"Got it sorted then?" Oliver asked over the line.
I stepped into my flat, the newly mended door clicking shut behind me. I had almost gone to Father John to make a complaint but I had just made one about the hammering and going for another was quite a reach so I had chosen to ignore and sort it out myself.
"Yeah, justarrived," IconfirmedtoOliver, plonkingmymobile down on my desk and putting it on loud speaker.
Oliver's voice continued to drift from the receiver, my attention already snagged by the package in my hands.
An envelope delivered to me that evening. It was getting dark and it had come a little too late but wasn't that actually the best time for think pieces? A cold, quiet evening.
I ripped the envelope open, revealing a stack of photographs inside.
"Are these all of them?" I asked, my eyes darting across the images from different crime scenes.
"Yes," Oliver replied, his voice firm.
A heavy silence stretched as I scrutinized the pictures, my eyes drinking in every detail of the crime scenes. Oliver's voice eventually broke the quite with a note of concern in his tone. "Listen, when are you coming back to the office?"
My gaze remained glued to the photos, unwavering. "Maybe never."
Oliver's sigh was audible down the phone. "Come on, don't let your pride get in the way, Clair. You can always come and plead."
My voice took on a sharper tone, "It's not pride, it's principle, Oliver."
His tone turned persuasive. "Whatever you want to call it, you're chucking away your life's work. You've always dreamt of being a journalist."
My eyes finally flicked up, my lips frowning. "Who says that was my dream?"
Oliver's pause was brief. "Then why are you going through all these trouble to get your first piece out?"
AnawkwardsilencehungbetweenusoncemorebeforeIfinally found words again, a hint of bitterness in my voice. "He called me a loser."
Oliver's disgust was clear in his voice. "He calls everyone that.
You shouldn't have reacted like that still. You overreacted, bud."
My voice starts getting annoyed, "Right. I should have broken his skull."
"Come on, Sinclair. Your job is on the line for what you did but you could always plead your case. Greene says he is ready to pardon if you—"
"I'm not doing anything to get any pardon. I don't regret what
I did."
Oliver's voice softened. "Come on, Sinclair…"
But my focus had already drifted. My brow furrowed in concentration at the photographs. "Hey, Oliver, don't you think there's something a bit off about these crime scenes?" His curiosity was suddenly piqued. "How do you mean?"
My gaze studied the images. "They look too clean, don't they? The crime scenes. Too perfect to be a proper crime scene."
"The investigators were indeed impressed by the killer's meticulousness," Oliver provided. "Some even suggested the bloke might have a background in cleaning or something."
My gaze remained fixed on the photographs, my voice barely a whisper. "No… this just feels."
I paused, my eyes scanning the images with renewed curiosity and intensity. "These look staged, Oliver. I don't think these are the actual places where it happened. The murders could've taken place somewhere else entirely."
The hammering from the flat upstairs suddenly started up again, louder than before, the vibrations rattling my head and shaking the whole apartment. The floorboards above creaked ominously. My heart pounded.
My mind racing, I asked, my gaze still fixed on the ceiling, "Hey, Oliver? DidyousayViktorandDrewdiedofsuffocation?" "Yeah, why?" Oliver replied.
My remained pinned on the ceiling, my thoughts clicking into place. "Their bodies was never found, remember?"
"What are you driving at exactly, Sinclair?"
"I think I know where they might be."
* * *
My heart quickened as I approached the apartment again, the very source of the consistent hammering that had always tortured me. A sense of renewed anxiety settled over me. Although, I had come over with Father John earlier, my heart still raced frantically as if it were my first time..
I stepped into the gloomy hallway. Soft whirring of machine pierced the air from the far end of the hall. The hammering continued as I approached the apartment. It could be their lair. Their hiding place.
This could be it.
Finally. A shot at catching the vile face behind those brutal killings.
My throat constricted as my sweaty hand closed around the door handle, the metal cold against my palm despite the sweetness of my palm. I pushed the door open slowly, the creakinghingesechoedthroughthesilenthallway,swallowing the sound of the distant whirring of machine.
The room beyond me was a cavern of darkness, the shadows cast by the faint light of the old box TV, illuminating the dark room. I stepped out briefly to confirm I was in the right apartment and stepped back in.
It had been covered in cobwebs and dust when Father John and I stepped in just few hours ago, how is this possible?
The smell of that iceberg rose hit me like a brick, enveloping me like it had always done. A lone three-seater couch huddled in the corner, its fabric worn and faded. The screen of the TV stationed in another corner shine with a blue light.
My eyes widened in horror as I realized what was playing on the small box. My chest tightening at the realization. My job interview at DailyNow newspaper company, the one moment that had changed the course of my life for worst.
But it was the repetition that sent a chill down my spine - the
TV was stuck on a loop, replaying the same haunting phrase I had said during that same interview over and over: 'I miss my late friend…'
It felt like I was in a horror play.
Swallowing, my gaze darted to a table beside the sofa, my mind spinning in shock. Dozens of photographs of me in my apartment were scattered across the surface, each one capturing a private moment from the few time I had spent in the apartment. Images of myself eating, pressing my phone with a powerful grin, receiving a call with a slight grin—this one is from the night I moved in, two days ago. Pictures of me sleeping—
But it was the sleeping photos that were plenty—they were taken up close, as if the photographer had been mere inches from my face, watching me as I was most vulnerable.
My gaze lingered on the final photograph. My brow furrowed. I plucked it from the table. The image showed me laughing, my eyes crinkled at the corners, as I chatted with someone during my internship at DailyNow, two years ago.