Page 3 of Date Night

“Same for me,” Braylon adds on before giving the cashier behind the counter a sweet grin.

I step over to the side while the two of them small talk and flirt with each other.

Honestly, I’m not paying much attention. Instead, I’m worried about the deadline I promised myself I’d meet.

There’s a film festival back in New York I want to get my documentary into. That isn’t going to happen if I can’t get it off the ground.

“That sounds like a great idea.” Braylon nudges me in the side, and I jerk out of my daydream.

“Hmm, I’m sorry?”

“Always working.” Braylon tsks and stares at me pointedly. “I was just telling Missy that we were looking for a few more people to help with the documentary. You know, like natives, people who know all the places to visit.” Braylon hitches one of his eyebrows, angling his body so that Missy doesn’t see him.

Braylon may have been trying to get in good with the pretty barista, but he was also working our angle as well.

One of the main problems with doing a documentary about a town killer is that most everyone in the town wants to forget about it. They definitely don’t want to talk to a stranger about it. The hope is that if they see a familiar face, the locals might be a bit more receptive.

Braylon and I need this, and all it takes is a bit of harmless flirting.

Chapter 2

Starla

As I stood before a room full of eager faces, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were stirring something dangerous from its slumber.

"This documentary is going to shock the world, and all of you are going to be part of it. I can't tell you how happy I am that we're finally going to get started!" I look around the small room in the library where Braylon has managed to assemble a team. A real team of town locals who have all pledged to help in one way or another to get down to the truth behind the Date Night Killer.

Most of them are either high school seniors or early college students, but I'm not going to be picky. All in all, including Braylon and myself, we've got six people to work this mystery.

There's a small applause before the groups break off and start getting to work. Thankfully the library allowed us to use the backroom for our home base or everyone would've had to come back to my small house. I doubt everyone would fit.

Most of the high schoolers worked on the actual editing of the imagery, while the college students worked on research. There wasn't much imagery, yet. I'm determined to change that today. The mother of one of the killers victims still lives in town. Baylor and I are going to visit with her this afternoon.

My palms sweat as I look around the room. Even though there aren't many of us, I still feel uneasy with everyone looking at me. Waiting for instruction. Waiting on me to be a leader. I guess that's my job now.

"Well, let's get to work," I say, trying to force some enthusiasm into my voice.

Braylon whoops loudly, which causes everyone around him to laugh. It's the perfect segue. I take a deep breath, the weight of the spotlight finally lifting as I finish addressing the small group of volunteers. My hands tremble slightly as I step away from the podium, the warmth of their gazes still lingering on me. I’m not used to being the center of attention; behind the camera is my comfort zone. I watch them shuffle off to their workstations, excitement buzzing in the air, while I slip away to explore the library.

The quiet hum of conversation draws me toward the back. Braylon’s voice carries effortlessly, weaving through the room like a warm embrace. He's naturally charismatic, effortlessly charming everyone around him. I feel a flutter of gratitude that he’s on our team, his energy a perfect counterbalance to my shy disposition.

As I wander deeper into the library, I find myself in a shadowy corner where the air feels thick, almost charged. There, tucked away like a forgotten relic, is a microfilm machine. My curiosity piques as I approach, the device a bridge to the past. I flick the switch, and the machine whirs to life, casting a dim glow in the musty room.

I load a reel, my fingers tracing the cool metal as I search for reports on the date night killer. The flickering images dance across the screen, each frame a fragment of a chilling story. I dive deeper, losing myself in the grainy text and faded photographs. My heart quickens as I read about the victims, their lives cut short in a silence that echoes through time.

Why did he just stop? The thought gnaws at me, sharp and unsettling. The killer had terrorized the city for months, then vanished without a trace. Did he tire of the game? Or did he find a new hunting ground, lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike again?

A chill crawls up my spine as I realize how alone I am back here, the library’s vastness swallowing me whole. The quiet feels heavy, almost sentient, wrapping around me like a shroud. I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone lurking just beyond my line of sight. But there’s nothing—just the rhythmic whir of the microfilm machine and the faint sound of Braylon’s laughter in the distance.

I shake off the feeling, focusing on the reports again. The deeper I dig, the more the world outside fades away. I’m lost in the words, in the horror of what happened, and in the unsettling possibility that the past might not be as distant as I hoped. The tension builds, a low hum in my chest that whispers of secrets waiting to be uncovered.

As I read, I can’t help but feel the shadows lengthening around me, creeping closer, as if they carry the weight of the killer’s lingering presence.

Doing my best to shake off the feeling, I focus on the last date night killing. As gruesome as some of the details are in the media, looking at the picture makes me feel... I don't know... a bit jealous.

The killer went through a lot of effort. There were flowers, a nice picnic, teddy bears. I'm sure before the horror began for the victim, she must have felt like she was being treated like a princess.

That's something that's never happened to me before.

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