Page 8 of Ghosted in Arkadia
“I’ve been,” I pause, trying to separate the days to figure out what day it is today. “I’ve been home.”
“Good,” Cathy breathes. “Call the Captain and explain everything to him. I don’t know if I should tell you this, but Alexander was murdered, Kira.”
Cathy hangs up, and I look at the screen in shock. My fingers move to call Captain Mitchell and explain everything that happened at the club on Friday night. The fifty-year-old man likely doesn’t need to know I was choking on cock when I discovered Alexander was cheating, but considering the alternative is a murder charge, I don’t hold back on the details.
“I’ll take care of you, Kira,” Captain says, his tone bleeding sympathy when I finish. “Between cab records and video from the club, it should be easy to rule you out.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me.
“I need you to take a bereavement leave.”
My stomach bottoms out. “Fuck.” I look up at the ceiling like it might have a better answer. I do not want to be stuck inside these four walls for the next two weeks.
“It’s standard protocol,” he adds, before I can voice a word of protest.
“I didn’t wish him dead, but come on, Captain,” I plead. “We just broke up. I don’t have two weeks of tears to get out.”
“I get it, Kira. I do. But we need time to investigate, and I don’t want you around for it. Based on the photos, someone really hated him.”
The sudden, overwhelming feeling of despair hits me like a physical blow, leaving me gasping for air. “Oh,” I breathe as all the air rushes from my lungs. “Thanks.”
I hang up the phone and place it on the table beside my bed. A dark thought twists through my mind, curling around my soul and wrapping tightly to squeeze at my heart.
Fuck waiting. I need answers.
I grab the kit from the drawer, my hands shaking as I draw distressed letters on my arm.
Did you kill him?
The answer comes immediately, as if his blood inside me merely awaits the right question.
Yes
I stare at the letters, frozen in place. My soulmate murdered my ex. More black words form beneath the confirmation.
Give me a name and I’ll take the life.
The words look at me as an accusation. I had written Alexander’s name in blood. My soulmate killed him for me.
A million ways to respond jumble through my mind, but I take a deep breath to calm myself. It takes effort to slow the merry-go-round, but eventually, I come to a single line of thinking.
My soulmate is a psychopath.
I head for the bathroom and get into the shower, turning the scalding water on full blast. My skin is red from washing his writing from it, and I keep scrubbing long after the letters disappear. It feels like his blood is inside me, simmering beneath the surface with a low rumble of laughter.
If I look down at my hands, I can feel Alexander’s blood on them.
My tears blend in with the water as it pours down my face, streaming down my cheeks. I curl into a ball on the floor and allow the water to pound against my back. My knees curl up against my chest as I hold myself while my body rocks.
I’m not sure what is worse, not having a soulmate or finding out he’s a psychopath.
The Death of Todd
Iendure delivery food and binge-watching shows for the entirety of my two-week punishment. And I spend every moment fighting the itch to message my soulmate.
James stops by a few days into my sentence to take my official statement. They already had whatever proof they needed to rule me out as a suspect, but someone from the club mentioned the disagreement.
I didn’t think I made that much of a scene, but whatever.
