Page 16 of The Butterfly Killer

Blevins patted him on the back. “No, no. We’re done.”

Blevins shot another look Marcus’s way. A chill went down his spine. The detective walked away, but it took a moment for Marcus to feel safe enough to crouch down and pick up his papers. The newbie cop helped him.

“Why’s he such an asshole to you? He needs to be reported.”

Marcus blushed. “It was an accident. Don’t mention it, okay?”

It was bad enough the newbies were catching on that he was the outcast. He didn’t need them to be speaking out for him as well. Patrice had done enough of that already.

He grabbed his things and shot out of the small room as fast as possible.

Another day. Another long morning doing the usual routine while his life slipped away.

Marcus tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he cruised around the lush neighborhood that looked much like the ones his cousins used to steal from. His mom cut most of their contact from that side of the family—she didn’t have a soft bone in her body for her abusive sister—but she let Marcus’s cousins stay over a few times.

A few times was cut short when she found out his cousins were roping him into stealing from houses on the rich side of the city.

“Rich” was a broad term in his household. It meant anyone who wasn’t living off food stamps. It meant anyone who couldafford twenty dollar shoes. And it meant anyone who owned their own home.

Marcus didn’t remember much about his cousins. He’d been only ten back then when their connection had indefinitely been severed. However, he did remember the way his mom had looked at him when she found out he’d taken clothes from one of the homes they’d broken into.

She looked at him like he was the worst person on the planet.

He’d puked all over the floor, just before she gave him a beating on his ass so hard he couldn’t sit down for a week.

That might have been when his weak stomach started to form. His body seemed to morph into responding to stress by relieving itself through the mouth. He hated the response. He hated everything about vomit and puking. Just thinking about it now was making him queasy.

Queasy. That was how he’d gotten his stupid nick-name in the academy. Any sort of stress had him puking his guts out. Blevins had dubbed him the name as quick as possible. Some people didn’t even know him by anything else.

He got lost in his thoughts as he drove around. This was what he thought was the most boring part about being a cop. He was driving around for hours in the morning shift. Though, filling out paperwork was much worse. Made so by the fact his desk wasn’t at all optimal. He digressed.

He was yanked out of his thoughts when a woman came running out into the street, clutching her child to her chest.

He slowed to a stop. One look at her crying and frantic face had him on high alert. He put the car in park and got out.

The woman started speaking fast Spanish. He got a couple words—death, killed, devil. He put his hand up and had to regretfully shake his head.

“No Español. Can you speak any English?”

The woman cried harder. She was clutching her toddler tight to her chest, but they didn’t seem to be as upset as she was.

Marcus gestured to her child. “Is your baby hurt?”

She shook her head. “H-He not see anything. Abi, m-my babysitter—she’s dead.”

She broke down into tears. People in the neighborhood started to come out onto their porches, wondering what was happening. Police didn’t stop on this street. Nothing ever happened here.

Marcus lead the woman to the police car. “Have you called 911 yet?”

She shook her head. “N-No. I saw your car and came running out. I-I just saw?—”

Her voice broke. She hard trouble trying to finish her sentence.

“It’s okay. Sit here while I call them. Do you have anyone you can stay with or that can pick you up?”

She thought for a second before she nodded.

“Do you need me to call them?”

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