The killer she knew, p.1
The Killer She Knew, page 1
The Killer She Knew
Zee David
Published by Eddy2wice, 2024.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE KILLER SHE KNEW
First edition. July 12, 2024.
Copyright © 2024 Zee David.
Written by Zee David.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Part One-Present | Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
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Further Reading: The Makeup Girl
To you, who your fingers are sweeping through this page.
I write because you read.
Without a reason, there is no essence.
Thank you for grabbing my work
Enjoy!
Part One-Present
Chapter 1
EMMA
EVERYTHING IS VAGUE and foggy except for three things: the breezy wind passing through my hair, my trembling hands at the sight before me, and the police officer’s breathy voice.
At the same time, my younger sister’s body is bagged and taken away.
“So, are you still taking on this project?” Mia, my mum’s talkative nurse, asks, bringing me to my surroundings.
I raise my eyebrows and repeatedly blink, taking in the attempt at a cozy room and the persistent beeping of the heart monitor. Beside the monitor is a tiny bed with a frail woman lying on it, her grey hair disheveled. As I watch her chest rise and fall rhythmically, I can’t help but wonder if she’s sleeping or pretending.
We had learned to coexist over the years, but since the incident that led to Zoe’s death, she made it her mission to avoid me. I try to find the reason: guilt? Maybe deep regret for not stopping my sister from leaving. Perhaps I was the source all along. She had asked me to go after Zoe, but I assured her Zoe would be okay and come home when she felt like it.
Maybe she would be alive today if I had gone out to look for her like Mum asked, earlier than I eventually did. Perhaps she would have still died, but then my mother wouldn’t blame it all on me and curse me with the silent treatment.
I lick my lips as though it could stop tears from wetting my face as I recall the love she once equally showed us.
“I DON’T WANT PANCAKES with strawberries. I want them with blueberries!” nine-year-old Zoe whined, picking at her plate of pancakes with a fork.
“Don’t mess with your food. Just eat it like that,” I scolded, evoking the most grown-up tone I could as I helped myself to my plate. We were all in the kitchen, and Mum was at the stove making more pancakes.
“Blueberries, you said?” Mum asked, turning her head to smile at Zoe.
“Am I going to get them?” Zoe perked up, grinning from ear to ear. “I want blueberries.”
“Only if you ask nicely.”
“Blueberry, please,” Zoe calmly said, pouting.
“Blueberry pancakes coming right up then,” Mum chuckled, causing Zoe to squeal and jump excitedly.
“What about me?” I asked, giving my mum wide eyes.
“What do you want?”
I paused to think. “Um,” I smiled to myself, “Oh! Bananas?”
“Banana pancakes coming right up,” she replicated, smiling at me. “And I love banana pancakes!” Mum replied in a sing-song voice, then turned to look at us for a second. “I love you, girls. I would do anything for you.”
Zoe and I ran toward her, and as we hugged her, we chorused, “We love you too, Mum.”
IT’S BEEN TEN YEARS since the incident, and though I don’t think Mum remembers it clearly, she does remember how heartbreaking it was. How she felt a piece of her had been taken away. The emotional trauma had been too much for her, and eventually, the constant stress altered her brain.
“It’s dementia,” the doctor had said with a saddened face, perhaps pitiful.
It’s been hell; sometimes, she forgets that it got to me too. I sometimes even forget it myself.
Most of her conscious moments, she wastes on blaming me again and again for what happened to my little sister, and I live in regret of WHAT IFS.
“You aren’t sure?” Mia’s soft voice pulls me back to the present again, and I smile weakly. “I guess that’s a NO,” she says as she turns her head, and sunlight reflects on her hair, showing the youthful, strawberry blonde curls on its ends even though she’d complained her hair had lost its glow because of her age.
“No, no,” I breathe out. “I think I will.” I move the medicine tray aside and catch my reflection in the silver spoon: me in a red, second-hand scarf. I wear it often, even to sleep. I gifted it to myself on my sixteenth birthday, perhaps to replace the one my mum gave me before she got sick. I run my fingers along the clean knit pattern, realizing how much I love its texture against my skin. For some reason, it comforts me, like a mother comforting her crying child.
“That’s good,” Mia says, the corner of her lips hinting at a small smile.
“Yeah,” I reply, looking at the wooded floors. A smell of humidity and freshly planted flowers permeated from the inside.
“Good that I work from home. Couldn’t do this if I didn’t.” Being a ghostwriter has its perks. I set my schedules, fees, and freedom, which helped me manage my mother’s situation. Especially the bills that come with it. I recently got an offer from a site I often ghostwrite on for quite an exciting job: writing a series. It would take more of my time, allowing me less time to come to check on my mother. But then again, the pay would be good, and I need it. We do.
“So, Emma,” Mia speaks again. “Any plans for the weekend except for writing?”
I purse my lips weakly at her attempt at small talk. “Cleaning.” I trace my eyes around the living room space I created for my mother’s hospital bed.
It has large windows that allow enough sunlight in. It’s my way of telling her to embrace sunshine rather than live in gloom, but I’m not sure it’s working.
“No plans for going out or meeting friends? Or...?” she asks.
I click my tongue and shrug.
When Mia and I first met, she expressively said she was glad to know someone around her age, as this small town was more of a retirement community where half of its population were people in their sixties to eighties. She stands out at the town’s event without her age-mate or anyone to talk to, except for maybe Sally, the town’s snub, who mostly talks about herself.
Then, I told her I was twenty-six, and she nearly fainted. I didn’t get upset and knew it was all kind of true. I did look worn out—and still do—with pronounced bags under my eyes and mostly dishevelled hair. I don’t remember the last time I did any self-care. I haven’t been to any salon to roll my Afro hair into a bun, maybe even braids or paint my nails. Those fake lashes girls wore that I couldn’t wait until I was eighteen to wear are all strange to me now. I barely even buy new clothes and use the excuse that I work from home to pacify that.
“I’m sorry, Mia. I don’t mean to be rude; it’s just...”
“It’s just all too much,” she replies comprehensively, and I smile. “I know you told me you guys are new to Jope Town, but don’t you have any family members nearby to help you?”
I shake the suspension medicine in my hand, grab the spoon, and then pour the dense liquid onto it. It was Mia’s job to give my mum her medicine, but this morning, while I was upstairs, I could hear my mother screaming at her. Mum did that often. She would call Mia a stranger in her home, but at times, she would hold her and call her by my sister’s name, telling her how much she missed her.
“No, we don’t,” I briefly answer and turn to my mother. “Mum, I have your medicine,” I call carefully, yet loud enough so she can hear me. Her eyes stay closed...she must be in one of those moods today.
I attempt twice more without any success, and Mia nods at me.
“Let me try,” she suggests, gently taking the spoon from me and moving closer to my mother. “Mrs. P., I have your medication.”
Mrs. P.
That’s what I told Mia to call her, yet every time she did, it sounded like a stranger’s name to me. Peggy Sullivan—her maiden name—was one she loved. She said Sullivan had a power and intensity she embraced. Everyone knew her as Sullivan back in Calitain City, but when we moved to Jope Town, it felt right to give her a new version of herself, maybe a freer one. My dad was from this town, and he often said it was low-profile, with caring people and secluded by a riverside, like a perfect small town from a book.
We’d tried the whole new home and new me policy before. After my sister’s death, we moved to London until I was twenty-five, but it wore us out. Then, just last year, we found a house perfect for us two—after ten cold years of losing Zoe.
My mother turns her head toward Mia, who slowly feeds her the medicine. I watch with slight curiosity and relief. At least she’s taking them. I can’t help but feel rejected. I can’t blame her, yet I still feel unwanted. I move my eyes to hers, wondering what’s on her mind. My sister? The medicine? Me? Nothing at all?
“Why again did you guys move?” Mia asks.
I like Mia. Despite her need to pry, she’s kind and helps us both by being ever so patient. I met her about the same time I arrived in Jope Town.
I interviewed her. And there she was—my mother’s nurse.
The room goes silent, and I know Mia is staring at me inquisitively like a cat waiting on her feed. I look up and answer evasively, “Change in environment.”
I look down at my mum, reaching out to push a lock of her grey hair out of her face.
“Strange coming here from London,” Mia says.
“Strange?”
“Just that...” She discards it with a wave of her hand. “When I heard you arrived, I just knew I had to come help. It was...different.” She shakes her head. “Everybody dreams of leaving. No one really dreams of being here.”
Heard we’ve arrived. From whom?
I shrug. “London has busy people everywhere, yet it feels empty. Mum always wanted to come here, natural beauty, smaller towns, slower life...”
“True, this place is home,” she gladly replies.
Chapter 2
EMMA
MY EYES FLICKER OPEN, briefly attempting to adjust to the screen of darkness that envelopes my room. Strangely, my breathing is even, and my heartbeat is steady. I fell asleep so late last night I was too tired to have any nightmares. I sigh, slowly facing the window, feeling the urge to ball up like an armadillo. Yet, I am ignorant of what I’m protecting myself against. My worst memories that keep me awake? Or the life I am living?
My gaze travels the length of the vintage black curtain, which does a pretty good job of blinding the lights; not a single ray penetrates through. The resulting darkness makes it impossible to see the gold trimmings embedded in the curtain.
I’ve become used to the scene. Ever since we moved here, I haven’t stepped out of the house, except to go to our garden. I roll out of bed, squeezing my toes together as they hit the cold floor. I let out a sharp breath, get dressed, and walk out the door and down the staircase.
Mia briefly directs her gaze in my direction, drawn by the sound of my footsteps and the stairs creaking. “You’re up,” she says. “I could have sworn you’d be knocked out till noon.”
