered. More so now that I know they’re a ten out of ten. But I’m still lost on what she wants. Is this personal from our little run-in last week?
There’s a free spot a few houses away from mine, so I pull in and shut off the car.
Maybe Liam sent her to get dirt to shut me up.
Or maybe it’s your past finally coming back to haunt you.
Unfortunately for them, my bodies are buried or ashes, nothing they’d find inside.
Although I suppose at first glance, the photo of George Slezake marking the spot could be a bit damning.
But considering it’s an article I’m working on for the Solarium, it’s nothing I can be arrested over.
It was rather intriguing she left that photo behind yet stole my Reaper portrait.
Is it so wrong for a professional journalist to test different lighting and camera angles?
I tiptoe through four neighbors’ backyards to get to mine.
After sneaking into my own house, I make my way upstairs in the dark.
It’s 5:45 a.m., which means my alarm would be going off in fifteen minutes.
If she’s been watching my routine, I don’t want any reason for her to suspect something is out of the ordinary.
So much for that nap.
At 6:43 I walk out the door, trying to keep my eyes off the truck to avoid spooking her. It’ll be easier to uncover her motives if she’s still living under the delusion that her cover hasn’t been blown.
I grab my usual caramel macchiato at Mocha Muse, and by the time I reach the Solarium News building, my back is sweating from the laser beams she’s burning into it. I doubt she’s been following me inside considering our security team is top notch.
Through the doors and hidden from view, I sneak out a side exit, circling around to turn the tables.
A large bush gives me proper coverage, and I pretend to read a book while keeping an eye on her.
Ten minutes later, she heads leisurely in the direction towards my house.
She’s still got that big bag slung over her shoulder, and she bounces between listening to music and stopping to drop money in cups of the homeless.
Her generosity kind of pisses me off. Who is she? Mary fucking Poppins?
She slips into a drug store, and after waiting a few paces, I follow behind, ensuring to stay on opposite aisles. It’s not the first time I’ve had to stalk someone. Although my preferred term is “recon.” She strolls to the back of the shop and waits before the pharmacy.
I’d need to be medicated if I lived with Detective Asshat too.
“How can I help you?” the clerk asks her.
“I have a prescription to pick up,” she says. Her tone is soft and melodic, and I should not enjoy the voice of the woman who’s stalking me.
“Date of birth?”
“October 22, 1994.” So she’s early thirties, only a few years younger than me. Good to know.
“Please confirm your name,” the pharmacist says dryly.
“Lillian Huxley,” she replies, and my curiosity heightens.
I don’t believe Liam is married. If he is, he’s never worn a wedding band.
I couldn’t find a single social media presence outside of police-related work, which I suppose isn’t entirely surprising.
Could he have a sister? The shade of blonde in her hair is identical to his. Oh, shit.
Two fingers find their ways to my temples, digging in. Of course the hottest woman I’ve ever seen would be Liam Huxley’s sister.
She’s also stalking you.
Yes, and there’s that.
Despite chugging espresso hardly an hour ago, exhaustion settles into my bones. Rather than deliriously chasing my new little friend around town and risking discovery, I opt to head home for some online sleuthing.
I’m desperate to learn more so I can determine a solution for her little stalking hobby.
I just really hope I don’t have to kill her.