Particles of Obsession (A Shadow of Death Romantic Suspense Book 2) (6 page)

I’m getting mushy now. I promised myself I wouldn’t get mushy.

I am absolutely, irrevocably, uncontrollably, immeasurably, and miraculously in love with a woman named Mira Solano.

Mira and I met after the tragedy of Victoria Glassman’s death, and her presence has been a light in my life that has been as monumental to me as the first flicker of light for mankind. The moment she walked into my office, everything in my life changed, so I felt that I owed it to my readers to tell you about her.

I hope all of you either have the love I’ve found or find the love that I’ve found because this love is the first thing I couldn’t even vaguely put into words.

Good night.

I read John’s blog post twice before leaning back into his computer chair.

“It sounds genuine enough,” I say. “A bit hyperbolic at times, but you’re a writer and it sounds like you. You think the killer will take the bait?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know who the killer is. We’re making a huge assumption that this will lure him or her out. Maybe the killer has been trying to trick us into thinking I’m involved. Maybe it’s something else. Maybe they just enjoy killing.”

“You said yourself that your blog suddenly began getting a dozen views a week a few years ago, when you used to get a few views a month and that fact is even more suspicious when you only update your blog two or three times a year,” I say. “Someone is obsessed with you. They’ll see this post and it will piss them off.”

“Somebody could have just posted my blog on social media and there could be different people looking at it every day,” he says. “We never know.”

“Well, we’re going to find out,” I say. “If nothing happens…then we’re just another day closer to the police finding me.”

“So, how many days should we wait until the next blog post?”

“We’ll do it in a couple days. The day after tomorrow,” I say. “We don’t have time to wait around. You’ll say that I’m going somewhere and I’ll be there alone. The killer will come after me.”

“You hope,” he says. “While I hope that the killer isn’t even paying attention to my blog.”

“It’s the only way,” I say. “And I already told you that you could come too—you just have to get there early and stay out of sight.”

“What are you going to do when you find out who the killer is?” he asks. “Are you going to retaliate for Andre’s death?”

“I can’t be sure that this killer is responsible for Andre’s death. It could have been Alex who killed him.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“What do you want me to say?” I ask. “Yes, I want revenge? Yes, I’m still angry that Andre was killed? Yes, it has crossed my mind to interrogate this killer myself since I can’t interrogate Alex anymore? Because you should know what the answer to those questions are. You loved your students and they’re gone. You should be just as angry. But once I’m in the situation…I don’t know. I planned on killing Alex, but I hesitated and now he’s dead anyway. Things always end up being different than how we planned them. It’s part of the human condition.”

He nods. “I suppose you’re right. I just don’t want you to do anything rash.”

“I’m planting myself out there as bait. I think we’re past rash.”

“True.”

He runs his fingers through his hair and settles onto his couch.

“I honestly just don’t understand how someone could do this,” he says. “I also don’t want you to do anything rash because I want answers. I want to know why this killer murdered my students, but that shouldn’t hurt you as much as it already has.”

“Is any answer going to be good enough?”

“It’s going to be better than no answer at all.”

He leans back until he’s lying down.

“I don’t know how I can go back to teaching after this,” he says. “What if something I said influenced them to kill?”

I walk over to the couch and sit down a couple inches away from his head.

“You can’t feel guilty about what this killer has done,” I say. “I mean, if you were to blame, you’d have a lot more serial murdering students.”

“Well, one of them was also a drug addict, which I didn’t know,” he says. “Who knows what the others are doing? How can I trust any of them again?”

“You trust me now, don’t you?” I ask. “You don’t still think I murdered Alex?”

“I never taught you,” he says. “I never had influence over you.”

“Mmm. You have taught me things and had more influence over me than you’re giving yourself credit for,” I say. He looks up at me and smiles. I place my fingertips along his jawline and trace it up to his right ear. He encases his hand over my mine and pulls me down closer to him. When we kiss, it’s not romantic—it’s urgent, needy, and sad, but underneath all that, I feel that same kind of joy that he had faked in his blog post.

That kind of happiness is frightening when it can be so easily taken away.

I sit back up, pulling my hand out of his grasp.

“We should sleep,” I say. “Our plan needs us to be vigilant and well-rested.”

“Of course,” he murmurs. “I’m going to stay here for a while. See you in the morning.”

I get onto my feet and walk away from him, but my movements aren’t as steady as usual. I’ve been pushed off-balance by everything going on in my life and I need to refocus. I can’t risk making another mistake.

I
pulled
the trigger on my Glock 17. The bullet pierced through the magazine photo of some blond celebrity, but only her right shoulder. I needed to aim better.

My father built a gun range in the woods behind our house. We’ve had the police called on us a few times for shooting too often, but, quite honestly, if people didn’t want to hear gunshots, they should live in an upper-class street in the city, not in the boondocks, where guns put meat in the freezer and they’re the pride and joy of several men and a fair amount of women here.

Sic transit gloria mundi.
All the glory in this world will fade away, so we should enjoy what we have.

And take what we want.

Bright orange caught my eye. I turned to see Alex approaching me in a sweater that was such a bright orange, it would make brand new hunting clothes look dull.

“Are you trying to get the satellites up in space to notice you?” I asked, setting my gun down on a lawn chair. He looked down at his sweater as he stopped in front of me. He raised his head back up, shrugging.

“Nah. My mom bought it for me and it seems pretty cool,” he said. “You seemed pretty upset on the phone and considering you’re killing magazine models, I’d say you’re a bit angry too.”

“Dr. Zimmer chose Everett for the Mulvihill Award. I just thought…after everything he’s said about my work, that he would choose one of my poems. I should have known. He’s been showing Everett favoritism for the last few weeks.”

He frowned. “That’s not fair. He should be able to separate his personal feelings and his professional critique. I’ve read your work and Everett’s work in the school newspaper. Yours is much better.”

“Well, apparently he can’t separate his personal feelings from his professional critiques, because I’ve seen him favor Victoria Glassman too.” I grabbed Alex’s hand and pulled him closer to me, and kissed him.

I’d heard all of the stories about how kissing could send off fireworks or, at the very least, arouse women, but it felt like two pieces of flesh brushing against each other. It was just the pressure and texture of lips.

I stepped back. “What did you tell your fraternity brothers about where you were going today?”

“I said I was meeting a beautiful woman,” he said. “And here she is.”

He kissed me again. He was full of passion and craving, but I didn’t feel the romance that movies, shows, and books raved about.

“But don’t change the subject,” he said, stepping back from me. “Did you talk to Dr. Zimmer? Ask him why he didn’t choose you?”

“I don’t want to sound like a snotty brat,” I said. “I know awards don’t matter and I shouldn’t be seeking approval about my work but…I just feel like…”

“You deserve it,” he said.

“Yes. Exactly,” I said. “When is it my turn to be noticed? When do I get recognition for anything I do? I know I’m not as interesting as Everett or as pretty as Victoria, but still, I’m confident that my work is better.”

“You’re more interesting and beautiful than both of them. You will get recognized soon,” he promised. With a grin, he added, “You know, Everett buys drugs from me sometimes. Maybe I could slip in something special. He could have diarrhea for a few days or hallucinate for a couple hours.”

“Yeah, then Dr. Zimmer would dote on him even more, or think it’s some sign of his genius,” I said. “I don’t need to give him a reason to think Everett is more worthy of attention.”

“I could get him caught for doing drugs on campus,” he said. “That could get him kicked out.”

“It’s not a guarantee though,” I said. “You know how desperate the school is to keep students and make it look like nothing illegal happens on campus.”

“I just want to make it better, love,” he said. “Tell me what you want me to do to make you feel better, and I’ll do it, whatever it is. Sex? Fancy dinner out? Pranking your enemies?”

I picked up my gun again. I shot the model three more times until her head and neck were obliterated.

“I want them gone,” I said. “I don’t want them to ever be able to communicate with Dr. Zimmer again. I want him to finally be able to see me instead of focusing on those other students. I want them dead.”

I set the gun back down and faced him. His face was stoic.

“You’re talking about murder,” he stated, but he didn’t look horrified by the idea.

“I’m talking about the fact that I deserve glory. I deserve to not always be in second, third, or fourth place,” I said. “You asked me what would make me happy and I told you. You don’t know what it’s like to not be recognized. You come from a family of known chemists and you’re well on your way to following in their footsteps. You do amazing things in the lab…but in the writing field we all use the same tools, and the amount of praise depends on personal opinion. Dr. Zimmer’s opinion is swayed my tragic backstories and fake personalities. I’m tired, Alex. I just wanted him to like me. I just wanted this one professor who everybody thinks is the coolest person in town to look at me and think I’m worthy of something. I don’t know how much longer I can continue to live in this godforsaken place while nobody cares about me.”

“Don’t say that,” he said, grabbing me by the shoulders. “You know how much I care about you. You’re worthy of so much. The fact that he doesn’t recognize that means he’s blind.”

“He’s not blind.” I brushed his hands off my arms. “He’s just distracted by these other people who pretend to be deep intellectuals. I hate them all.”

Alex offered me his hand. “Come on.”

“I don’t want to go,” I said. “I want to keep shooting until I know why the fuck I stay around on this planet when I’ll never leave an impact on anything.”

There was a flicker of pain on his face before he forced a smile. “I’m going to make you happy. Come to our apartment. We’ll concoct something vicious that will stop these other students dead in their tracks. I’ll show you why you should stick around on this planet.”

I slipped my hand into his and he led me to his car. A seed had been planted in my chest and I could feel something blooming between my lungs, but it wasn’t a flower. It was something toxic, spreading like a weed, the roots too ingrained to ever be pulled out.

T
he next morning
I find John with a coffee mug in his hand, sitting in front of his laptop at the kitchen table.

“The coffee is still warm in the pot if you want some,” he remarks as I stumble into the room.

“Good,” I say. “I mean, thanks.”

“The mugs are in the cabinet above the pot.”

“Thanks,” I repeat. I grab a mug and fill it with coffee.

“The sugar is right beside the pot and the half-and-half is on the door,” he states.

“I’m good,” I say, sitting down across from him. Steam curls up from the mug. I rest my hand above it, feeling the condensation cling to my skin. I look over at the time on his microwave. “Do you always get up so early?”

“I couldn’t really sleep,” he says.

“I’m sorry. Did you end up sleeping on the couch last night?” I ask.

“No,” he says, smiling at me. “It’s nothing to do with the couch. I just…I want to find this killer and stop them from killing again. Whether it’s Kiona or not…we need to find this person.”

I can see the guilt weighing on his shoulders and pulling down the shadows under his eyes. I wish there was something I could say to help alleviate his pain, but I know it will all come out in cliché phrases.

“What are you working on now?”

“Just answering some emails. I also began typing up the blog post,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about the best place for us to set this up and take down this killer. There’s a greenhouse behind the college. Nobody goes around there, but it’s close enough to civilization that if we really need help, a good scream could catch somebody’s attention, even at night.”

“You know the area better than I do,” I say. “If you think that’s best, it works for me.”

He sets down his coffee mug, rubbing his face. “I can barely remember what it was like before there was this serial killer running around, and it’s only been a few weeks.”

“I imagine it was pretty boring before this.”

“It’s not funny,” he snaps.

I raise my hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I don’t know how to handle this either. I mean, I’ve worked on a lot of murder cases, but I spent most of my time in a lab.”

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, too. I know you’re in all of this trouble because of me and now you’re wanted by the police because you were helping me.”

“Well, when you put it that way…” I tease.

He gives me a small smile, but it’s not genuine.

“Listen, John. I decided to pursue this case. Let me tell you something that I’ve only told Andre. When I was seven, I had a sister named Sonia, who was five. She was kidnapped by a man right in front of me. He told me to trust him, and then he took her. I didn’t realize anything was even wrong until I told my mother what happened and she started freaking out. My sister was found dead later. And, honestly, what pushed me to be in law enforcement is the fact that she had been killed a few days after the police gave up looking for her. They could have found her before she was killed. I kept working on your case because I wanted to pursue the truth and find a killer.”

“Was your sister’s killer ever found?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Thank you,” he says. “For being so honest with me. I know you probably don’t want to be open with me because you’re afraid I’ll turn it into a story or something, but…for something this private, I wouldn’t do that.”