I notice the glint on the brown floor. “Did you clean the floor? I was planning on doing it today.”
“Yeah.” She smiles. “Can’t deny I felt a little guilty leaving last night.”
“Oh, no, it’s okay. You didn’t need to do all this,” I say, and she shrugs. “It looks great, thanks.”
“I was trying to make up for last night,” she explains further as she wipes her hand off on a hand towel, then covers Mum’s feet. “She looks happy today. Liked her bath, it seems.”
Last night was hectic. Mum was screaming and crying the whole night, then incessantly murmuring the one name I tried so hard to forget. The sleeping pills didn’t seem to work on her anymore, and it was like she had developed resistance to it. Sometimes, I think she does it on purpose, tormenting me and gradually tearing away large chunks of my sanity.
I know she hates me. She doesn’t need words to express it. And I don’t need words to understand it.
Her eyes seem to turn piercing red when she stares at me.
Her loud cries in the night.
Her kicks and slaps.
The way she moves away when I try to help her in bed. It’s like my hands carry this venom that could sting her to death.
She hasn’t walked in a while. The doctor said she had a stroke from high blood pressure, which I know she blames me for, too. That’s all she did, and I had learned to live with it. I close my eyes briefly, almost praying, unclear to who or for what.
“So...” Mia smiles toothily, “...are you ready to meet the writer today?” she asks, sitting in her chair. She turns to me, her grey eyes boring holes into me, seeking an answer.
“Yeah,” I answer dryly. Something about how the writer had asked for my help piqued my interest, almost as if an inexplicable force drew me to write his story. Or maybe the ever-increasing bills did the trick. We spoke for about a week and concluded he’d fly into town.
“But if he is a writer, why would he hire a ghostwriter?” Mia adds, tilting her head to the side.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “It’s not uncommon.”
“Isn’t it strange?” she cuts me off.
I swallow hard. “What matters is I get paid,” I say dryly. I turn my head to the only large window of the house, which looks out over the front porch. My eyes squint as I find a picture of my dad right by it.
Rest in Peace, Leo William, it reads on the bottom. I didn’t know much of him, so his death, only a few years ago, wasn’t that huge of an impact. After all, he was old, and after his separation from Mum when Zoe was three, Mum had, for some reason, told him to stay away from us. My contact with him was minimal, if there ever was any, after my fifth birthday, and it seems he never re-married or had children. I’d asked my mother why he had left us, but she never answered. So, then again, it was a mystery, as well as why he left the house to me, which I immediately filed under my name. Quite a big house for the town’s average.
He’d built a wooden front porch, varnished so dark its glossy look almost black. The door is tall but not heavy. Its ceilings are decorated with warmly lit lamps. Four rooms are decorated differently yet in the same style, as though they belong to a family. It gives a rather cosy sensation, especially because of the vintage cups by the dining table that await visitors, though I barely have any besides Mia.
The writer had asked me to help him rent a place to stay until we finish the book. “Luckily, I have a few spare rooms,” I told him, and he agreed. Plus, I’d get the extra cash. That was the reason, the cash. That damn money. After all, who in their right mind would invite a stranger into a home she lives in with her sick mother? Like an idea straight out of a horror movie...
Like my thoughts have been read, I hear a soft knock on the door, almost immediately followed by a loud pounding on it. Mia jumps in her seat, her hand immediately flying to her chest. I chuckle. Sometimes, I think she can be overdramatic. I take steady strides toward the door, wrapping my hands around the knob.
“Ask who it is first,” Mia whispers, the small tremor in her voice noticeable.
I roll my eyes. “Who is it?”
After a short silence, he replies, “Nicholas, the writer. We spoke over the phone.”
I look at Mia, who shrugs and mouths, “We can’t be too careful.”
I smile and let out another chuckle as my hand turns down the silver knob of the door, letting the bright rays of sunlight stream through, almost blinding me.
“Hey!” I say with squinted eyes to the silhouette of the stranger. I blink hard and catch a better image of him, standing perfectly straight with his two hands in his pockets and a glimmering silver watch decorating his right wrist.
“The information you sent was helpful. It made this place easy to find,” he says as a corner of his lips hints at a smile.
“I’m glad it was.” I let a weak smile run across my chin.
I fully swing the door open and swallow at the figure before me, trying to keep my stoic expression intact.
He is an exquisite blend of aesthetic allure and refinement. A chiselled jawline accentuates the contours of his face, naturally leading any gaze upward to a pair of sad, blue eyes that somehow still pierce into mine.
I studied his features, glad to see he was the same man I’d seen in his pictures.
Chestnut hair frames his face, each strand seemingly choreographed to fall effortlessly into place. His arched eyebrows add a subtle intensity to his gaze, infusing every glance with a hint of mystery. He looks no older than forty. He adjusts the sleeve of his blue skin-tight shirt beneath the jacket, which pairs well with his dark trousers and shoes.
“Can I come in?” he asks, cocking his brow ever so politely.
