Page 2 of Strings Attached
“Yes.”
Patrice opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a thick folder. “I didn’t know how many of the deaths was a few, so I grabbed the last twenty.” He slid it toward me. “I included attempted murders as well.”
“Thanks.” My heart pounded in my chest at the thought of comparing these notes to the ones I had back at my apartment. Maybe I’d actually be able to make a connection. After putting the folder safely into my bag, I turned back to Patrice. “Have you been a TA for long?”
He shook his head. “No. Pretty new.”
The phone on the desk rang, and I jumped at the sudden noise. It would definitely make sense to have a landline if the internet and Wi-Fi didn’t connect well in this old building, but then, Patrice could’ve called me...
“I’ll be right down,” Patrice said before hanging up.
I wanted to point out he could’ve made a phone call, but before I could say anything, he got to his feet. “Sorry, I need to run downstairs quickly. Professor Corriveau’s been waiting for this delivery since yesterday, and it needs a signature. I don’t want him to miss it.” He grabbed a bag from the floor and dashed toward the door. “Mind staying here while I get it?”
“Sure...”
The door closed again, and I sat back, letting out a breath. Exhaustion settled within; the day was suddenly catching up to me. Right before my whole walking journey, I’d helped grade papers for a first-year psychology class. Most of which read more like novels than research writing. They’d learn, though, as everyone did.
After four years, I’d completed my bachelor’s degree in journalism and had moved on to my master’s. But with only eight months left before my final report was due, time suddenly seemed to be moving too fast. It would all come to an end soon enough.
Deciding I wasn’t going to wait around any longer, I got to my feet and went to the door. I tried turning the doorknob but frowned when it didn’t budge.
“What the...” I stared at it, noticing the keyhole as my heart hammered against my chest. The doorknob was installed the other way around. He’d locked me in from the outside.
My breath came faster as I backed away. No, it just had to be a mistake. It was likely one of those doorknobs that required a key both ways, and Patrice hadn’t thought of it when he’d closed the door.
Still, I hated being locked inside an office, and soon, the walls were closing in. I needed a distraction. I pulled out my phone, scrolling on a few pages before remembering the internet didn’t connect here, nor was there any service to call out. More and more, the room shrunk, and I paced. I clutched at my throat, desperate for more air, but none came.
“Calm down. Relax. Everything’s fine,” I mumbled as I stopped in front of one of the shelves.
Books stood along the wooden surfaces, filling it from top to bottom. Books were a good distraction, so I grabbed at a random one, but a plastic box that looked like six books slid out.
They were fake.
I pulled out more, but none of them were real. Even the pictures inside the frames were generic ones that came with when purchasing them. What was going on? Why was everything inside this office fake? And where was Patrice? How long did it take to sign for a package?
I couldn’t breathe anymore; it was as though someone had wrapped a rope around my neck and was cutting off the oxygen. The heavy curtains over the window helped keep the heat out, but I needed sunlight?something to show me there was a real world beyond this artificial place.
My stomach churned when I opened them, revealing nails keeping the window shut tight. I spun, and the opened laptop caught my attention. Or, more accurately, the video playing on the screen. I approached the desk and leaned my trembling hands on the surface, staring at Patrice lying in a pool of blood somewhere. With the little light coming into the room, I guessed the basement, the cement floor looking frozen as his body convulsed.
Someone else came into view and crouched next to Patrice. The knife in the stranger’s hand glistened crimson. I pressed my hands against my mouth as he pushed the blade against the young man’s throat, then sliced through in one sure motion.
It wasn’t the first time this person had done this. No hesitation. No trembling hands. Nothing.
He stood and turned toward the camera. I swallowed the bile at the back of my throat as he waved. He wore a black mask, the eyes darkened out, and a smile cut out into a slit. The serial killer I was tracking... It was him.
He stared at the ceiling, then vanished from view.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, then stared up toward the door. He was coming for me.
I grabbed the chair I’d been sitting on only moments ago and placed it at an angle so it was wedged under the doorknob. At least it would give me a few seconds before he likely bashed his way inside. No. I wouldn’t die today. It wasn’t my time. I hadn’t written my report yet.
Grabbing the second guest chair, I dragged it toward the window, then smashed it against the glass as hard as I could. It bounced back, leaving behind only a tiny crack. Why couldn’t it be easy like in the movies?
I did it again, this time using all my strength as I pictured the killer reaching the top of the stairs. The glass shattered, and I jumped back as shards flew to the floor and outside. I gripped one of the curtains, wrenched until it ripped off a good amount, then tied it to the professor’s leather chair. Being on the second floor, I needed a way to climb down; I just hoped this part worked a bit better than the glass smashing.
The doorknob jingled, and I almost threw up as my stomach clenched. I took hold of the curtain and tugged. The long chair angled itself horizontally, allowing me to climb down along the brick wall of the old house. Heat burned through my sandals, but I didn’t care. I could barely feel it.
As soon as my feet hit the ground, I ran off toward the street, needing to be in view of the public as much as possible. Not because I’d be asking for help, but because if the killer came after me, he likely wouldn’t do anything in broad daylight in front of everyone.
