Page 14 of Aftermath
She lived a floor below me, so even if I wanted to avoid her, it was impossible. Besides, a wine night could be good for me. Maybe my brother was right. Maybe I was turning into a workaholic.
Mallory got up to leave the apartment, and I hurried from my chair back to my bedroom, where I knew I left my laptop. The screen lit up the moment I opened it, and I swiftly pulled up a tab with my email. I spotted the museum email address with my name attached to it at the top of my inbox.
Inside was the newest piece of information on the Coastal Killer I’d found while helping Barren sort through the documents for the filing system.
It was an article; one I hadn’t seen before.The Briarport Chronicle, a small news outlet in the area, had published a story on the final stabbing the Coastal Killer ever committed. I had to send it to the tip line.
No one ever answered the tips I sent, but I continued anyway. I wasn’t sure what pushed me to do it. The idea had come to me one night when I was watching the news far too late and a story about a kidnapping came on. The news anchor had plead with the audience to submit any tips to the FBI hotline. I’d pulled it up out of curiosity and found a simple form I could submit.
It didn’t specify cold cases as excluded.
I dragged the pdf file from my email over to the upload box on the form. Again, I filled out the form with all the usual information—I’d done this a million times now.
My hand hovered over the mouse pad as the cursor remained on top of the submit button. Every time, I second guessed myself. Was I doing the right thing?
The victims deserved justice, and their families deserved closure.
That thought alone guided my hand to click the button.
3
STONE
I hadmy suitcase packed within hours. I wasn’t planning to stay long, just enough to confirm there was a case and leads and bring back enough evidence so the FBI couldn’t possibly turn down re-focusing on the case.
I owed it to the victims.
I couldn’t bring her back, but I could at least try to protect the people of Briarport.
My suitcase was stuffed with records I’d printed from the FBI database, alongside a bit of clothing. I eyed the bottle of scotch sitting on the counter, and, before I could stop myself, I stuck it in with everything else.
I’d been reviewing all the papers I printed and taking notes, neglecting sleep.
A buzzing sound pulled my attention away from rummaging through my belongings to pack. I found my phone sitting on my bed and read the name on the screen.
“Hey, Mom,” I answered. “What’re you doing up in the middle of the night?”
“It’s 5:00 a.m. here,” she answered. “And I know you usually wake early to get a little extra work done before lecturing.”
I looked out the window and found the sun already up. That meant it was already 8:00 a.m., and more time had passed than I originally thought.
How had it already been all night?
It’d been months since I lost chunks of time, and never like this. The hyper-fixation on this case had to be to blame. There was no other reasonable explanation. It was either that, or some form of neuropsychiatric disorder, but I had no other signs pointing to one.
At least none I noticed.
“You’ve been working far too much again,” my mother scolded. ‘Were you up all night? I can hear it in your voice. You got no sleep.”
This was a battle I would never win. It didn’t matter if I had every academic tool at my disposal or a PhD in Forensic Psychology framed on my wall. There was no handbook on how win an argument with your mother.
“I haven’t been working too much,” I tried countering. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”
My mother knew the bare minimum of everything that happened. She knew I took leave and that I was back working at the FBI Academy, but I refused to worry her with unnecessary details. It would only result in her jumping on a plane from California to Virginia, and I refused to burden her with that.
“Mhm. I will have to speak with Ash-”
“Grey-” I interrupted.
