A Deadly Sorority (Book #1 Sorority Horrors)

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The sun's rays spiraled down on me, its warmth climbing down my back as I stretched out my arms and legs, preparing to run on our campus track.

Even though track season wouldn't start until December, Coach Williams wanted to ensure we were well-prepared to outrun our first team.

Following the instructions of our coach, I positioned myself.

As I stood there, waiting for my turn to run, I pondered on the grieving woman I saw at the park.

The tears flowed from her eyes as she mourned her niece. I watched her with a sullen heart and sheer intrigue; an unsettling feeling washed over me.

It felt as if I possessed some psychic ability in which I could sense a killer among us. Or maybe it was just a consequence of my obsession with true crime shows and countless readings of true crime novels.

Now, knowing that a serial killer was indeed on the loose, it was not surprising in the least that I harbored the feelings I had.

"Collins, you're up!" Coach William yelled out in his deep, authoritative tone.

I set on my mark, positioning my body. As soon as I heard the whistle, I ran as fast as my feet would carry me. The fresh summer's air delicately swayed against my face. Sweat dripped from my pores. I hit the finish line and stood on the side of the field, catching my breath.

"Great job, Collins!"

***

After a long day on the track field, I sat at the kitchen table in my apartment. I gave it my all as the coach had instructed me to, and I worked up a sweat, promising I'd sleep well tonight. But not before I put on my investigative cap and do some brainstorming.

Images of the Crimson Lake Killer shot through my head like a ping-pong ball flying across a table.

The bright ceiling lights spiraled down onto the wooden table's surface as I drafted a list of all potential suspects.

Hastily, I jotted down their names, the blue ink scribbling against the surface of my notepad. Ultimately, the only individual that seriously came to mind was John—Sandra's "senior citizen" boyfriend.

I'm curious about that guy. Why the hell was a twenty-seven-year-old dating an eighteen-year-old?

With my chin cradled in the palm of my hand, I sat there, racking my brain of who the killer could be. Then, another potential suspect shot through my mind like a strike of lightning on a thundering day: that strange janitor who hung out in the residential dining halls.

Was he really mopping the floors? Or was he scoping out his next victim?

Cooper then came to mind. He had a fascination with serial killers just as much as I did, but he, unlike me, was a male, making him statically more likely to be a prime serial killing suspect. 

Was he really studying crime to become an FBI agent as he professed? Or did he have a deep, dark urge to experience killing?

It was difficult to determine. Most serial killers don't have a stamp on their forehead that reads "Serial Killer." If they did, capturing them and putting them behind bars where they belonged would be easy.

Putting my eyeglasses on, I flipped open my laptop. Placing my hands over the keyboard, I began my search.

Soon, an intriguing article produced by the Irvine Times popped up and caught my eye.

The Crimson Lake Killer has returned—or is it a copycat of the once prolific killer?

What the heck?