Page 2
2
LENNY
The glass doors to the museum slammed shut behind me, closing out the brutal summer heat. I walked past the small desk that housed will-call and the service desk. No one was sitting there, but I didn’t expect them to be. It was only 7:00 a.m., and I was always one of the first to the museum. We didn’t open until nine, and I liked having the extra time for personal research.
A clash rang through the small museum, and I startled, realizing on this particular morning, I wasn’t alone.
“Shit!” someone shouted from the back right corner of the space.
I hurried through our set up of exhibits: portraits from local artists, facts about our town, and in the back corner, an exhibit showing off the one famous actor who grew up in Briarport, although I could never recall his name.
Mickey L.
Michael L.
Unimportant. Potential murderer breaking into the museum should be my focus.
Boxes were toppled, and a random assortment of documents were spread across the carpeted floor.
“Barren?” I called, seeing the older gentleman gathering papers from the floor.
He jumped at my voice and dropped the papers he had just picked up.“Lenore,” he said, the surprise on his face fading.
“What are you doing here so early?” I asked. “Your shift doesn’t usually start for another few hours.”
He scrambled to pick up the documents, and I knelt beside him, gathering as many as I could hold.
“Francis will have my head if I don’t finish organizing these boxes today,” the older man said. His blue eyes darted around, like the museum director might materialize in the middle of the exhibit.
The older woman ran a tight ship; she was punctual, a perfectionist.
When tourists flocked to New England for summer on the coast and beautiful fall foliage, Francis became even more uptight and meticulous.
The exhibits needed to be pristine, and museum-goers needed to be kept happy. I’d seen the consequences of a sloppy exhibit only once before. Multiple employees ended up on a watch she called probation, or what I liked to call torture . Longer shifts, cleaning duties, and every last action inspected with a fine tooth comb, like we were incapable of making up for our mistakes.
I shuddered at the thought of ever ending up on her bad side. I floated along and kept my head down. The research I was conducting was far too important to risk.
The museum had its perks, and I planned to continue utilizing them as long as I could.
“I won’t tell Francis about this if you won’t,” I joked, and Barren let out a deep chuckle.
We finished picking up the documents, and I helped him move the boxes out of the exhibit area to the back offices, the area off limits to the public. It was where I did most of my work as assistant curator.
I pulled my long, dark curls out of my face, realizing the work was more extensive than I originally calculated.
We walked back and forth together, picking up the twenty or so boxes one at a time.
“Three years, and you still won’t tell me the secret to getting on her good side,” Barren teased as we stacked the boxes in a corner of the office space.
Filing cabinets sat beside them, some of the drawers partially open, brand new and empty. I knew Barren would soon fill them with most of our records. I ordered the new organization system myself only a week prior.Before, all the documents had been stored in the basement in cardboard boxes, which Barren and I now hefted across the museum.
“There is no secret.” I shrugged.
“Oh, come on,” he pushed. “You can’t tell me you became her favorite by coincidence?”
“I’m not her favorite,” I muttered under my breath, already regretting my choice to help.
It was the same old thing every day. I’d worked my ass off to get the position, and most of the long-time employees despised me for it. They whispered constantly about the ways I must have flattered Francis to get the position.
I rolled my eyes.
Every shift, I came in early and stayed late. I put in extra hours at the museum to document records and sort through them. I helped research new exhibits and planned events. Each time I went the extra mile, Francis trusted me a bit more, enough to stop looking over my shoulder at my every move.
Freedom to conduct my personal research—it was the only reason I took the job in the first place.
“I gave some thought to the exhibit idea you pitched,” Barren said.
At last month’s team meeting, Francis invited new ideas. I couldn’t waste the opportunity to make my true goal more obtainable.
“I don’t think it’s a great idea,” he said warily.
Neither had Francis at the meeting; she’d shot it down immediately. I’d presented a bit of my personal research, but as soon as I started, she cut me off, turning down the idea. Instead, she tasked me with a new project: updating a few of our existing exhibits to give them new appeal.
“But it’s a piece of this town’s history,” I pointed out, not willing to give up hope just yet.
“A fresh piece of history,” he argued. “A little too fresh. Give it more time, and maybe she will reconsider, but for now, I think everyone feels the same way. The Coastal Killer is not someone we are ready to welcome. That bastard shoved rings down victims' throats. I can barely think about that without getting nauseous.”
The killer’s modus operandi.
I sighed, adding another box to the pile we created.
“But people deserve to know the victims,” I pointed out.
“Do you really think tourists will want to visit an exhibit focused solely on the victims?” he asked, hesitation in his eyes.
“They’re assholes if they don’t,” I mumbled.
“I agree,” he noted. “But that’s unfortunately the depressing truth of it. Tourists are only interest in the infamous Coastal Killer. It was all the headlines were four years ago. That type of gore and tragedy is just not something any of us are ready to remember.”
“I just think the victims should have some sort of memorial,” I said.
Selfishly, it would give me an excuse to share the project I’d been working on the past few years, a way to avoid hiding from Francis’ control over everything, to continue the research without the added stress of concealing it all.
“Besides, they never caught the damn bastard. If he’s still out there, we don’t need that attention turned to us,” Barren said with a nervous laugh.
It wasn’t fair. The Coastal Killer disappeared a little over three years ago. Without a trace, he just vanished into thin air. The FBI gave up, local police gave up, and eventually, our little coastal town went back to the peace it had known before the killings started.
Every time I thought about it, my blood boiled. The killer deserved to rot in prison, and instead, he was enjoying life comfortably elsewhere.
Everyone had giving up hope.
This shouldn’t be the normal. There was still so much evidence left to look at, but no one cared.
“Imagine the podcasters and true crime junkies,” Barren pointed out, seeing the disappointment on my face. “They’d flock here if they heard we had the inside scoop on one of the most notorious killers in a decade.”
I gave him a weak smile.All I wanted was justice for the victims, and if no one could provide that, then the least I could do was preserve their memory.
One of my first weeks on the job, I had stumbled across all of the old newspaper clippings while processing records, and the idea started to form there. It became my passion project.
There was so much good we could do with our position.
“At least it’d give tourists someone other than Milo L.,” I teased, forcing myself to stop harping on the topic.
“You mean Micah L.?” Barren asked, raising a brow.
“Yeah, that guy,” I said, waving him off.
“That guy has been in like every movie known to man,” he said, the starstruck effect glazing over his eyes.
“Not you too,” I groaned.
“Francis forces us to know everything about that exhibit. How have you gotten away with not even knowing his name?”
I placed the very last box on top of the stack and shrugged. I didn’t interact with the tourists or exhibits as much as everyone else. I remained behind the scenes, finding new exhibits and documenting old town records. It was the way I preferred it, out of the spotlight of the busy attraction.
“That’s what happens when you’re the favorite, I suppose. A promotion, more leeway,” he huffed. “I’ve been here thirteen years, and it’s always the same for me.”
The old man scowled, adding his last box to the pile.
Probably because of that attitude.
I worked hard to prove I could handle the responsibility of assistant curator when our prior one retired. They were one of Francis’ closest friends, so I had huge shoes to fill. If I had to put in the extra time and effort, I would do everything I could to keep working my way up.
“I thought I heard you two chattering,” Francis said, and I turned to find her hands on her hips, lips pursed.
“The boxes are all here,” Barren said quickly.
“Perfect,” Francis said, her face lighting with delight. “Now, there are a few exhibits that look a bit drab. I need you to go work on those before we open for the day.”
“But-” Barren started, his shift technically not starting for an hour. He shut his mouth and thought better of the comment.
“I’ll start on organizing the new filing system,” I offered before she had a chance to assign me to a new task.
“Always on top of everything,” she chirped.
I just knew exactly how to remain on her good side. It wasn’t rocket science, but it did require a bit of trial and error.
I turned and got to work, burying myself in the work of sorting through all the old records, arranging them in a more organized fashion in the large metal cabinets.
* * *
My shift was over before I knew it, and I gathered my belongings from the small desk I claimed as my own in the back room. My work computer was still on, and I sent myself an email before shutting it down, my usual routine on days I was able to contribute to my personal research.
It was a busier than usual day at the museum, tourists flocking inside for a reprieve from the brutal heat or a break from the overcrowded beaches.
Visitors all gravitated toward the same three beaches, unaware of the hidden gems our town had to offer.
Some days, when I went home early—a rare occasion—I liked to take a dip in the water of the hidden stretches of beach close to my apartment.
The walk home was only a ten minute stroll. I walked along the sidewalk out front of a stretch of shops. The further I walked, the more I caught sight of the ocean, heading straight for it. The summer breeze carried the smell of the salty waves through the air, putting me at ease.
Shop owners cleaned their hanging racks and signs outside their little stores and brought them inside. Most of the tourists had fled to the most popular restaurants in town for dinner, leaving the streets open to the locals who knew better.
Three years ago, I never would’ve walked home when the sun was already dipping and I was alone. The police had made it all but mandatory to travel in groups and avoid being out after dark.
Many credited strict curfews and regulations as what drove the killer away. Maybe they moved on to a new town, or maybe they were already rotting in a prison cell for another crime.
Something in my gut, though, told me they were lying in wait for the right time to return. I never thought the Coastal Killer was done.
A hand on my shoulder had me tripping over my steps and my heart completely stopping in my chest.
“I thought that was you,” a deep voice said, wrapping an arm around my shoulder to steady me.
I was so deep in my thoughts, I hadn’t even heard the footsteps behind me. My heart raced, and I took a deep breath, recognizing the voice and turning to find my brother next to me.
“Off early?” he asked.
“Hey, Calvin,” I said with a sigh of relief. “Francis forced us all out because she had some fancy cleaning service coming. I think her exact words were these exhibits better shine .”
I laughed remembering her frantically shoving us out the door promptly at closing.
“So, the workaholic had no choice but to go home and relax for once?” he asked, raising a brow, a grin spreading across his lips.
“I’m not a workaholic,” I said, pushing his arm off my shoulder and scowling.
“Perfect. So, you’ll stop by for dinner next Friday, right?”
Shit.
He had been trying to get me to come over for dinner with him and his wife for months. I’d only seen their new house once.
“I-” I tried.
“No excuses, Len,” he scolded. “Mom and Dad barely hear from you. We live in the same town, and I barely get to see you. You can do one dinner.”
My mouth hung open, searching for a reason. I appreciated my older brother looking after me and caring enough to keep inviting me over, but I had just received my promotion at work, and with Francis getting older, my only goal was to become the museum director when she retired someday.
I could never achieve that without putting the extra hours in and proving myself with my research.
My career was all I had left.
I loved my family, but my parents lived hours away, and we only saw them at the holidays. Ever since my brother had gotten married, I saw him less and less. It didn’t bother me; I loved Eloise. They were perfect together, but he had his own family to look out for now.
“Please, Len,” he said. “For me?”
I hated when he pulled the sad puppy dog eyes. He’d been doing it since we were children, and our parents always fell for it. I knew better, but how could I deny him when he was pleading so hard and laying on the guilt so thick?
“Fine,” I huffed out.
“Perfect. I’ll see you at six,” he said before turning off down a side street I knew led to his house.
We only lived minutes apart, and somehow, I managed to avoid seeing him more often.
I liked it that way, keeping my solitude. I used to enjoy the noise of it all—the busy town during tourist season, the social gatherings, my overbearing, but lovable, brother—but recently, I’d grown to seek the silence.
