The Game of Deception

Chapter 4-3

I take a long swig of my warm drink. It counteracts the cold breeze that"s still slipping through the window c***k. I remember the look on Vincent"s face as he stared at me out the window. The uncomfortable sensation I had in that moment resurfaces now.

“He was a gentleman. I don"t really know how to explain it, but he seemed… kind of… happy when I had to leave. Almost like he was glad I had an emergency.”

I can practically see the wheels turning in Kam and the detective"s heads, each one maintaining the exact same expression. One lifted brow, head c****d to the side, and eyes gawking toward the sky.

I continue. “I"m sure his comment had to have been innocent, right? I mean how could he have possibly attacked Breanna when he was on a date with me?”

“What time was your date?” Detective Sharpe asks.

“Eight o"clock.”

“The Coroner"s office called this morning and said that her death took place sometime between 6:30 and 8:30.”

His statement catches me off guard. That"s not at all the answer I was looking for. My heart skips a beat. My mother"s powerful gasp could have been heard through the entire town. I"m surprised she didn"t faint from lack of oxygen. I wish she would have.

“s**t, Markie,” Kam says. “That means we were home when she was killed.” Her voice cracks and eyes water. She looks at the countertop blankly and continues, obviously talking to herself more than to anyone else. “How did we not hear or notice anything? We had no idea.”

“No one on the block saw or heard anything,” Detective Sharpe interrupts her, trying to comfort us. He sets the record straight.

“The rest of the family was in South Carolina visiting some relatives. They were able to get a flight home very early this morning, but were gone for all the chaos of last night. It was actually a boy she was dating that found her. The young man told us that Breanna had stayed home to secretly be with him.” He bows his head as it shakes slightly in sympathy. “Poor kid will never forgive himself.”

Detective Sharpe goes on to explain, and to apologize for the painstakingly long details of forensics. I listen to every word, completely engrossed. Every inch of the Snyder home will be studied. The familiarity of the situation leaves me feeling dizzy and nauseous. At least Beth lived alone, so no one had to be there once the dust settled, forced to relive horrific memories.

I can"t even imagine what Mr. and Mrs. Snyder will experience if they try to stay in that house. I"m sure their move will be inevitable. The detective leaves me with strict instructions to put together my list of possible subjects, along with a personal inventory of clothing, jewelry, and any valuable trinkets.

Before leaving, he suggests that I return to work as soon as possible. I"m to try and go about my lifestyle as if it were as any other day. He explains how I"ll be watched by undercover officers, and they will be paying close attention to any strange onlookers or possible threats. He clarifies that by going to work and attending social events, my admirer will surely be close by, making him or her easier to find. The word “admirer” gives me chills from head to toe. Agreeing to the tactic, I promise to stay at home for the remainder of the day and go through every possession.

“The list of names will be difficult,” I inform him, “but I will do my best.”

The detective hesitates to leave, but after some time he pushes himself to the door. Beth"s parents" house will be his next stop. I wonder if Beth"s mom got the text I sent her last night. The thump of my heart speeds as I recall the words I wrote. She"s either angry with me, hurt, or shockingly understanding. There is no way to tell. I"m sick with worry and wonder. She never did text me back.

thumpDetective Sharpe assures me that he"ll call or stop back by to let me know how things go with Vincent"s interrogation once they locate him. My life has been turned upside down. I"m totally invaded. I feel naked and vulnerable, like a bad dream. Everything personal is going to be laid out in the open for everyone to see.

My mother leaves shortly after the detective. She has no reason to stay, with nobody around to impress.

Kam stays close by my side all morning. She"s afraid for herself, and afraid for me. She tries to help me remember events or times in my life that may hold some importance. It takes three long, stomach wrenching hours for Detective Sharpe to call back with any information about Vincent. The news isn"t at all comforting.

Apparently having a strange reaction to my running out on a date and a comment on my necklace isn"t enough to take him in. The apartment he lives in has a doorman. The employee on the clock at the time of Breanna"s murder vouched for Vincent, stating he hadn"t left the building at all since he came home from work. Not until our date, that is. When I ask about any kind of a back door or alternate way out, Detective Sharpe informs me that they checked it all out and ruled it “highly unlikely.” What the f**k is that supposed to mean?

What the f**k is that supposed to mean?He assures me that Vincent lives on a high enough floor that someone would have seen him coming in and out of the fire escape. He tells me that the only way Vincent could have possibly gotten in and out undetected, and with enough time to commit the act, was if he were to sneak past while the doorman was on break or hide behind another tenant.

It"s such an unlikely scenario that they decided to ultimately rule him out as a lead suspect. Our conversation leaves me unnerved. Vincent"s alibi isn"t exactly airtight, and any possibility that he could be the killer frightens me.

It is nearing afternoon. Brock shows up with a bang. I hate him. Kam has only had two real boyfriends in her life, and they were each more feminine than her. I tease her about it when she pisses me off, I call her a lesbian. She detests it, but it"s really the only thing I can say that will shut her up when she overdoes it herself. She can have some seriously out of line comments. So, naturally, I take advantage of the angle often.

I highly doubt Brock has ever lifted a shovel, swung a hammer, or set up a tent in his entire life. I bought him a power drill for Christmas one year as a joke. He didn"t even get the punchline. He just said “thanks, sweetie” with a friendly squeak, and went about his business. I"m willing to bet it has never even been taken out of the box.

He"s a pampered little prince, too. It doesn"t matter that he and Kam are broken up, he still comes around on a regular basis, and they act like an old married couple. I sit on the couch a few feet away from the front door when he lets himself in. There"s no need to knock.

“Hello?” He squeaks. Even his voice is higher pitched than an average young man.

“Nice pink shirt,” I greet him. “Is it new? It looks brighter than usual.”

Brock always wears feminine clothes. Even his shorts are color coordinated. Lime green, neon blue, and matching bright pink stripes hang from his waistline and end at the knees.

“Actually, yes,” his smile is large and proud. He never does catch onto my sarcasm. “Oh, nice flowers on your car by the way.”

I jump to my feet. “What flowers?” My heart instantly sinks to my belly button. I know Brock is dumb, but is he really that dumb? “You didn"t bring them in?” I demand.

but is he really that dumb?“Nope, why would I? Where"s Kam?”

Kam rushes out of the bathroom, jogging to my side. She heard our short conversation and is joining me to take a look outside.

“You"re late.” She barks at Brock on her way past.

He follows us out the door with his head down. He"s an ashamed, obedient little pet of hers. Sitting on the hood of my car is a small bouquet of daisies. They look identical to the arrangement Vincent had intended to give me, but I had left on the table at Frenchie"s on my way out.

Frenchie"sA cream-colored envelope made of thick textured paper is placed under the left wiper. Snatching it up, I rip the top open and pull the contents out. Inside the neatly sealed, high quality envelope is an old picture. I stare at the photo and remember the day it was taken perfectly. It was the housewarming party that Kam and I hosted when we moved in.

The smiling faces of my closest friends and family look up at me from the picture. There were nine of us total, standing on the lawn in front of my home, myself in the middle grinning proudly. My muscles tighten, and I grow faint. I stare at a red X that has been marked across Beth"s face. Just like that, it"s like she is a craft, a meaningless face, the first to be picked off in a group of random nobodies. My eyes instantly fill, blurring the image.

A tiny figure in the background of the photo bears the same mark. It is Breanna. As innocent and as young as could be, she was sitting on her porch reading a magazine. She was paying no attention to what was going on across the street. It"s obvious now that the simple act of being in a random photograph by default, years before, was the reason for her attack. On the back of the photograph is the wrenching question: Who"s next?

Who"s next?