A Secondhand Life Page 10

  When I reached my car, which I wisely parked in the street and not the driveway, I tossed my gloves on the passenger seat and sunk into the cushion, allowing a moment to catch my breath. My eyelids felt heavy as I bowed my head, resting it against the steering wheel. Exhaustion was catching up to me, either from the adrenaline rush dying down or the sleepless nights spent planning my next kill. Tonight, however, I’d sleep satiated … until the hunger for blood roused me once again.

  I hit the gas, knowing that as I peeled away a father was pressing his daughter to his chest, weeping into the phone for help, losing his baby girl in his arms.

  It brought a smirk to my face.

  Chapter 14

  “I’m here at the home of Rick and Jolene Watson,” the reporter said, “where their daughter Amy was the victim of a near-fatal stabbing yesterday afternoon.” The camera zoomed in on the two-story colonial house that was no longer a home. It had become a mausoleum of memories.

  “Shortly after the murder of teen Gina Martinez, another attack leaves the Triangle citizens in a panic,” the reporter continued. “Twelve-year-old Amy Watson was found bleeding and unconscious in her Orange County home this afternoon when her father, Rick Watson, arrived home early from work. He immediately called 9-1-1, and EMTs were able to resuscitate Amy. The trademark abdominal stabbing and removal of Amy’s makeup lead investigators to believe this to be the work of the Triangle Terror.”

  A candid photo of the redheaded youth, smiling and holding a lacrosse stick, popped up in the top corner of the television screen. “Amy is in critical condition at Duke Hospital where she is receiving around-the-clock police protection while the suspect is at large. Like the other similar cases, there was no sign of forced entry and no weapon found. Police are offering a reward for anyone who can provide information about the attacker.”

  A phone number flashed across the bottom border and I jotted it down.

  I hit the power button on the remote and the screen went black. My egg and cheese breakfast sandwich churned in my stomach as I felt a pang of sadness for the victim—Amy Watson. Another day, another target. How was the killer picking them? What made him tick? It was yet another question piled on top of more unanswered questions, and the heap got bigger by the day.

  After washing the sink full of dishes from several days’ worth of meals—the simple act more therapeutic than loading the dishwasher—I called my editorial manager.

  “Hey, Jackie,” I said when she picked up.

  “Mia, what’s up?”

  “Do you mind if I work from home today? I’m on a roll with this book I’m working on and could probably finish the proofing today if I keep going.” A half-truth, politician style. I had indeed logged a couple of hours so far this morning, and if I did keep going I’d finish … but the truth was that I had no intentions on working today.

  “You’ve been working from home a lot, Mia. I hardly see you anymore. Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, you know how it is. I’m more productive at home … less distractions.”

  “True, but I miss my lunch date. It’s quiet around here without you. But sure, stay home. It’s fine by me.”

  Thank God for lenient bosses. I knew she never minded me telecommuting occasionally as long as I met my deadlines, though I felt guilt jab at me for lying. “Thanks, Jackie. I promise to make it up to you. Maybe we can plan to have lunch tomorrow?”

  “Sure. How about at Bella’s Cuisine?”

  Ugh. Brad’s restaurant. I hadn’t told her things were … what were things between us, anyway? I didn’t even know. It was probably time to reach out to Brad and reconcile, though lunchtime was not the time.

  “About Brad and me … we’re sort of … not talking right now.”

  “You broke up and didn’t tell me?” Jackie screeched.

  “I’m not sure what we are yet. Don’t go saying anything. I still need to talk to him. But for now let’s avoid Bella’s Cuisine. We can do Pomodoro’s instead.”

  “Alright.” Jackie sighed. “But don’t stand me up. I wanna know what happened.”

  “I’ll be there with bells on.”

  Now I just needed to figure out what to tell her, since I was clueless about the state of my relationship.

  After hanging up I logged back on to my computer and searched for the White Pages. I typed

  Derek Worthington, North Carolina

  Only two Derek Worthingtons popped up on the screen, but one was way too young. I picked the fifty-five-year-old, and his address came up.

