the one who got away

IV

Beatrice took the long way home from work that night. All four windows were rolled down, the sunroof was open, and the music was blaring. She sang along to the music as she drove, the current song being Crocodile Rock by Elton John. Although she wasn't an impressive singer, she didn't mind. The staring eyes from passing cars never bothered her in the slightest. It was the perfect outlet for her after spending the entire day faking someone she wasn't. Not only the entire day, but her entire life as well. Driving down the streets alone and listening to the music was the only time she's able to truly be herself.

As she pulled into the neighborhood, she closed the windows and turned down her music. Her neighborhood was filled with grumpy old people that she rarely interacted with unless they needed a favor. One time, she had driven to her house blaring her music and she had the cops called on her for being "too disruptive". They never even stopped by her house, but the situation was still irritating to hear about from Andrew since she's supposed to be a role model for the community.

Beatrice pulled her red car into the driveway and quickly walked to her front door. She fished the key from her pocket and unlocked the door. As she turned the doorknob, she checked her surroundings to make sure no one would follow her into her house. Being a serial killer and a state detective didn't necessarily take away the paranoia of someone waiting for her in the darkness. She closed and locked the door behind her and approached her alarm system. 2713. The alarm shut off and the house was silent. At her feet, her overweight orange tabby cat, Pancake purred and pushed her head against Beatrice's leg.

"Hi baby," Beatrice cooed as she kneeled down to Pancake and scratched under her chin. "I missed you so very much today."

She hung her black cardigan on the coat rack and approached her bedroom. The floorboards creaked beneath her feet when she walked, the air vents blowing out cold air. A noticeable trait of Beatrice's house was that every item had its own place. It wasn't in an obsessive-compulsive way, but simply because Beatrice preferred to not feel cluttered in her own home. She had grown up with a mother who was a hoarder, so she promised herself to not make the same mistake.

In her bedroom, she stripped of her clothes and changed into a pair of plaid pajama pants and a black tank top. As she was about to lay down in her bed, Beatrice's stomach growled so loud she was sure her neighbors could've heard. It made her realize: when was the last time she had eaten anything? Her body had been surviving off of coffee and Redbull for the past few days and she had been too exhausted to eat when she had gotten home. She checked her watch. 1:25 AM. Her stomach growled again.

Beatrice groaned to herself as she walked down the hallway and turned into her kitchen. Her kitchen had a sage green and white theme, where the walls were painted green, and the cabinets were painted white. She opened her refrigerator and looked for anything that caught her attention. Since she lived alone and was rarely home, she didn't have many food options. Half a carton of milk, a bag of Cutie oranges, leftover macaroni and cheese, an entire watermelon, and a shelf full of only strawberry banana yogurts. She didn't have the healthiest lifestyle and combined with forgetting to eat most of the time, it was no wonder that Beatrice was under-weight for her age.

She exhaled a sigh and opened her pantry. Another night for spaghetti-o's. She plopped the noodles in a glass bowl and shoved her food into the microwave. In the reflection of the glass, Beatrice noticed a shadow of a person standing behind her. She quickly spun around with her fists drawn but, to her surprise, no one was there. Had it been her imagination? No. She was positive she had seen someone.

Then she noticed what was wrong. Her kitchen window was open. Beatrice always made sure every opening in her house is closed. Had she left it open by mistake? There was no way. Beatrice was becoming anxious; her heart raced as she slowly approached the window.

From behind her, the microwave began beeping to signal that the spaghetti-o's were finished warming up. Beatrice yelped in surprise and rubbed her eyes with the palm of her hand. She was getting herself worked up over nothing. She opened the microwave door and pulled out her bowl that was warming her face from the steam. Beatrice sat her food on the counter and walked across the kitchen to close the window.

As Beatrice leaned closer, she noticed a smudge in the glass. She went to wipe it away when she realized what the smudge was: a handprint. Someone was at the window, and they were looking right at her. She backed herself in a corner and looked around her house for any movement. Nothing. Wasting no time, Beatrice ran straight towards her bedroom and grabbed her gun from her nightstand. She pointed the gun out in front of her as she began to search her entire house.

She ripped open the shower curtain. Looked in every closet. Even searched underneath her bed. Her hands were trembling as she attempted to keep the gun steady. Her heart was pounding in her ears. Had someone broken into her house while she was out? That was impossible, she turned off the alarm when she had gotten home. If someone had broken in through the door, the alarm would have gone off. If someone had come through the window... Beatrice quickly shook the thought out of her mind. She was scaring herself.

The entire house was empty, the only person inside was Beatrice. There was no one in her living room, or her kitchen, or her office, or her bedroom. It didn't take away the fact that there was someone at her window. She made a mental note to herself to stop by the store in the morning to buy alarms for her windows to prevent that from happening again.

Beatrice couldn't sleep at all that night. She had gotten herself so worked up; sleep was not an option anymore. Instead, she sat in a chair placed to where she could watch the kitchen window and the front door. She had a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and her gun with her finger on the trigger in the other. She wanted to go to sleep more than anything, but the thoughts overpowered the urge. What if someone was waiting for her to fall asleep to break in and attack her? Who was watching her? Who was wanting to hurt her?

Hours passed. Beatrice's eyes were growing heavy, but the sun was rising. It was too late for her to fall asleep even if she wanted to. She didn't realize what time it was until her phone buzzed from her pocket. Connor. She answered the call and brought the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" Beatrice croaked, her voice weak and tired.

"Beatrice? You need to – are you okay?" Connor's voice sounded concerned.

"I'm fine." She lied. "Why did you call me?"

"I just sent you an address, I need you to meet me. There's been another murder."