Page 75 of Virgin Sacrifice

“A virgin?” I asked, my brows furrowed as I tried to make sense of where this was going.

“Yes, are you a virgin, or perhaps I should say, have you had penetrative vaginal sex?”

“I’m not sure what that has to do with anything,” I answered earnestly.

She let out a heavy sigh and sat back in her chair, running a hand through her hair and chewing her lip. After a couple beats of what was supposed to look like contemplation, she leaned back in toward me conspiratorially. “We haven’t shared this information with the public yet, but we have reason to believe that whoever killed those girls targeted them because they were virgins.”

Of all the explanations she could have offered, that was probably the last one that would have come to my mind, and once again I let my genuine shock and confusion shine through. “But why? How do you even figure that out?” I sputtered.

“I’m not at liberty to say, unfortunately, but you can understand why I need to ask. If there is a linkage between the heart you received and these girls being murdered, there’s a chance that you could be targeted next, so we need to know if you fit the killer’s profile.”

“I, uh . . .” I was rarely at a loss for words, but I had no idea what to say to the detective.

Fortunately, Marques seemed to take my flustered state and lack of response as embarrassment. She reached across the stainless steel table that separated us to give my hand a quick squeeze, and I repressed the desire to pull away from her. “I know it’s uncomfortable to talk about,” she said, “but we really do need to know if you are at risk.”

And what if I am?

I only had a split second to make up my mind, but as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew it was the right decision.

“Well, I guess it’s lucky for me that I’m not,” I said, pasting on a deprecating half smile.

Marques frowned before quickly schooling her expression.

“So, you are saying that you are not a virgin?” she said, some of the facade of her friendliness giving way.

“No. I mean, I haven’t been sexually active since I came to Hollow Oak, but I lost my virginity back in high school. That counts, right?”

It was an inane question, but I had long since gotten the impression that the detectives thought of me as no more than a silly little girl, so who was I to disillusion them?

She sighed and began shuffling through her notes. “I suppose we don’t really know, but for now, let’s say yes,” she replied, clearly unimpressed with my response.

The detective wrapped up the rest of the conversation fairly quickly, prodding at me with the occasional mundane question that I responded to with the obligatory “yes” and “no” where appropriate.

Once she dismissed me, I made a pit stop at the station’s bathrooms to collect myself. My mind was spinning at a million miles per hour even if I remained collected and docile on the outside.

Why did I lie to her?

It would have been an easy thing to tell her the truth, that I was very much still a virgin by her definition or almost any other’s. Sweaty groping was still just second base these days, right?

But if I had told her the truth, what good would it have done?

The police didn’t protect you from crimes that might be committed. Ask any woman or queer person who had ever been on the receiving end of harassing or threatening behavior how reporting it to the police had helped. And even if the detective had been sincere, what could they really do to protect me? Somehow, I doubted the small-town police force of Shady Harbor had the budget to post an officer outside my dorm to protect me.

Washing up my hands, I did a quick inspection of myself in the mirror before exiting the washroom. I quickly made my way through the precinct, keeping my head down lest I catch Detective Denver’s attention again.

It was early December in Connecticut, and while it wasn’t properly winter yet, it was well on its way.

As I stepped out of the station, I wrapped my thin wool coat tightly around me to ward off the vicious winds blowing in from the harbor front. The weather app said that the temperature should have been just above freezing, but windchill made it much colder.

I wonder if we’ll get snow for the holidays.

I reached for my phone to order an Uber back to campus, and my rapidly numbing fingers fumbled trying to select the app. The sun was setting earlier and earlier these days, and the parking lot in front of the station already seemed sinisterly dark and empty.

I shivered against the cold as I saw that it would be six minutes before my ride arrived. I thought about going back inside the station to wait. It was warmer, well-lit and arguably safer, although I supposed that depended on whether you were a criminal or a victim.

I found myself stubbornly waiting it out, shrugging my shoulders tight to preserve my body heat while alternating between rubbing my hands and shoving them into my pockets to keep them warm. I needed a better coat and gloves if I was going to survive the winter here.

The telltale buzzing of my phone had me pulling it out again to see that my ride was two minutes away, along with the standard warning to check the plates every time.

---