Page 83 of What We May Be

Chapter Twenty-Three

From his perch on Charlie’s office windowsill, Trevor futilely scanned Main Street below. “I don’t like this. Why couldn’t I go with her?”

“She wanted you safe,” Abel said. “Here at the station.”

Trevor turned to the man he considered an uncle too. “That’s not all of it. She and Sean were wired when they came out of the conference room. And then for some reason it’s good for the three of us to go off in separate directions? Her to Annie’s and Sean to the natatorium. How does that make sense?”

“There’s a patrol car on Charlie. Wally’s already at Annie’s. Marsh is with Sean. It’s safer this way.”

Trevor exploded off the windowsill, all the pent-up fear and anger going nuclear. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Abel held his ground, one of the few people who was bigger than Trevor and also someone who had known Trevor at his scrawny middle school worst. Had saved him a time or twenty from his parents’ brawls. “You and she seem to be at the center of this thing,” he said. “Maybe Sean too. Each of you is guarded, safe but separate. Better than having you all in one place like sitting ducks.”

Or put another way… “We’re all sitting ducks in separate places instead. Waiting to see which of us the killer comes for.”

Abel sank into Charlie’s desk chair, head in his hands. “That too. Their plan, not mine. And I’m as worried as you are.” He pointedly eyed the visitor chair across from him and Trevor begrudgingly took a seat. “She’s the deputy chief of police. She’s armed and well trained, not to mention known to everyone in town. All the prior murders happened at night. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon in broad daylight. She’ll be fine.” He picked up the stack of papers on Charlie’s desk—the ones Trevor was supposed to be reviewing—and held them out to him. “Now, let’s get back to these and see if we can help identify a suspect.”

Fuming, Trevor snatched the papers and a highlighter. He was on the second page when a sharp rap sounded against the door behind him. He twisted in his seat and was on his feet the next second. So was Abel. One look at Rachel, trembling and white as a ghost, and they both knew something was seriously wrong.

“Rachel,” Abel said as he lightly grasped her elbow.

Trevor moved in to steady her from the other side. “What’s wrong?”

“I went downstairs to get something out of my locker, and they were there.”

“What were there?” Trevor asked.

Her frightened eyes bounced between them. “Roses. A vase of red roses.”

Trevor was halfway to the stairs before she finished her sentence. Taking them three at a time, ignoring the pounding of Abel’s feet behind him, he cleared the bottom step in seconds. He darted across the hall to the locker room, slammed open the swinging door, and skidded to a halt in front of the bench where he, Charlie, and Sean had talked yesterday.

In the exact spot where Charlie had been, now sat an elegant crystal vase, a blood-red ribbon tied around its middle, and a dozen red roses spilling out the top. Their ploy had worked, but not in the way they’d anticipated.

Trevor moved to step closer, but Abel’s hand around his upper arm stopped him. “Trevor, wait! We don’t want to contaminate any evidence.” He hollered down the hall. “Mags, gloves.”

Every wasted second ticked in Trevor’s head like a time bomb. Charlie was the target; he was certain of that now. And if Sean was right and the killer was doing this in some part for him… Trevor turned and covered his mouth, choking back the threatening sickness.

“What’s with all the—” Maggie stepped past him, next to Abel. “Whoa.”

Trevor listened as they went through the motions behind him—snapping on gloves, taking pictures, opening an envelope. A card tucked in among the roses.

“Trevor, you need to see this,” Abel said. “There’s a note.”

He took a deep breath, steeling himself, then rotated back to Maggie and Abel. Approaching, he clasped his hands behind his back to avoid touching anything, and Abel held the note out in front of him. Same paper, same red ink, same block-style letters.

#4 – OUT DAMNED SPOT. OUT.

“It’s Macbeth.”

Abel dropped the envelope and note into the plastic evidence bag Maggie held open. “Did you see anyone go in or out of here in the last hour?”

“No.” Maggie sealed the bag. “But I just got back from another crime scene over in Supply. Their coroner is out this week, so I’m pulling double duty.”

“The rear entrance door,” Trevor thought aloud. He’d come in and out of it numerous times that week, always after someone opened it for him. “It’s always locked, right?”

“That’s right,” Abel said. “Only those who work for the department have keys.”

“That should narrow things down.” He thought further about the hallway. “Security cameras?”

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