The Counter Born (#Wattys2016)

Chapter Fourteen

*You may see this as a short filler chapter, but it's one that I'm particularly fond of. It's also impacting characterization for the plot. So with that, enjoy!*

"Please leave a message after the tone," the computerized woman drones. A continuous beep fills the thorough silence.

"Hey, Tom. It's Landon. What I'm about to tell you is really important information. The letter under the next victim is going to be a D. You hear that? This serial killer is after me, and just trust that I know. I need someone on my side besides Oliver, okay? Okay, bye." I click end and pack my phone in my front button-up pocket. Then I casually hang my coat on the closest hook. Pungent fall spices and seasonings catch my drifting nose like bait. They lure me into the minuscule living room.

They grow even stronger as I near the side table to the right of the couch. My black boots clod against the wood floor, shuffling, when I notice I have left my candle lit. I blow it out with a single huff. Gritty smoke replaces it, to which the alarm in my throbbing brain senses. Isn't this vaguely familiar to that night? Do you pick up anything, Landon? That's all it takes for my reoccurring nightmare to present itself?

"Not now." Yes now. Think of me as an uncontrollable smoking addiction. "Not again." Yes again. Think of me as the poisonous tar build up in your lungs. You're choking, Landon. I wouldn't necessarily call myself a complete negativity. Believe it or not, the cigarettes are good for you. "No! I'm sick from those two words you keep chanting: that night! I'm getting physically sick from you!" Are you sure it's not mental? "That night, that night, that night!" I mock. Well I'm sick of being replaced by your less than worthy friend. "Then leave," I growl. Leave? You're not getting off that easy.

Oliver comes through the front door and removes his light jacket in the process. We talked things over outside the dive bar, and agreed it would be best if he got to stay for a while; only until he gets a job and can pay off his rent. Meanwhile, he can help me with my case. In exchange, I can keep him in line.

"We're going to be like old college roommates!"

"Yeah. I guess so."

"Do you have anything to eat?" Oliver asks. "I'm starving." The voice in my head snorts cockily. What an annoying little bastard.

"Could you just shut the hell up?"

"Excuse me?" Oliver snaps. I could, but what would be the fun in that? If you would just loosen the reigns . . .

"I'm not the problem! You are! Stop making me look like I'm losing my mind!" You are losing your mind. That's the problem, Landon.

"Seriously, I said nothing wrong to you!" Oliver snarls. He's everything that's wrong with the world. Pathetic imposter.

"Could you leave me alone?" I put my hands over my sticky face and drag them down, keeping my mentality in check.

"You invited me here!" I invited myself. Deal with it.

"You don't have a right to talk! You're just a tiny nagging voice inside my head. You're not real," I say. Oliver's mouth opens halfway.

"I am too! What the– Just . . . just get me some food." He spits. I pound my ears, blocked as if possessed.

"Sure." I frown after Oliver does. "Why so cranky, buddy?" He smacks his palms on the granite island as I amble to the fridge not far from where I was standing.

"Is it the job?" He asks. I yank out a container of frozen pasta tossed with basil, and I stick it into the microwave till I hear it sizzle like a summer heat wave. The meal wasn't as good as my mother's, let me tell you, and I definitely didn't cook it up. I treat myself to a restaurant date once in a full moon.

If you think I meant a date with a girl, you clearly need to go back in the book and re-read a few chapters. You know I don't swing that way. The last date I had was several years ago with a woman named Natalie. People look at me feeling sorry when I stroll into the Olive Garden, but real dates slow me down. Girls try to be smooth when all I want to do is rattle things up. A suicide case isn't exactly a pick up line, but it sure sweeps me off my feet.

"Landon! I'm talking to you! Is Seattle P.D. getting on your nerves? Because you don't need to take the stress out on me!" I hold my hands out gently and then slide a thin plate out in front of him.

"Woah. What's gotten into you all of a sudden?" I ask, taking a breath after diving into my thoughts.

"What's gotten into you?" Oliver counters. "Landon, if you're playing games with me–" He looks indifferently at the pile of steaming, parmesan-sprinkled spaghetti and picks up his fork. "You know what? I'm not even going to continue this argument with you, because I have no where else to stay if you kick to the side of the road. Plus, this looks pasketti too delicious to ignore." My brows unwind as I sit beside Oliver.

"Alright . . . so do you want to talk about the possible suspects?" He munches and leisurely nods. "It has to be someone who's close to me. They have to know me, but they can't love me right? They wouldn't just pick a random person to intimidate. Who would I know, but not know too well?" We ponder, and Oliver keeps shoveling food into his crammed mouth.

"Oh!" He raises his hand like a teacher's pet. Except it looks even more ridiculous, because his cheeks are as stuffed as a chipmunk carrying acorns. "Remember that mysterious man who you didn't know at the funeral, but he said he knew you? Robert?"

"Yep. He kind of fits the description. He may be our guy," I say.

"When do you think we can get him in for questioning?"

"Whenever."

"It seemed like he was hiding something," Oliver adds. Everyone has secrets to hide. They may be camouflaged between shades of one's personality, but they're there inside every one of us. It's just the matter of finding the deer in the coyote pack or the pheasant in a group of mountain lions. I wouldn't say this to Oliver. Oh no. The deepness is something I've acquired from Jen. He may see it as weakness, but it's just the softer side of myself that I've come to terms with.

"Let's go with that."