  It wasn’t exactly the best part of town, but safe enough to drive through during the day. It was still early enough to possibly catch him before he left for work … if he even had a job. Living in that part of town, he was probably on welfare. It was time to find out more about creepster Uncle Derek.

  **

  I pulled up to a ramshackle duplex in desperate need of some TLC. Alligatored paint chips flung from the rotted wooden exterior, and ivy scrambled up the siding, reclaiming the structure for Mother Nature. I parked in front of a broken, uneven sidewalk that appeared as if it had barely survived several earthquakes. Knee-high grass brushed against my bare legs as I carefully climbed the rickety steps—some partially splintered, all slick and black with mildew—to the front porch. It was unseasonably warm for April, so I pulled my long hair up into a ponytail and cursed my fashion choice: jean shorts and a tank top, an outfit far too provocative in what appeared to be Rape Central.

  I tiptoed up the stairs, praying I wouldn’t drop through them. Luckily I weighed barely a buck and change, or else the creaky landing might have caved in beneath my weight.

  The screen door squealed in protest as I opened it and knocked on the front door.

  My heart raced as I waited, anticipating a drug-dealing gangbanger on the other side.

  To my amazement, a clean-shaven man in a crisp uniform greeted me. Almost an exact replica of his brother Dan—except a full a head of hair and oddly attractive. And thin as the proverbial rail. I wondered if he ever ate.

  “Can I help ya?” he offered as I stood there silently, working my brain overtime to think of what to say, how to explain who I was and why I was there. I now realized I should have planned ahead.

  “Uh, hi. My name is Mia Germaine and I’m looking for Derek Worthington.”

  “That’d be me.” His gaze ran up and down my body, inducing pangs of nausea.

  A brief image flashed in my head—a younger version of Derek sprawled out on a sofa with a beer in hand, laughing cruelly and wearing a stained and tattered wife-beater. Before I could analyze the flashback, it was gone, and the real thing stood before me, his hip cocked and arm resting on the doorjamb.

  I took several deep breaths to hold my gag reflex at bay. When I felt I had the queasiness under control, I met him stare for stare.

  “I’m a friend of your nephew’s—Landon.”

  “How is that there douche bag?” he asked in a mush-mouthed, hillbilly-esque dialect I could barely comprehend. “I ain’t never hear from him no more.”

  “He’s doing good. But I’m not here about Landon. I actually wanted to talk to you about something else … if you have a moment.”

  He fussed proudly with his beige and green polo shirt, blazoned with a Ralph’s Delivery Services patch. Two knock-kneed legs protruded from his shorts like a pair of hairy stilts. “I only got a few minutes ’fore I leave for work, but for a purty lady like you, I got time to hear you out.”

  He waved me into a dimly lit living room with a threadbare sofa, tattered rug, and massive state-of-the-art television and latest gaming technology. Huh. Priorities.

  I nudged aside a stack of video games on the floor with my toe, making room for my legs as I sat down. I thought I heard a rat squeak when my rear hit the raggedy cushion with half the stuffing hanging out … or maybe it was the springs I heard? Whatever it was, I didn’t want to stay long enough to find out. The place gave me the creeps.

  Derek sat beside me, pi
cking up a dirty mug that had been sitting on the floor and crusted over with some long-ago beverage.

  “Coffee?” he offered, holding out his cup.

  “No thanks,” I said. “I’ll be quick.”

  “So, what can I do you for, sexy?” he said with a suggestive smirk as he got a little too comfortable.

  I rolled my eyes, noting his tactless play on words that I’d heard a million times before.

  Noting my displeasure, he added, “Relax, little lady. I was just kiddin’. You be too old for my tastes.” He waved me off. “What can I do for you,” he said with emphasis.

  Deciding to ignore his comment about my age—like he should talk, clearly being twice my age!—I knew I needed to be discreet and careful with my words. I couldn’t outright accuse him of anything, and I needed to earn his trust if I was to get anywhere with him.

