Page 55 of Nightshades

“Zig. You’re a cop telling another cop information pertaining to a case I’m allowed information on. I’m just not allowed to leave the house,” I remind him.

“Right. I know that. I’m making sure you know that. I got to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Wait! Wait, Zig,” I try to stop him from hanging up the phone.

“Yeah?”

“How did she die?”

“I don’t know. It’s like she was burned from the inside out, but that’s impossible, right? The deaths in this town are getting weirder by the day. The weirder thing is her bones are missing. We only know who she is due to the other two bodies we found. What’s left of her…it’s pretty gruesome.”

“Send me the crime scene photos,” I mumble, getting lost in thought. “I’ll text you. Later, Zig.”

“Later.”

I toss my phone onto the couch, thinking about the victims lately. They have nothing in common except the fact that they are criminals. Other than that, they have nothing tying them together for the suspect to kill them like he is.

Opening the coffee table drawer, I grab the tape and hang Greta’s photo on the wall. I scribble on a Post-it with how she died.

“Burned to death,” I whisper as I write it out, then stick it to her photo.

Next, we have the taxidermist, who, according to the forensic pathologist, was eaten alive by beetles.

I place his photo next to Greta’s, writing down his cause of death. While he isn’t directly connected to Greta or Fireopal, his business was next to the park that Fireopal lived near, and where her body and a few others were found.

Taping Fireopal’s picture in sequential order of death next to the taxidermist, I put her cause of death as a question mark. Parts of her body were flattened, while bones stuck out of her skin.

Who would be next?

I stare at the last three photos on the table, debating which order the killer is going in. He isn’t going by age, or height, or hair color.

My eyes round when a thought occurs. It’s impossible.

“No jodas!” There’s no fucking way this person was able to get into my house without me knowing, but I think he is killing in order of how he saw the files laid out on my coffee table.

“No, there’s…there’s no…” My thought trails off when the reality hits me like a cold bucket of ice water on a freezing day.

Someone broke into my house. Studied these files. Broke my fucking bed somehow, which really pisses me off because my mattress is on the floor now, and wrote on my bathroom mirror.

And let’s not forget my fucking fridge being stocked and my couch broken.

Who the hell is this guy? A murderer with a conscious who takes care of me? Maybe he is feeding me before killing me.

I gasp again.

What if he is trying to eat me?

I press my palms against my forehead and take a deep breath. “You sound like Zig. Everything is fine. If this person wanted to kill you, they would have by now.”

I double-check the lock on the front door and windows before running to the back.

Locked.

So are the windows.

I haven’t had time to install a security system yet since I am new to town. That will have to change. I’ll have to ask to see who can do that for me.

I check all the bedrooms that I don’t use. They are all fine except the room closest to mine.