Page 28 of Festive Fugitive
“Has the culture of the interwebs invaded our real lives too much?” the anchor asks, looking straight at the camera. “For a long time now, we have discussed how the anonymity of the internet causes people to ignore social boundaries and tell others things they never would have in real life. This case shows how far this can go. Even the name, ‘Festive Fugitive’ is disrespectful to the victim and his family. Search engine results display pagesupon pages of memes and videos presenting the murder of Arthur Sullivan as a joke—”
“The first amendment guarantees people the right to free speech, but is this a worthy use of that speech?” one of the commentators on the screen asks before shaking his head.
I’m too busy with food preparation to keep watching, but a third voice joins the same discussion I’ve heard more times than I care to.
“The investigation into Elijah Ward’s motive did reveal that Mr. Sullivan wasn’t the person the public knew him as, though. Several bodies found on the grounds of his property? An underground room with torture devices? Who knows what else the police haven’t even disclosed? I’d bet my arm that Elijah was a victim of Sullivan’s. If anything, he saved those who Sullivan would have hurt in the future.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The Festive Fugitive is hardly some angel of vengeance—”
“How would you know? The case has too many unanswered questions.”
“We still shouldn’t use silly terms like Festive Fugitive when we talk about murder.”
I turn to glance at Eli who doesn’t even blink, glued to the screen as if it’s hypnotizing him. I heard about the discovery a few hours ago, but I didn’t want to rattle him before our trip to the lake. I know all about that underground torture chamber and what else Sullivan hid.
I’ve been there many times, though only once as a victim.
“Did you hear that?” Eli whispers absentmindedly. “People will find out who Sullivan was.”
But when I try to answer, he shushes me, desperate to intake all that the news has to offer.
The show’s moderator turns to the camera. “It’s true, there are many questions left, so who better to illuminate us on them than someone who knew Elijah Ward best? Let’s hear from Spencer Shaw, his ex-partner.”
Spencer?
Spencer? That piece of shit who couldn’t be bothered to take over some of Eli’s chores when he was sick?
The butter knife drops from my hand, and I gravitate closer to the screen, my muscles like stiff leather. I sense the tension in the room as if I could smell the cortisol spiking in Eli the moment that fucker appears on screen.
Spencer is your average Joe-type with a pleasant smile, but his eyebrows are drawn together, as if he were a funeral director trying to express both sympathy and sorrow at the same time. He’s even dressed in a black suit for this remote interview.
“Thank you for having me. It’s so tragic. I’ve been trying to piece everything together for days now. I’d say it’s such a shock, but it’s not when I really think about it. Elijah has expressed his violent urges to me many times. We argued about that a lot, actually.”
Eli jumps up and stands on the couch with his face going red. “You motherfucker! Violent fucking urges?”
I cut his legs from under him and use both my arms to guide his ass back to the seat, because I am not letting him injure himself over this. But I understand the frustration of being accused of things that just can’t be true.
Eli is a good person—a lamb hurt so badly it snapped and spilled the blood of a wolf. He doesn’t deserve to be besmirched on live TV. Especially by a selfish lowlife like Spencer, who never treated my Eli the way he deserves.
“That’s so interesting,” the anchor says. “He has no prior criminal record, and appeared to have led a peaceful life before becoming homeless.”
Eli lets out a sound I’ve not heard from him before. Something between a growl and a rumble deep in his chest.
Spencer goes on, and even seeing his face is making me jealous. This fuck not only touched Eli, but also made him miserable. And now he’s spilling his version of events on national TV.
“Depends how you define ‘peaceful’. He couldn’t hold down a job half the time. I told him after he lost the court battle against Mr. Sullivan, that he should let it go, focus on getting his life in order, but he wanted to take law into his own hands. I, of course, thought he was all talk, or I would have reported it. He did have a tendency to blow things out of proportion.”
The anchor nods with a serious expression. “Do you have any idea why he might have chosen to dress up as Santa Claus to commit his crime?”
Spencer shakes his head. “He always had an unhealthy obsession with Christmas. I couldn’t take that, and his violent fantasies were getting too toxic. I feared for my safety. In the end, I had to end that relationship.”
Eli screams out in fury. “He fucking didn’t! He fucking used me until I had no more to give. And then he hit me, so I dumped him and walked away! ButI’mthe violent one?”
My skull feels like it’s about to crack. On the screen, conversation continues, but all I can see now is the raw fury and regret on Eli’s vulpine features. He’s raising his voice until it’s so shrill I worry his throat’s going to be sore.
I want to protect him from those violent emotions, from feeling slighted, and from the rat playing the good guy now that it’s offering him a moment in the spotlight.
“He did what? Hit you?” I ask, gesturing at the TV.
