Deadly Games

My phone pings again.

It’s another text from Emily’s burner phone. Up until a few minutes ago, I would have expected it to have been a flirtatious message about how she couldn’t wait until she saw me again and I would try to convince her to meet up with me as soon as possible.

I’ll never receive another message from her like that again.

Instead, this one reads:

447 Sweetgrass Road. Evergreen Terrace Apartments. #208. Inside the apartment you’ll find something that will help you. It’s blue. You’ll know it when you see it. The key to the apartment is under the doormat.

Once more, I glance to the packed park across the street and the countless cafés and restaurant patios that stretch into the distance.

He’s here. He has to be, right? He had to have been watching me as I walked into the station. That’s how he knew when to send that first message. How else—

Another text message arrives and answers my question.

You look nervous. Don’t be nervous. It’s time to play.

Chapter 2

“What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing?” I panic-mumble for about the seventieth time.

What else can I do? My head is still spinning. I can’t have this guy tell the cops about “my sweet little cupcake” or the blood in my car. I have to buy time until I can figure out what to do, and the only way to do that is to play his game, for now. This might be stupid but I don’t have any options at this point.

From my vantage point, parked across the street, Evergreen Terrace Apartments doesn’t look to be anything special; just another faceless courtyard building of units whose best feature is that it’s perched on the edge of Avalon, and you can sort of see the ocean from here. The banner out front announces that they have a vacancy. The bunches of balloons, tied to the railings leading up to the front door, bob and bounce off of each other in the sun-soaked breeze.

The glass doors lead to the lobby, which is nothing more than a room with some older couches. Set into the side wall are the mailboxes for the apartments. Another set of glass doors leads me to the open courtyard. The leasing office is to the left. There’s a small pool that takes up most of the courtyard, where two kids are splashing while their mothers sit in patio chairs, talking. They notice me. I smile at them, trying to play it cool, but I’m worried they can tell that I’m barely holding myself together.

After crossing the courtyard, I take the stairs up to the second level.

Number 208 is in the corner. The red doormat on the floor proclaims “Welcome!”. I glance around. The only signs of life are the kids and moms at the pool. I quickly reach down and flip up a corner of the doormat. Sure enough, there’s a gleaming, metal key. I snatch it up, slide it into the deadbolt, and twist. The bolt slides back and I push open the door.

I’m expecting a million things: a torture room, someone pointing a gun in my face, or even the police. The one thing I’m not expecting is exactly what I get: a boring apartment. From the front door, I can see almost the whole interior. The furnishings are spartan. There’s a couch and a loveseat in the living room in front of a television. In the kitchen, there’s a table and chairs. Past the kitchen is a short hallway, leading to a bedroom.

“Hello?” I call out before setting foot in the apartment, which is, of course, a stupid thing to do if the killer is waiting for me, somewhere inside. But I can already feel it. No one’s been here in a while.

A quick search of the apartment confirms my suspicions.

There’s a king-sized bed in the bedroom. The closets are empty. In the small bathroom, there’s some toiletries and two toothbrushes in a cup next to the sink. Two towels hang off the rack. I head back to the kitchen, which is almost bare. There are a couple of plates in the cabinets and utensils in a drawer. The fridge is empty. So is the pantry.

I don’t see anything that could “help me”, much less anything that is blue.

In the living room, I check under the cushions of the couch and behind the television. Nothing. At least nothing that looks like something I would “know it when I see it”.

What is this guy talking about?

I open all the cabinets and drawers in the kitchen. I check the undersides of the shelves in the pantry to see if there is something written or taped to them, like a piece of paper, telling me what to do next.

Back in the bedroom, I pull the sheets off the bed. Nothing. There’s nothing on the walls, either. It’s the most basic apartment imaginable. Revisiting the bathroom, I check under the sink, in the tub, and the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. I even check the toilet tank. There’s nothing here.

After my fruitless search, I find myself back in the living room.