Three years ago, I found my purpose, and I poured everything I had into that.
A few more blocks, and I found myself outside a little boutique, a narrow alley beside it. I turned down it, making my way to a door at the back.
I typed in a four digit code on the pin pad outside and heard the little click of the door before I pulled it open. Not even two steps in, a set of stairs rose to the second floor above the shop. I hurried up them and passed by two doors of the top landing marked one and two. I kept going up a second flight to the third floor and found the door marked three.
My purse was cluttered, but I found my key quickly and unlocked the door, letting myself into the apartment.
Instantly, I was greeted by a fur ball making its way between my legs. I heard the soft meow from the living room, letting me know the other was on its way.
“Let me in, Birdie,” I said, trying to move forward without stepping on her.
I dropped my purse on a little side table next to the door and hung my jacket on a hook next to it. I caught a glance of myself in the mirror hanging above the table and saw my curls had started to turn frizzy from the humidity. My hands found the clasp on the necklace I wore and unclipped it. It was a present from my mother I reserved solely for work. The large statement gems on it were inconvenient for anything else. My mother had said it complemented the golden undertones of my light brown skin.
I didn’t see it, but I’d never had an eye for such things.
I walked down the short hall to the open space that made up the living room and kitchen. The food bowl on the floor of the kitchen was completely empty, and I quickly realized why the two cats were making such a holler.
“Okay, okay, I’ll feed you guys,” I assured them.
I pulled open the small pantry in the corner of the kitchen and found the bag of food. Both Birdie and Alonzo already sat beside the bowl, watching to ensure I didn’t go somewhere else with the delicious bag of kibble I had just pulled out.
“I wouldn’t dare,” I promised them, holding up a hand in innocence.
I was truly becoming the crazy, lonely cat lady. I groaned to myself.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I said as I poured the food, and Alonzo gave me a sympathetic look, like he knew exactly what I’d become.
Bitter and alone.
The perfect mixture for me to grow old and die alone with my fifty rescued cats.
It was like I was a magnet. I acquired Birdie and Alonzo both within the last three years when I moved to the apartment. Both had made their appearance in the alleyway below at different times.
I had no reason to turn them down.
They needed a home and food. At first, I ignored them, hoping they’d go home to wherever their owners were. But the more frequently I saw them and the rattier their fur became; I assumed they were strays.
I think I saw a lot of myself in them.
That was when I realized I truly was losing my mind.
I related most to a pair of cats.
I figured there was some sort of distribution system, a higher being that knew exactly what I needed. It was like the world knew when you needed a cat and then dropped it one day on your doorstep.Stubborn little things, unwilling to go away until you accepted you were now their owner.
The more the little creatures grew on me, the more I thanked God every day for putting them in my path.
Again, I realized I was spending far too long obsessing over the two little fur balls eating chicken kibble in my kitchen.
I sighed and walked to the only other room of the one bedroom apartment. My room had just enough space for a queen size bed and a dresser across from it. The walls and dresser top were bare of decor. I hadn’t found anything fitting for the new life I had built myself.
I’d been living in the apartment for three years since I found my new job and ran from my old life. The ghosts still haunted me.
I wasn’t ready to put down roots and accept that this was my life, not until I finally secured the position of museum director. Only then would I allow myself to believe I made something of myself.
I walked over to one of the two windows in the room and cracked it open. Again, the salty air hit me as I inhaled deeply. The silence outside let the beating of waves reach me.
The sound was a comfort, allowing me to sleep at night and blocking out all the noise of the world.
I left the window open, knowing I would leave it that way all night.
I could see just over the few shops between the ocean and me.
A pounding on my door pulled my attention away, and I hurried through the apartment. I checked through the peep hole and recognized the face instantly, although I’d already recognized the frantic knock.
I pulled open the door, and before I could even get it open, Mallory slipped in.
“You are never going to believe the shit I dealt with today,” she said, throwing her hands up and walking past me straight to the living room.
