Page 22 of What’s Left of You (What Left #2)
My nose twitches in disgust the longer I stare. Did Porscha sleep in here? All this time, I wondered where we were and how Porscha managed to find a vacant property. Maybe she stole it by reverting back to her comfort zone: killing.
Stepping into the room I drag my gaze around. I don’t see a body, but there are more stains on the floor near the bed. Clothing is strewn about nearby, wrinkled and stained. Nothing smells bad, so I’m assuming whoever died was either moved quickly or it’s been a while.
It doesn’t really matter to me either way. If the person is dead, they aren’t going to mind if I help myself to their stuff. Dropping my collection of things on top of the bare dresser, my eyes laser in on the closet.
I don’t know if there’s going to be anything in there for me, but I’ll take an extra sheet if I have to. Something needs to be between the wound in my leg and the elements if I’m going on the run. My boxers aren’t in good enough condition to protect me at this point.
Shaking my head and letting out a small sigh, I make my way to the closet.
Inside I find clothes hanging that are covered with a layer of dust. It doesn’t matter to me how out of date these clothes are, and tugging out a pair of pants I’m pleased to find the clothes belong to a man.
Dropping the jeans I dig around until I find something softer in the in-closet organizer, pulling a pair of sweats free.
That’ll be more forgiving on my skin and easier to stretch since these look a little small.
As I assemble the outfit, I glance around the room again.
If killing the person didn’t result in all the chaos in here, then Porscha did a number on the space for reasons unknown.
I don’t know why or how she picked this place, but the missing owner must have someone caring that they are missing, right?
When my gaze moves to the door, I start talking to myself. “Porscha’s a maniac, isn’t she?”
“Aren’t you as well?” Fake Porscha asks, appearing on the other side of the bed. “At least he has clothes, hmm? They might not fit great but at least she didn’t get rid of them.”
Digging around again I randomly choose a shirt and shake it, sneezing a couple times as the dust flies around me. It’s snug when I slip it on but I don't have time to be picky. This will have to do.
I look down and notice my leg is still bleeding slightly, thin lines of blood dripping from under the bandage. I’ll need to put more pressure on it when I get the chance but I’m running out of daylight.
It takes a little time to locate the socks in the dresser and find a pair of shoes in the back of the closet. The tennis shoes are too tight so I opt for flip flops, although I know they’ll be harder to walk in.
Too much time is passing. I give the empty room a salute as I walk out of the room, once again apologizing that this poor person ended up a casualty of Porscha’s insanity.
Fake Porscha is quiet now, but she lingers like my shadow as I move through the house. I have a duffel bag slung over my shoulder that I found in the dead man’s closet and threw the medical supplies into. I continue moving until I locate the kitchen.
It’s small and mostly empty, and I wonder if Porscha even eats here. Looking in the fridge nets me some bottles of water and on the counter I find a box of granola bars, some crackers, and a loaf of bread that I shove into the duffel.
I’m not sure what my plan is.
If someone recognizes me, I’ll go back to prison. Back to a cell. Waiting to die. Or I can run, wounded, and hope that I get somewhere before the wound gets me. Maybe I can disappear into the Florida swamplands and start somewhere fresh, living off of the land.
Neither idea is appealing. Running means pretending to be someone for the rest of my life.
I can’t be Alastair, and if I don’t return to Citrus Grove how will I contact Jo and Vinny?
I’m not sure if they would want to see me yet again, but they are the only people I can imagine finding a place to call home with anymore.
Running away like a coward destroys that chance.
My fingers dig into the counter for a moment.
I’m discounting my foster brother Emeric, but I don’t want to screw up his life again.
Before I even got caught for the kills, the Franks took Emeric away.
They were supposed to care for both of us, but they chose Emeric because he was less problematic.
He wasn’t yet eighteen, so he was whisked away with them across the country while I stayed in Citrus Grove.
Stop being bitter. You had allies until they learned the truth about you.
I take a shaking breath, pausing for a moment. I need to focus and get the hell out of this house, yet every thought I have circles back to Jo and Vinny. Every reality results in us not being together. They wouldn’t want a serial killer as is. That chance is long gone.
They chose me when I was at my lowest point in high school, fighting demons they didn’t even know about.
They wanted me to come to Colorado with them, leave this all behind.
I almost had my perfect version of forever, but poor choices and bad decisions led to me being caught as a killer instead.
I destroyed the trust they had in me, and it’s silly to think they will forget all of that and accept me with open arms ever again.
Even if I could evade the FBI and never be found, the future the three of us mapped out when we were eighteen is destroyed.
If I run forever, I won’t see them again in Citrus Grove or anywhere else. I may never see them at all. Or I can get caught, turn myself in, and accept the hand fate dealt me.
I’ll go back to sitting on Death Row, awaiting execution.
Tearing open the final drawer in the kitchen, I pause.
There’s a stack of envelopes in there that I take out, eyeing the name.
James Nunes. Walter County. The envelope is yellowed, the paper brittle, and I wonder how long it’s been sitting in this drawer.
The top one appears to be from the utility company, and it’s open.
I take the statement out, searching for the date.
October 1990.
It’s possible that James died in the 90s.
So are the bills coming to someone else now, like another of Porscha’s alternate identities, or is the account still under the name James Nunes?
I realize these questions don’t need answers right now and I toss the stack aside.
Another glance into the drawer offers something more interesting at the bottom: a pile of what look like ID cards.
I snatch one up at random before dropping it back in like it was on fire.
It’s an old ID. A school ID in fact, from Citrus Grove University.
Natasha Odell. The first true victim of the CGP.
I back away, slamming the drawer shut, unwilling to look at the other names on the other ID cards.
Natasha was before. Before Porscha brought me into things. There’s no way her school ID accidentally ended up in a drawer at this house.
Pivoting, I look out the windows in the kitchen before making my way to the front room. I bypass the window and back door that’s at the top of the storage steps, deciding to see what’s out front first. No Porscha yet . It’s time I to stop dallying. I’ve wasted enough time here.
“Are we going on the run?” Fake Porscha asks as I open the front door. Fresh air beckons me, and safety be damned. I want it. I want to breathe air where I’m not being held prisoner by the justice system or a mad woman.
There’s sun too. It’s hot, and I just step out onto the porch and close my eyes. I want the feeling of warmth before I sink back into flight mode and escape.
When I open my eyes, basking in the Florida heat, I look both ways.
I don’t see any other dwellings. That could help me remain undetected, but it’s a bad sign too.
How far out are we? Walter County is further north than Citrus Grove, but it’s a decent sized area.
We could be at the property line with Georgia for all I know.
As I scan the landscape, it hits me—there are probably gators lurking somewhere nearby. In the daylight, it's less of a concern, but once night falls, the scent of my blood will carry. It’ll be like ringing a dinner bell, inviting them straight to me.
Despite all of that, my mind drifts to the husband and wife who haunt my dreams. My parting thoughts to them seem ineffective now as I stare at the unknown ahead of me. I need to keep survival on my mind, but they are the lifeline I refuse to release. “Lovebirds, I’m coming for you.”
When I turn, looking the other way again, Fake Porscha is beside me. She stares right back at me, echoing the thoughts I don’t want to say. “Looks like you are well and truly fucked.”