Frustrated, I send a text to Emily’s burner phone: What am I looking for?

I hit send and wait … and wait …

Are you there? I type and hit send.

The tumbling nerves in my stomach solidify into a knot, which grows into a sense of dread that courses though my limbs.

I make another search of the apartment as I wait for a response that I’m certain isn’t coming.

“This is a waste of time,” I say aloud as I rifle through all the cabinets and drawers in the kitchen, again. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve made a terrible mistake in coming here.

Another search of the closet in the bedroom yields nothing.

I’m left standing in the bedroom, scrutinizing the bare walls.

Goddamnit!

I take out my phone and text.

What am I looking for?!!

I hit send and wait.

The cursor blinks at me.

My dread turns to anger.

This guy is messing with me.

There’s nothing here and there’s probably nothing in my car. I had just believed him when he said he put blood in it, and his knowledge of “my sweet little cupcake” caused me to panic and lie to Detective Mendez, when I should have come clean.

I know how to fix this.

There’s an easy way to prove this guy is full of shit, and when I do, I’m going right to Detective Mendez. I don’t care how this guy knows about “my sweet little cupcake”. It was a joke. Detective Mendez will understand.

Let’s settle this.

Stepping out of the lobby and into the Avalon sunshine, I stride purposefully across the street towards my Civic.

There’s no blood in my car. Once I prove it, I’m going to tell Detective Mendez about the affair. It doesn’t make me a killer. Yes, I was at the Seaside Motel, but I didn’t kill her. I’ll show him the texts. No, I don’t know who they’re from and no, I don’t know where the phone is now, and yes, I lied before, but he’ll understand. I’ll tell him about “my little cupcake”, which will be difficult, but I’ve got to do it. This guy said he put Emily’s blood in my car. I’ll show Detective Mendez and he’ll see that there’s no blood in it. Sure, he’ll be skeptical at first and it’ll take a lot of explaining, but he’ll believe me. He’ll understand why I lied and I’ll admit that it was a terrible mistake.

I unlock the car doors and open all of them. I begin meticulously inspecting every inch of the interior. My car is pretty tidy and any blood is going to stand out against the cloth seats. When I don’t find anything, I’m going straight to Detective Mendez.

There are no signs of blood on the dashboard. No signs of blood on the seats. There are no signs of blood on the floor, either, only some wayward nickels, two pens I swiped from The Gryphon. These spots right here? They’re from a while back when I spilled a little bit of energy drink.

Each passing moment of non-discovery adds to my confidence.

I pick myself up from inspecting the floor of the back seat, go to the driver’s side, and pull the handle to pop the trunk.

I’m already rehearsing what I’m going to say to Detective Mendez.

“First off, Detective, I want to apologize. I lied to you but I hope you understand. You see, Emily Parker and I were having an affair, but I didn’t kill her. It was someone else who is now using our relationship to set me up. They said to keep quiet or else they would tell you about the blood in my car, but as you can see—”

I lift the lid of the trunk.

My lungs seize up.

There’s a moment of shock and revulsion. Then, I slam the lid closed but continue staring at the trunk.

I can’t go back to Detective Mendez. Not now. Not ever.

The inside of the trunk of my car is covered in blood.

Chapter 3

My knocking on the door goes unanswered for two seconds, so I knock again.

“Katie? Katie, it’s me.” I’m trying to keep my voice somewhere between making sure she can hear me and not alerting the neighbors.

I rap on the door, again.

“C’mon, Katie. Open the door.”

She’s home. I know she is. This is the only night of the week that The Gryphon is closed and there’s a car parked in the spot outside her apartment.

“Katie, please, op—”

The door flies open. Katie is staring at me with wide, furious eyes and flaring nostrils.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asks, breathlessly.

“I have to talk to you. Can I come in?”

“It is really not a good time.”

“Listen, I have to know: what did the police ask you about Emily and me?”