  “I’m not sure how to explain this. I was a friend of your niece, Alexis. Recently Landon and I were discussing how her murderer was never found. So, I kind of wanted to just, I don’t know, follow up on that with friends and family to see if anyone remembers anything that could help find her killer.”

  “Shee-it,” he snorted. “That be a long time ago, darlin’. Why y’all digging around in this now?”

  “Like I said, Landon and I were just talking about it, and wishing we could have closure.”

  Derek eyed me skeptically. “How do you really know Alexis and Landon? I don’t reckon you were school friends with Alexis, cuz I never met no one named Mia. I’m purty sure I’d remember if I did—especially a fine-lookin’ fox like you.” He winked. “And Landon—well, he never mentioned you before neither. So who are you really and whatcha want?”

  Darn. My cover was blown. I wasn’t sure how to recover.

  With a stutter I replied, “Um, well, I was more Landon’s friend than Alexis’s … and Landon and I weren’t really that close until more recently.” I hoped he’d bought it.

  “Lookee here, lil’ lady, I wish I could help ya. But I don’t know much of anything about it.”

  “Do you remember where you were the day she was murdered?”

  Derek cocked his head and his eyes narrowed. His jaw tightened, and suddenly I felt very afraid. No one knew I was here.

  “Are y’all ’cusing me of sumpthin’?” he spat. “You git Landon over here right now and I’ll straighten that boy out.”

  While I wanted to cower in fear and beg for my life, I needed to stay firm and calm. “No, sir, no one’s accusing you of anything. I’m just asking.”

  “You sound like them damn cops.”

  I laughed nervously, trying to appear amused. “No, I’m no cop, sir. Do I look like a cop?”

  “None that’ve arrested me,” he conceded. “You be way too purty.”

  “Thanks, I guess.” I forced a grin. “I just want to give Alexis peace. I’m sure you didn’t hurt your own niece, but I thought you might know something that can lead me to who did. I’m sorry for bothering you.” I rose from my seat, ready to make a speedy exit.

  I gripped my car keys tightly, ready to use them as a weapon in case he tried to grab me. Aim for the eyes then run like hell.

  But Derek never flinched.

  “Alrighty, I respect that. Take a seat.”

  I warily sat.

  “Ask away,” he ordered.

  “I appreciate this. So, can you tell me anything you recall about that day?”

  “Same as every other day, I guess. I been drunk off my ass. The whole day was a blur, but I remember gittin’ the phone call about it and being too smashed to git up. I think Jinnifer called me from the horspital. I didn’t pick up the first couple times, but then ’ventually I musta woken up. She was on the other end crying, screaming that her baby girl was gone. I remember hanging up on her and falling back asleep. Jinnifer—Lexi’s mama—never did forgive me for that. I still feel horrible ’bout it, but I was too wasted to know what I was doing.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. I really was. “Were you alone that night?”

  “To be honest widja, I don’t know. I had started the day partying with some friends, but by mid-afternoon I was out of it. Bad mix of weed, cocaine, and vodka. You know what I’m talkin’ ’bout!” he said with a wheezy chuckle.

  I had no idea. But the vices certainly helped explain his skeletal appearance.

  “Anyways, all I know is that the next mornin’ I woke up alone … and hung over as hell.”

  “Do you remember any of your friends’ names?”

  He laughed. “Let’s just say my friends didn’t have last names. None of us used real names. We went by nicknames, just in case one of them bastards was an undercover cop. Lookee here, lil’ lady, they was just drug buddies, with no reason to kill Alexis. I mean, what would be the point? Besides, I don’t keep tabs on them guys no more. I be tryin’ to get clean now. Can’t hang with the trash if you wanna git outta the Dumpster. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  Yeah, I knew what he was saying. He had no one to account for his alibi.

  I noticed a couple of beer cans crunched up at the foot of the sofa. Derek must have followed my gaze, because he said, “I’m a work in progress, ’kay?”

