Page 3 of Strings Attached
My chest heaved as I stared toward the house from across the street.
That was too close. But it also meant I was getting closer to figuring him out.
2
Imagination
Suddenly, the heat didn’t seem to matter as much as I took detour after detour before heading to my apartment. I wasn’t about to take a chance he was following me.
As the sun slowly set behind the buildings, though, I finally headed home. I kicked off my sandals as soon as I stepped inside my apartment, then locked the door behind me. Three locks and a chain for good measure. I knew what break-ins could leave behind, and I didn’t intend to be another dead body.
A separator gave off the illusion of having my own bedroom, but it was still a studio. I switched on the lights, illuminating the tiny kitchen; I was pretty lucky to have an island counter that gave me more space at least. Not that I enjoyed cooking much, and I barely had the time to bake even if I wanted to.
I sat on my sofa and placed the folder on my coffee table, staring at it as though it may explode. It was still a dangerous item to have in my possession. It was from Professor Frauley and given to me by Patrice. And now he was dead.
Grabbing the remote next to me, I turned on the television and flipped through the channels. No cable or streaming services, but a few were free without a subscription. I stopped on the news, my heart hammering against my chest as I recognized the location where the reporter stood.
At first, I barely registered the words but focused instead on the text below the woman reporting on a grisly murder that took place on the University of Ottawa’s campus. A man was found dead, stabbed to death with his throat slit, in the basement of a house-turned-office.
My stomach churned as I sat on the edge of the cushion, the words finally sinking in as they announced Patrice Talbot as the name of the deceased. He’d been a student at the University of Ottawa, currently working on his bachelor’s in theater.
Theater? Bachelor?
He couldn’t have been a teacher’s assistant then. Why had he lied about that?
More news continued, and they announced the last person to have seen Patrice was none other than Professor Frauley, who was missing.
I bit my lower lip, trying to figure out what to do about the whole thing. I’d had an appointment with the professor, so the police would likely come speak with me. It was an easy enough lie to say I saw the paper posted on the main office’s door, and because of the heat, I decided not to go. If they asked why I didn’t call to let him know, I could just invent something about the fact that the professor obviously hadn’t bothered letting me know about the change of location, so I didn’t feel the need to call him and cancel either.
It always scared me a bit, just how fast I could come up with lies, but it was how I’d survived with a lot of my foster families. When used correctly, it was a perfect shield.
Leaving the television on, I stared at the folder in front of me. If the killer had been in the professor’s office, had he been able to access my school profile? Did he torture him to get the information, or had Frauley given it willingly in the hopes of living?
Thankfully, I hadn’t given my real address, and my mailing one was for a postal box near the university. I still had a pang of guilt for whoever did live at that fake address. Not that the killer would likely target them; it was random, but there were intervals between each victim, and after Patrice, he wouldn’t kill for at least a month.
Checking Professor Frauley’s notes, I found the name and phone number for the patient he’d seen, but the note next to it said he’d moved.
I pulled out my smartphone and tapped the screen for my image gallery instead by accident. It was such a habitual thing for me since I often took photos of notes, papers, and books for references when working on my report. The photo of the note posted to Professor Frauley’s door caught my attention, and I stared at the phone number on it. I quickly scrolled through the few contacts I had, then compared the professor’s number to the one on the paper.
It wasn’t the same.
My breath came in quicker. Was it Patrice’s number? Or had this been an elaborate plan by the killer to lure me somewhere secluded so he could get rid of everyone who’d been researching him. Was that why Patrice was dead? And wasn’t it likely the same fate had befallen the professor? Because they’d dug into the current murders at my request?
“Well...shit,” I muttered as I grabbed the remote and switched off the television now that it was talking about sports.
The apartment was plunged into silence, and I closed my eyes, trying to calm down, but knowing they’d probably gotten killed because of me didn’t sit right at all. It was one thing to accept death and even have a morbid curiosity about it, but I didn’t want to be responsible for other people. Not again.
I looked back down at the phone number and, on a whim, dialed it. It went to a generic voicemail, but something in my gut told me to leave a message. That this was for the killer.
“I’ll be in the study room in the basement of the archives tomorrow evening if you want to meet there. I have questions I’d like to ask.” I hung up, already going over what I’d tell the authorities if they’d ask me about why I’d left that message in case it did belong to one of the two murdered men. They’d definitely know a third person was there at some point... Could be any student, but I’d had an appointment planned, and telling them I just changed my mind about going because of the distance wouldn’t remove me from the suspect list. If anything, they’d likely assume I lied, and I’d be put up higher on that list.
It was stupid to have left a message, but at this point, it was too late to take it back. There were a lot of things I’d done in my life I couldn’t take back; I’d just add this one to the list.
I got to my feet and stretched, my back cracking in a few places as I did. It was definitely time for bed, if I could manage to sleep after everything. I appreciated being able to rest without the fear of someone sneaking into my bed at night. The first time it had happened, I was around thirteen years old. It wasn’t anything too bad compared to what I went through later, but that first time was...a lot.
I closed the laptop with a snap and strode to the room separator. This tiny section of my studio held my bed, a small dresser, and a nightstand, all of them in the fake black wood that was more plastic than natural, but it fit my theme. Everything was dark in color, except for what I wore. But I wasn’t picky about that on scorching days.
I rummaged around in my drawers trying to find the right pajamas for the weather, but then scoffed. Why was I bothering with clothes at all? I lived alone and could sleep naked in this heat if I wanted to. But then the thought of the killer entering my apartment slid into my mind, and my pulse shot straight down between my legs.