“Clay,” she says, quickly glancing over her shoulder. “This is not the—”

“Please. It’s important.”

“They asked me about the other night at the bar and I said that I didn’t talk to her and that you were the one taking care of her.”

“Did you tell them that we were … you know?”

“Sleeping together? No. I didn’t. Now, can we talk about this later?”

“Did they show you the photos?”

“What photos? What are you talking about?”

“Katie, Emily Parker’s dead.”

She freezes, her mouth hanging open.

“Someone killed her at the motel where we were going to meet, and when I spoke to the police today, I didn’t tell them about us.”

Katie finally finds her voice. “You have to go back, right now, and tell them.”

“I can’t. Something’s happened and I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? Clay—”

“Katie, please listen to me. I know I screwed up, I do, but if the police ask to speak to you again, I need you to do something for me.”

She begins to shake her head. “Clay, stop.”

“Please, please, don’t tell them or anybody else about Emily and me.”

“Shut up, now!”

“Katie, please listen to me; I had nothing to do with this. I swear to you I didn’t, but something happened, and I need some time to figure it out. All I’m asking is that you don’t tell anyone about me and Emily.”

“Clay, stop!” she hisses through clenched teeth.

“Katie? Everything okay?” a voice asks from the inside of her darkened apartment.

For the first time, I notice what Katie is wearing: a long T-shirt and apparently nothing else. Her hair is disheveled and her cheeks are flushed. Also, that’s not her car in her parking spot.

Over her shoulder, a man appears from the doorway to the bedroom. He has sharp facial features, a chiseled, hairy chest, and he’s wearing jeans he hasn’t bothered to button.

Katie closes her eyes and hangs her head in resignation. “Everything’s fine. I’ll be back in a second.”

The man and I lock eyes.

Oh, this is sooo bad.

“Hello, Mr. McDermitt,” I say in a quiet mixture of panic and mortification.

“Clay,” he responds. He’s obviously not my biggest fan at the moment.

I wanted to talk to Katie to keep anyone else from finding out about Emily and I. Instead, I’ve added one more person.

He turns and goes back into the bedroom.

“Seriously?” I ask Katie.

“I told you it was a bad time.”

“That his car in your spot?”

“Yes. Mine’s in the shop. Nick’s been giving me rides to and from work. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to switch out-times the other night. He gave me a ride to the station this morning and we came back here.”

“And what does Mrs. McDermitt think about this?”

Katie crosses her arms.

“I wouldn’t know because they split last month and are you really going to try to lecture me on this particular subject at the moment?”

I take a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m being an asshole.”

She takes it down a notch as well.

“You want to tell me what happened?” she asks.

If I tell her about the text messages and the blood in my car, she’s going to call the police, and I wouldn’t blame her.

“I can’t tell you right now.”

“Clay—”

“I can’t but I need you to know that I didn’t kill her, okay? You know I could never do that, right?”

“Of course I do.” She sighs. “But you know something, don’t you?”

“Not me, but someone does.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then, I don’t understand. Why don’t you go to the police?”

“Because I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t.”

She shakes her head, unhappy with my answer but knows it’s all she’s going to get. “Fine … But tell me; are you okay?”

I’m not sure how to answer, but decide to be honest. “I don’t know, but, Katie, please promise that you won’t tell anyone about Emily and me.”

She tilts her face towards the ground.

“Katie?”

She looks up at me with eyes that are filled not only with worry, but with hurt. “Clay, if they ask me, I’m not going to lie to the police … and I can’t believe you would ask me to do that now, when she’s dead.”

“Please, Katie, it’s really—”

“I’m not going to lie to the cops,” she says quietly, but forcefully.

She’s right. I can’t ask one of my best friends to risk getting herself in a lot of trouble for me. I rapidly come up with a middle ground.

“I apologize. It was wrong of me to ask you to lie to the cops.”

She won’t make eye contact.

“Katie, please look at me.”

She reluctantly does.