“I actually hadn’t thought of that,” I say. “I actually wrote it down myself. The police probably have it. If there’s ever a trial against me, they’ll probably use it as proof that I carry a vendetta against killers.”

“If there’s ever a trial, I’ll stand up to defend you,” he says.

“Thanks.”

“So, I suppose it’s only fair if you told me something so private about yourself that I should share something as well,” he says, leaning back into his chair.

“I thought you already did that by talking about bouncing around in the foster care system.”

“That certainly isn’t the happiest time in my life, but it’s not that intimate. You could have found that out by looking at some legal documents,” he says. “No, I have a moment in my life that I think drives me toward seeking justice, too, but I’m certainly not innocent in it.”

I run my finger over the top of my coffee mug. I’m not sure if I want to hear this, but if someone wants to confess their sins, it would be wrong to stop them.

“I was fourteen with this new foster family. They had their own biological son, another foster son, and a foster daughter,” he begins. “I got along great with the biological son and the foster son—probably some of my happiest months were spent with those two. I got along fine with the foster daughter. She was eleven, so she wasn’t really the kind of person a fourteen-year-old boy hangs out with and she was really shy, so…we were polite to each other, but we didn’t really have a sibling-like relationship. Anyway, after I had been there a few months, my foster parents had a family emergency and needed to go to Canada for a couple of days. Their biological son was nearly seventeen at the time, which I think is why I liked him so much. When you’re fourteen, an older teenager with a car and confidence seems pretty cool. The other foster son was older than me too, but I think we were less than a year apart. But since the older son was nearly seventeen, they didn’t have a problem with leaving us under his supervision.”

He takes a deep breath, avoiding my gaze now. It wouldn’t matter, since I’m concentrating on my coffee. I should have added sugar. I need something sweet now.

“A couple hours after they left, the biological son was bored. He began bothering the foster daughter in the way that siblings do—poking her, teasing her, generally being a jerk. The foster son and I went along with it—laughing and occasionally making snide remarks. I didn’t enjoy it, but I wanted to fit in. The biological son’s actions became more…violent, like grabbing her and throwing her onto the couch. Every time she tried to get up, he’d throw her back onto it. It still wasn’t past anything I’d seen at any other foster house, but he began making some crude remarks about how foster kids were parasites. My foster brother and I should have been offended by it, but I think we were both just happy to not be the focus of his anger.”

“Can you just cut to the bad part?” I say, my voice slightly shaking. “I’m sorry, but…I think I know how this story ends, and I don’t…I don’t want all this build-up. Just spit it out.”

He nods. “The biological son bruised her up pretty bad. There wasn’t any outright punching or anything, but he wasn’t gentle and he even wrapped his hands around her throat a few times. At one point, he dragged her to his room. My foster brother followed him, but I went outdoors. I was scared. I can’t say for certain what happened, but…I think we both know. Shortly after that, the biological son got into some legal trouble. My foster parents wouldn’t talk about it, but I think he hit another car while he was driving drunk, so all of us foster kids were sent to different homes. I never knew what happened to her.”

“What was her name?”

“Maggie Thompson,” he says. “I’ve tried to find her again, to apologize, but I’ve never been able to find her.”

“You were a kid,” I say. “You wanted acceptance. It’s understandable.”

“I was fourteen,” he says. “I should have done something. And that’s why I don’t want to just stay on the sidelines anymore. That was the day I learned that there are no innocent bystanders if those bystanders don’t do anything to stop a crime from being committed.”

He covers his face with his hands for a couple of seconds before rubbing his eyes.

“Should we post this blog entry?” he asks, turning the laptop at me. I look at him for a couple seconds longer. This confession should make me less attached to him, but it’s the first time that I’ve seen him be truly vulnerable and not this flawless, charismatic human that students flock too. This is a man who turned his back on someone who needed him—like I did—and it has dictated a good portion of his life.

It’s certainly not a story that you fall in love with, but it’s a time when you see someone who is drowning in their shame and you reach forward to grab their hand, pull them toward the shore, only to realize that you were drowning as well and the only solution was to swim together.

