The knocking on
my front door was about as annoying as the mystery smell sneaking up through my
floorboards. Both persisted enough for me to acknowledge that I hadn't paid
attention to anything the past few days, and I felt like I had missed something
important. For instance, the smell didn't bother me quite as much as the
front-page news article claiming that the Tri-State Killer Caught in the Pig
Pen. That news was unsettling enough to cause me to mope around the house and
forget to leave it altogether.
Did I remember to submit
my food order?
Dread washed over me as
I swung the door open and saw officers scattered in my front yard.
Indeed, I forgot to submit my food delivery.
When I made eye contact
with the officer at the door, his grim face made me sigh. I had already grown
weary of the situation, with nosy county officials and neighbors poking their
heads out of their houses.
The last thing I wanted
to start the day with was hearing on the news how the neighbors knew I was bad
news even though I never talked to them. I couldn't help the sense of dread
that hit my stomach like a pound of bricks; my smile became stuck in place, and
if I so much as moved, I feared it would crack in half and reveal the horrible
truths behind it. I took in the scene before me, cleared my throat, readjusted
my smile, and commanded myself to act normal.
To act normally like
everyone else.
I surely overlooked
something.
"What can I help
you with?" I realized my voice sounded strange; even to my ears, it
sounded strained. Shit, I bemoan. The officer's eyebrow shot up while his hand
was on his gun and another holding paperwork in a file that caused my stomach
to drop.
"We have a warrant
to search your property."
Double shit.
"Under what
grounds?" I lift my brows, folding my arms, killing some time.
“There's a smell."
He deadpanned.
"The dumps not too
far from here, so maybe—" I point.
"It's not the dump."
He thrust the paper toward me.
I looked down at the
paperwork before looking up at the officer, who motioned me off the porch. I
followed him, muttering as I went.
"Who would kill
someone and stash the body under their own house? Such a rookie move." I
snort as I look through the paperwork. "That wouldn't be my MO."
"What would be your
MO?" The officer stared at me, and then my eyes snapped up to his. I
noticed his long fingers wrapped around his gun's hilt.
"I mean, after
being an avid murder podcast listener, this wouldn't be it." I swallowed,
waving my hand toward my house as a dog was led around my property, almost
instantly signaling the source of the smell under my porch, and I stood still,
papers hanging off my fingertips, my smile falling.
Oh no.
"Uh, sir? We found a
body."
Was I being framed?
--
The Handcuffs jingled as
they moved me down the central holding cell block. There were drunks slumped
against the wall sleeping off their overnight benders, a group of men in
various shades of white wife beaters and bruises existed in the bigger cell, and
as we moved past a lone person, I came to take up residence in the one next to
them. He looked over at me, and his baby blue eyes spelled trouble; every red
flag waved precariously as his lips tipped upward in a grin. The officer
mumbled some instructions before taking off my cuffs, locking me in, leaving me
standing in the middle of the small cell, and rubbing my wrists. My eyes dart
over to the good-looking male staring at me, eyes shining as if we met on the
street instead of in a neighboring jail cell.
"What are you in
for?" His voice sounded amused.
"Being wrongly
accused of hiding a body under my house." I sighed and sank to the grimy
bench that had seen better days. "You?"
"Being wrongly
accused of being a serial killer." He turned and jingled his cuffs at me. "They're
afraid of me."
"Huh." I eyed
him, wondering why he was so chatty.
"They got it all
wrong, you see," he leaned back and tilted his head, looking over at me, "this
would never be my MO."
"What would be your
MO?"
"Not taking my
victims to the pig farm a town over." He said nonchalantly. "Hypothetically,
mine would be more along the lines of hiding bodies under random people's
houses so the trail goes cold after they think they got their killer."
"Hypothetically,"
I murmured dryly. The coincidence is not lost on me.
"Hypothetically."
he grinned.
"Well,
hypothetically, mine would be taking the bodies to the pig farm a county over
since pigs eat everything. I wouldn't have to worry about trace evidence
popping up mysteriously." I find I'm still rubbing my wrist where the
cuffs dug in, and I glance at him. "Since I would wash and donate clothing
to homeless shelters."
"Small world: two
hypothetical killers in adjoining cells, in the same jail, on the same day.”
"Who would have
thunk?" we sat silently for a moment before he looked around his cell,
then mine, before leaning over, cuffs jingling as he whispered.
"What's your
address?"
"Why would I give
you my address?" I frown at him.
"I'm just a curious
bloke, possibly stuck in here for ten-plus years." He lifts a single
shoulder in a sort of half-shrug. "It's not like I'm getting out anytime
soon to check and see if you were telling the truth to a stranger in the jail
cell."
That sounded like a
personal problem to me, but, I liked a challenge.
"I live off of
Sunshine Ave," I said, watching his smile fall.
"Oh." he
breathed.
"Oh, what?"
"That was me,"
he lowers his voice, "hypothetically."
"Well, the pig farm
was me, so we're even." I kept my head leaned back but could feel his eyes
on me.
"Hypothetically."
"Well, color me
impressed," his smile returned to being cheeky, or so it sounded, "a
woman after my own heart."
"Why do they always
think serial killers are always men? And that women can only kill one person,
hysterically, and then only hide them under their house like we're not smarter
than that." I point toward him and murmur. "Dick move, by the way."
"Hey, I did what I
had to do." he feigned afront.
"Still rude,"
I grumble, sliding down the wall a little and folding my arms over my chest.
"Hey," his
voice inquires over the sound of one perfectly hissed punta a couple of cells
over, "if we ever get out, would you like to? I don't know—"
"Fuck no," I
snort, not even giving him a chance to finish his sentence, "you're a
walking red flag."
"And you're not?"
he had the nerve to look affronted as I looked over to him and his alluring
blue eyes, "and how do you even know I was going to ask you out?"
"Oh no, I am,"
I lift the toes of my dirt-caked shoes and examine them, "but you're a
man; men only think about one thing." I pause.
"Not murder?"
he asked.
"Intercourse,"
we speak over each other, and I manage to frown at him as he shrugs.
"I work alone."
I sighed.
"Me too, but if
we're being honest, I was more or less thinking of asking you out on a date."
"Are you a
self-proclaimed good guy? Because I don't date good guys."
"I'm in a jail
cell," he blinked at me, speaking slowly, "next to your jail cell. I
think we have both bypassed the being good people bit and went straight to
seeing the worst sides of each other right off the bat. Which would save us
months of wondering what the other could do to emotionally or mentally wreck the
other."
"That's a good
point," I roll my neck side to side before shrugging, "that's saying
if we got off the hook for the murders."
"Was that a yes?"
he perked up.
"I guess we'll see,
due to inconveniences.”
"Brandon!" the
name echoes throughout the cells. Everyone turns to look toward the door, and
the blue-eyed villain next door stands up, chains jangling.
"Yeah?"
"You've been bailed
out."
"Well, I'll be
damned; I guess I'll meet you at your house." he turns his grin on me as I
roll my eyes.
"If only I were so
lucky." I watch as he's escorted out in a verbal cloud of hoots and
hollers from the gang of bruised wife-beaters.
As he paused at the door,
he turned his gaze on me, winking, before disappearing. I'm left wondering if we
were both mentally sane enough to date or if we were enough of a problem
alone.