“You believe me when I tell you I didn’t kill Emily, right?”

“Yes, of course, I believe you.”

“Okay. How about this, if they ask you about us, don’t lie, but please promise me that you won’t say anything unless they ask. Is that fair?”

It’s a really fine hair to split, but I’m hoping our friendship wins me the benefit of the doubt.

She considers it. “… okay.”

“Yeah?”

She shrugs. “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you knowing something else that you wouldn’t want to lie about.”

There’s a long, awkward pause as we’ve hit a wall where I won’t say anymore and she won’t promise anything else.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll let you get back to … that,” I say with a wave of my hand towards the bedroom door.

Katie scoffs in disbelief.

“See you at work, tomorrow,” she replies and closes the door in my face.

My apartment has never felt so small. So claustrophobic.

I pull the shades on every window but can’t shake the feeling that there are eyes watching me.

Dinner consists of some reheated leftovers and a beer, but I hardly touch either one as I obsess over watching the news on television and checking the news on my phone. There’s nothing about Emily’s murder, but it’s only a matter of time. A millionaire’s wife found naked in bed at a seedy motel with her throat cut? It’s a true-crime podcaster’s dream.

Midnight hits and I’m still wide awake, trying to imagine what a conversation with Detective Mendez would look like if I tried to come clean now.

I could possibly explain away one thing or maybe two, but there are so many things that I would have to explain. Even if I try to plead that I cared for Emily, it would make me sound crazy, especially when you threw in the blood in my trunk and “my sweet little cupcake”.

The ship where I tell everything to Detective Mendez has sailed.

I go to the bathroom and take a shower. I open the small window to the blind alley behind my apartment building to let out the steam.

While standing under the stinging hot water and trying to think my way through this, I realize that even the text messages don’t really help me. How can I prove it’s her phone? I mean, it’s a burner phone that no one else knew about. Also, where is it? If I admit that I was at the motel that night, wouldn’t Detective Mendez assume I took it, and maybe I’m sending the messages to myself to try to lamely throw him off the scent?

There’s no way around it.

This guy has me in a corner and there’s no way out.

I climb into bed and hit the lights, but sleep is an impossibility.

Lying in bed, phone in hand, I scroll through the text messages. For the first time in my life, I’m having a panic attack. I can’t breathe. My chest hurts and my stomach is boiling. I’m lying here, stewing in my bed, going around in circles, and have no clue as to what I should do next. I want to vent to someone, but who? No way I talk to Detective Mendez. I tried to talk to Katie and that made it worse. There’s no one to—

No. There is someone to talk to.

I quickly begin typing into my phone. The letters appear under my last text to Emily’s burner phone.

What was that at the apartment?

Send.

I stare at the cursor and start typing again.

Why did you want me to go there?

Send.

I pause … and then begin furiously typing.

Why did you kill her?

Send.

Why are you doing this?

Send.

What do you want?

Send.

WHO ARE YOU?!!

Send.

Even though I’m lying in bed, I’m out of breath and gripping the phone so tightly, I feel like it’s going to break. Under the string of messages, the blinking cursor patiently waits for some more unhinged typing.

Minutes pass.

Finally, my phone goes into sleep mode, darkening the room.

Exhaustion crashes over me. I put the phone on the bedside table, pull the sheets up to my chin, and roll onto my side. My body is drained but my mind is still spinning out of control.

My eyes start to close. I just want to sleep, to escape for a little—

Ping.

I’m instantly alert. I roll over, grab the phone, and unlock the home screen.

There’s one new message from Emily’s burner phone.

It’s a single emoji reply …

Chapter 4

So, it’s no surprise that I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night.

I don’t know how long I stared at my phone, but eventually, I started to fall asleep and dropped it on my face, hitting my nose and bringing tears to my eyes.

Don’t laugh. You’ve done it, too, and I’m not in the mood.

I didn’t reply to the pyscho’s text and I’m not going to. It would only give him the chance to further mess with my head.