  I nodded and grinned weakly. “No judgment here.”

  The key information I needed would be a little more difficult to obtain: Where was he during the times that Gina Martinez and Amy Watson were attacked? These questions lingered in my mind, but I didn’t know how to ask without getting myself kicked out—or killed. I needed a tactful, roundabout way of finding out those details. So I subtly tugged my tank top down, fiddled with my bra strap, and leaned forward just enough to give him a peek of my cleavage.

  The sacrifices we women made to get things done.

  Derek took the bait, his gaze falling appreciatively on my chest.

  “Sorry for detaining you, Derek. You said you had to head to work now?” I said, perhaps a little too huskily. After all, I wanted to get information, not be molested.

  “Yeah, in a few. But it’s no bother.”

  “A package delivery guy, huh? It seems like a fun job.” I twirled stray strands of hair playfully, acting the part. I almost impressed myself, if it had been a role I actually enjoyed. “You must get to drive around and pretty much set your own schedule, right?”

  “You think it be fun? Man, it ain’t leisurely like that. Half the time I gotta piss in a cup ’cause I ain’t got no time for a bathroom break. They be rigid sumbitches about time and deliveries. You take too long with one package or git stuck in traffic, you screw up the whole day. It’s tough work. But it pays the bills.”

  “I like a man who can pay his bills.” I smiled sweetly. “So, um, what do you do on your time off? Like, what’d you do yesterday?” As Amy Watson was being murdered, I added in my head.

  A huge, proud grin spread across his face as he took my words as an invitation. What was I getting myself into? Regret hit me hard.

  “Well, yesterday I worked part of the day, then last night I beat another level in Call of Duty. Wanna watch me play?”

  Groan. No thank you. My approach was getting me nowhere but in trouble. I just needed to get my information and get out.

  “Sure, maybe later. Um, I forgot, I did have one other question for you.”

  “Shoot,” he said slyly, as if expecting a proposition.

  “You might not remember this far back, but what were you doing the evening of April fourth? It was three Fridays ago.”

  His playful expression dropped and was replaced with irritation.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, um, Landon tried calling you several times but couldn’t get a hold of you. He was worried and mentioned it to me. He cares a lot about you.” I’d have to remember to fill Landon in on my lie in case Derek questioned him about it.

  “Hmm … I cain’t ’member what I was doin’ last week, let alone three weeks ago. Reckon nothing, really. Workin’, I guess.”

  It was no use. “You’ve be
en most helpful, Derek. I can’t tell you how appreciative I am. And if you ever get another Friday night off, maybe we can hang out.” I threw that in for good measure, just in case he got around to remembering anything.

  “Wait a sec, hon. You ast ’bout a Friday—April fourth? Yeah, I ’member that night. If memory serves me, I was having a bad day that day. Backslid a little. Ended up in the drunk tank, I think. Though it’s hazy, the date. But I’m purty sure it was the fourth … or maybe the fifth? Shee-it, I can’t even remember what I did two days ago. Weed kills brain cells, y’know?”

  “No kidding,” I said derisively. Apparently the man smoked more than his fair share.

  “But I be doin’ much better now.”

  “I can see that,” I muttered under my breath.

  I left Derek’s house five minutes later feeling uncertain after an apologetic good-bye for bringing up painful memories. He assured me it was okay, then asked if I wanted to come watch him play video games and have pizza next week. I politely declined, saying that I was on medication for a really bad STD that made me tired a lot. The lie worked like a charm as his interest immediately vanished.

  As I hustled to my car, I wondered, was he telling the truth about Alexis? It sure seemed like genuine emotion to me, but then again, a murderer was capable of anything and could certainly fake remorse. I couldn’t justify scratching Derek off the list of suspects yet. I still had some digging to do.

  After all, if the Triangle Terror was Alexis’s killer, Derek fit the profile in more ways than one. First, he worked as a delivery guy. It was the perfect occupation for manipulating his way into a home without breaking in: