Page 81 of Obsession
Shrugging one shoulder, I take my notebook back. “Speculating and putting together the puzzle pieces is part of my job too.”
A police dog barks in the distance.
“What did you find out?” I ask Elliot, who snaps his head back at me.
“Not much. An elderly dog walker discovered the body. They have no leads so far. Though the killer wore different shoes this time, a size bigger than usual.”
My eyes widen. “I fucking knew it!”
“Knew what?” Elliot follows behind me as I weave through the crowd to get a better view of the bridge.
“He’s trying to hide his identity. He’s close to the investigation. Too close,” I mumble under my breath, scanning the nearby officers and forensics hard at work. A chill slithers down my back.
“You think he’s here?”
“I don’t think so. I know so. Our killer wouldn’t want to miss his own exhibition.”
Elliot chuckles uneasily behind me while I write furiously in my notebook. “You should tell James your theories. He’d froth at the mouth.”
“They’re theories, Elliot.” I turn the page, cursing myself for buying a pocket-sized notebook. “I could be wrong.”
“You could be right.”
I look up, meeting his emerald gaze. Something fizzles there. A fire that heats my cheeks. I glance away and pocket my notebook.
“You’re a good reporter,” he says, stepping closer.
I can’t meet his gaze. Instead, I stare at his chest hidden inside his trench coat.
“Tell James your theories, Savannah.” In a swift move, he slides his hand inside my pocket to retrieve my notebook. “Or I’ll show him your notes. This is too good to sit on.” He motions the notebook at me as if to emphasize his point. “This could take you places.”
He walks off, and I stare at his retreating back before calling out, “Give me it back.”
“Not until you tell him,” he replies over his shoulder.
“See you at work tomorrow,”Elliot says from inside the car as I go to shut the door.
“Thanks for the lift.” I glance over the roof to see the cops park farther down the road.
Elliot pulls away from the curb, the car’s headlights fading in the dying daylight.
As I turn around to walk up to the house, goosebumps erupt everywhere, and I pause, scanning the fir trees. A breathtaking blend of orange, pink, and yellow shades seep through the branches, reminding me it won’t be long until the sun disappears completely behind the horizon.
My eyes land on a square brown box outside the front door.
From a distance, it looks unassuming, like a parcel left behind by the postman. I hesitate as a gust of wind chills me to the bone.
I haven’t ordered anything.
With a final look behind me, I walk up the porch steps and stare down at the box, noting the rose on top and a smear of blood beneath it.
“Fuck,” I whisper shakily, my breaths slipping from my lungs in small, visible puffs of air.
Dread grips me with sharp talons.
Before the cops in the car grow suspicious, I collect the parcel and hold it to my chest while digging through my pocket for the house key. I try to look as calm as possible, but my hands shake, and I almost lose the key when I insert it into the lock.
I somehow manage to get the door unlocked without freaking out on the porch in full view of the police across the street.