By the time I caught up, she’d already thrown herself onto my couch, laying back with her hands behind her head, as if she arrived for some twisted form of therapy.
I took the bait.
“What’d you deal with today?” I asked, a small grin growing across my face, knowing I was in for a long rant.
“Tourists,” she said, horrified.
“Tourists?” I repeated, as if I’d never heard the word in my life. As if they didn’t frequent Briarport every year, every day of the summer.
“Yes, tourists,” she scoffed, sitting up on the couch and glaring at me.
“What about tourists?” I asked her, raising a brow and sitting in the armchair set in the corner of the room.
Mallory ran the shop beneath the apartments; she was the entire reason I had a place to live. I’d met her right around the time I secured a position at the museum. I’d been practically homeless at the time, living with my brother and his then fiancée in their tiny one bedroom apartment. He let me crash on the couch for a few weeks, which then turned into three months, leading to my desperation to find my own place.
I think Mallory saw that and decided I needed a friend. She was some of the only noise I could stand. Plus, she didn’t make me talk about myself or why I constantly threw myself into work. She really just liked to talk about herself, and I was more than happy to listen—or at least pretend to listen.
There was nothing wrong with that, right? Not when it was mutually beneficial.
At least I kept telling myself that as she droned on about the tourists of the day.
“ Can I try this? Is that on sale? Do you have more sizes? Do you have suggestions on where to visit in town? Like, obviously, I do, but still . ” She groaned. “It never ends! Everything is all about them. They touch everything and leave the store a mess. And you know who has to deal with it?”
She looked at me expectantly.
“You,” I guessed.
“Yes, exactly,” she said, throwing her hands up. “Anyway, I came here to see if you wanted to enjoy a wine night together? We could crack open a bottle of Merlot and watch shitty reality shows together.”
She tucked her long, black hair behind her ear, waiting for my answer.
“I have a few work things to finish up tonight, can we take a rain check?” I asked.
Alonzo jumped onto the couch, and she shooed him off, sending him running to my comfort. The plump orange cat jumped up into my lap, and I let him tuck himself close to me.
Mallory glared at the feline before her gaze flicked up to mine. The scowl on her face sent a twinge of guilt rushing through me. I hated bailing on her, but I couldn’t let what I’d found wait.
“Fine,” she sighed dramatically. “But I’m coming back tomorrow, and you aren’t bailing on me then.”
I forced a smile to my face.
“Deal,” I said, knowing there was no way to avoid it.
She lived a floor below me, so even if I wanted to avoid her, it was impossible. Besides, a wine night could be good for me. Maybe my brother was right. Maybe I was turning into a workaholic.
Mallory got up to leave the apartment, and I hurried from my chair back to my bedroom, where I knew I left my laptop. The screen lit up the moment I opened it, and I swiftly pulled up a tab with my email. I spotted the museum email address with my name attached to it at the top of my inbox.
Inside was the newest piece of information on the Coastal Killer I’d found while helping Barren sort through the documents for the filing system.
It was an article; one I hadn’t seen before. The Briarport Chronicle , a small news outlet in the area, had published a story on the final stabbing the Coastal Killer ever committed. I had to send it to the tip line.
No one ever answered the tips I sent, but I continued anyway. I wasn’t sure what pushed me to do it. The idea had come to me one night when I was watching the news far too late and a story about a kidnapping came on. The news anchor had plead with the audience to submit any tips to the FBI hotline. I’d pulled it up out of curiosity and found a simple form I could submit.
It didn’t specify cold cases as excluded.
I dragged the pdf file from my email over to the upload box on the form. Again, I filled out the form with all the usual information—I’d done this a million times now.
My hand hovered over the mouse pad as the cursor remained on top of the submit button. Every time, I second guessed myself. Was I doing the right thing?
The victims deserved justice, and their families deserved closure.
That thought alone guided my hand to click the button.