13 Murders

Fuax-Burglar

EIGHT

FAUX-BURGLAR

“Tell me what you saw.” The policeman asks. I’m not sure what to tell him. To be honest I’m not sure what happened. After I closed my eyes I screamed until my throat went raw, and some guy (who is now sort of standing outside the interview room) was there and then a police car. It’s all a blur. But his face, Jeremy’s face, is clear in my mind. But I can’t tell him about Jeremy. That would give me away.

“I woke up,” I decide to give a basic outline of what happened.

“And there was man, standing by the window.” I say. The officer writes something down on his piece of paper.

“Okay um…” He checks his paper.

“Elizabeth Falcon is it? I want you to tell me exactly what happened” He talks to me like I’m some kind of psychopath. I hope I’m not.

“I woke up. And there was a man standing by the window. I told him to go away. But he didn’t say anything. Then he moved towards the door and turned on the light switch,” I hesitate. What do I say? He turned on the light switch to reveal that he was my recently deceased boyfriend, who I murdered by the way, and then he forced me to look at the strangle marks I put on him.

“I didn’t recognize his face. He had a knife though.” That’s a good one Liz, make it look like a burglary.

“And he threatened to kill me if I screamed. And then he left. And I screamed. And now I’m here.” I say. I pull a traumatized face. The officer nods his head understandingly.

“Okay Miss Falcon, the department will contact you is there is any progression on the case. You are free to leave.” He says, closing his notebook. I get up from the interview chair, and thank the officer. Outside, the man who brought me here stands waiting. He looks surprisingly comfortable, leaning on the wall, scanning the station hallways. He purses his lips when he sees me.  I manage a small smile. He had appeared out of no where really, and though I was to busy hiding and getting dressed, he still managed to ring the police. If I hadn’t made up the whole burglary story, I might actually owe the guy my life.

“Thanks again for bringing me here.” I say. He smiles and nods his head.

“Glad I could help um-“

“Elizabeth.” I say. Lizzie flashes through my mind. I’m lucky she doesn’t escape. Now that I take a good look at him, he looks a little familiar, but then I might just be recognizing him from when he rescued me from my dead boyfriend (oops, I meant burglar).

“Jason. Nice to meet you.” He smiles. I take in his appearance again, second guessing myself about knowing him. Tall, pale skin, black hair, blue eyes, around my age, attractive.

Nothing.

“Probably not the best way to meet, I guess so yeah.” I say. I have a habit of mumbling. He chuckles slightly. I have no idea what to say next. This seems to be a common dilemma for me, and normally ends in generic, awkward-silence inducing topics like the weather or politics.

“Do you want a ride home?” He asks.

“Yes I think that would be good. Thanks.” I nod.

Phew, I didn’t have to mention the weather.

Jason (who, turns out, lives next to Mathew Franklin) drops me at my front door. I tell him not to get out of the car, but he does anyway. It feels almost first-date-ish but usually first dates don’t involve dead boyfriends or police stations. I fumble through my keys for the one to the front door. I have no idea which is which, and I make a decision to label them so that next time I won’t look like an idiot. He stands with his hands in his pockets. When I finally find the right key the door swings open wildly, making a little more noise than it should. I turn around and smile at him apologetically.

“Thanks again for the ride, I really appreciate it.” I say. He smiles.

“Yeah anytime. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Other than coffee I think I’m good.” I reply. He chuckles under his breath and runs a hand through his hair.

“Well then I’ll see you whenever I see you?” Jason smiles. I nod in agreement.

“You will.”

“I better be-“

“Yeah” I nod awkwardly.

Jesus Christ Liz, don’t sound so dismissive.

Now he thinks I’m crazy, stupid and rude.

I’m hoping that he doesn’t value first impressions.

With that he walks down the porch and across the lawn. I slip inside of the house as quick as I can, eager to get out of the cold air. Once I’m inside I regret the decision. Outside may be colder in temperature but I freeze inside the house.

Because it looks so much like his.

And he’s been here.

But I’m not sure if it was him.

Jeremy Linden was in this house.

I think.