I
nsomniac Writes
& Retreats: A blog by John Zimmer

D
o
you ever wonder why humans kiss? It has nothing to do with reproduction. Many cultures don’t do it. Most animals don’t do it. Some scientists say it’s a good way to choose a mate because when we’re that close to somebody, we can subconsciously figure out if the other person is a good match. I’m certain, on some level, that those scientists are right, but I think there’s something more to a kiss than reproductive benefits. When my lips touch Mira’s, when I feel the soft texture of her lips, when I feel her warm breath mixing with my breath—it’s a first union. It’s when the private spaces of two individuals becomes obsolete and is replaced by a private space for two. We have created something new in a single kiss and it’s a beautiful place that lacks the walls and masks that we have around other people. It’s freedom without loneliness.

Mira has been busy, so that’s where all my thoughts are occupied lately. I don’t mind—I’m glad she has passions other than our relationship because if a woman’s dreams and ambitions only revolved around her relationship with a man, I would think she would be relatively boring. A relationship can’t be whole if the two people in the relationship aren’t whole.

Mira plans to attempt to grow plants in the old greenhouse behind the college. It’s her newest goal. She’s going to get started tonight because we haven’t gotten permission from the school yet, so she wants to make everything look nice before the Dean can make a decision. I wish I could be around to help her, but I still have to write up final exams (I’m not sure if they’ll actually be able to take them with the school lockdown, but I can always use them another semester). She plans to plant some tree seeds now that will later be used in memory of my deceased students.

She is truly a blessing. I could not ask for a better woman.

* * *

T
he greenhouse has
dozens of dead plants inside it and one bag of mulch. A couple of hours ago, John settled somewhere behind some plants with massive leaves that have somehow survived several frosts. I don’t look for him. The killer can’t know he’s here. As much as I don’t like it, he’s my only safety net.

Now I have to look like I’m actually doing what he said I’d be doing in his blog.

I grab the closest plant, grab the bottom of the stem, and jerk it out of the soil. Its long roots—reminding me of tentacles—cling to most of the dirt. I shake it and the dirt rains down back into the pot.

Now, I need somewhere to throw it away.

Minutes tick by so slowly, I expect to actually finish cleaning out these plants by the end of the night. Maybe the killer hasn’t actually read his blog yet—maybe we were too fast to pull the trigger.

Which reminds me that I really wish I had my gun.

There’s movement in my periphery, outside of the greenhouse. The killer? Maybe he or she came after all. I grab the pruners and take a step outside. Even at night, it’s so much colder out here than inside the greenhouse.

I glance around. The greenhouse casts a faint glow, but there’s still a nearly pitch blackness encasing the light.

There’s no sound except faint traffic coming from what seems miles away. The sky is a blanket of nothingness, and I’m afraid that at any moment, I’ll turn and be face to face with the killer.

The closest college building is about a hundred yards away and it’s well-lit there, but nobody expects anybody to be out here late at night. That’s how John and I wanted it. We needed the killer to believe they could attack me without anybody seeing them.

A scream hides in my throat. I never thought of myself as weak or cowardly, but right now I’m questioning this entire plan.

Something moves just behind me. For a second, all I can feel is stinging pain in my elbow and I drop the pruners. As pain drills through my arm, I realize someone hit me from behind—someone who had seen I had a weapon and needed to disarm me.

Before I can spin around, the person wraps their arm around my neck, presses their forearm against my throat, and begins to choke me. I try to take in air, but their chokehold is too strong. I twist back and forth, but it only causes them to press their arm against me harder. The person jerks me backward and I hear their back hit against the greenhouse wall.

I stomp at their feet, but they manage to avoid both attempts. My vision is getting hazy and I can feel unconsciousness beckoning me.

Just let go
, it says.
Andre and Sonia are here. They’re waiting for you.

Something slams into both of us, sending us to the hard, frozen ground. As I grasp for breath, I feel a hand on my arm. I flail my arm at the person, trying to hit them.

“It’s me, Mira,” John hisses. “It’s fine.”

I flip over to see him reaching for the figure who attacked me. It’s the same person who had shoved that literary quote into my mouth—evident by the body figure and the clothing—and their face is covered with a ski mask like before. They were prepared—he or she knew there was a risk of being caught.