I slept in fits and starts. Every time I woke up, I was certain I had been asleep for hours, only to check my phone and discover that it had been a few minutes. Then, I would check the news. Around four in the morning, the dam broke.

There it was.

Murder in Avalon! read one headline. Wife of Hedge Fund Manager Found Dead read another, which kind of pissed me off; that their best description of Emily was the “wife of hedge fund manager”. That’s really the best they could do? And on it went. Each article was accompanied by photos of Emily’s smiling face and the exterior of the Seaside Motel. Thankfully, the details of her murder were sparse. She had been discovered by a cleaning lady in the early hours of yesterday morning. There were some mentions of her throat being cut, but nothing about her being found naked on the bed.

Needless to say, I was up and out of bed in minutes. I chugged coffee and watched the local morning news, which didn’t have anything on the murder, yet. The next few hours were spent scrolling through the news but there were no updates. By noon, I realized that I was driving myself crazy. I had to get away from it, just for a bit, and did everything I could to get my mind on something, anything else. I cleaned my apartment. I tried to go for a jog but was nearly run over by a car because I wasn’t paying attention. Then, I went to the gym, only to half-ass a few machines, and walk out.

I’m just going through the motions.

It’s all I can do.

Four o’clock. Time to open The Gryphon.

I’ve done this so many times, it’s become mundane. I could do it in my sleep, but now it’s surreal. Everything looks the same as those hundreds of other times, but feels different, like everyone is watching me. Every window, every alley, every parked car that I can’t see the inside of holds a pair of spying eyes.

The blinking white figure of a stickman tells me it’s safe to cross the street, but I hesitate.

The Blonde is on the other side of the crosswalk, but she doesn’t start crossing. She’s waiting. What is she doing? Is she waiting for The Gryphon to open? She’s never done that before.

No. It looks like she’s waiting for me.

I cross the street and try to avoid eye contact as I step onto the curb to walk past her.

“Clay?” she asks.

I pretend I don’t hear her as I reach the door, extracting my key ring.

“Clay Davis?”

“We open in an hour,” I reply, fumbling with the key.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

“Look, I’m sorry that I didn’t get your Stella the other night. I was busy and—”

“No. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

She’s obviously not going away, so let’s get whatever this is over with.

“Okay … What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Emily Parker.”

On second thought, let’s not even start this.

“Absolutely not.” I hasten my efforts to open the door.

“Please. Just a few questions.”

“‘Just a few questions’? I’m sorry. Who are you?” I ask.

“No, I’m sorry. I totally messed this up,” she says, reaching into her pocket and holding out her card. “My name is Genevieve Winters. I’m with the San Francisco Herald.”

Of course, she’s a reporter. Of course she is. I don’t even reach for the card.

“Not interested.”

“I saw how you two acted towards one another at the bar,” she says.

Get away! Get away from her! my mind screams, which only adds to the trouble with the key. Talking to a reporter isn’t going to help me figure out who killed Emily. It can only get me into more trouble.

“I have nothing to say.”

I’m trying desperately to open the door, but my hands are shaking so bad, that when I attempt one last time to get the key in the lock, it slides off to the side and I stab the glass, thankfully not hard enough to break it. That’s it. She’s got me.

I finally look up.

She’s staring at me like a ravenous cat eyeing a one-legged mouse.

“How well did you know her?” she asks.

“I said I’m not talking to—”

“Were you sleeping with her?”

There’s no use trying to hide the fact that she’s rattled me. I give up with the keys and give her my full attention.

“What makes you ask that?”

“Like I said, I saw you two together. You seemed pretty … friendly.”

“I’m a bartender. ‘Friendly’ is kind of my job.”

“I’ve also heard some things.”

“Have you?”

She nods.

That question pops into my head; the question that changed the dynamic with Detective Mendez: What can I get you? What is it that I can get you that will get me what I want, and what I want to know is where she heard anything?