Hello Darkness

Chapter Twelve

Storm clouds hang soft and low, transforming the rich spring colors into a bleak grey. Josie, sun-bleached orange and glorious, waits for us in the driveway. After the last few days, I'm thankful for that bit of normalcy.

"We'll be taking my car." Officer Silvano—Talum—strays off and holds the rear door open of his rain speckled, oily black sedan.

So much for normal. I longingly glance at Josie before veering off my path toward Talum.

"Thanks, I can get my own door from now on." I slip into the back seat and slam the door shut behind me. Maybe that came across a little harsher than I'd meant, but I'm not buying his nice guy routine, especially when he's accused me of marking up my own window immediately after I'd spilled my guts to him. I am perfectly capable of doing things on my own, thank you very much and I don't believe for a second that he's taking over my case or opening doors for me out of the kindness of his heart—if he even has one. I count the seconds before he slides into the front seat.

My eyes trace his clean-shaven jaw, with its perfect angles and—hot bitter blood coats my tongue from the spot where my teeth severed the skin of my cheek. I suck on my cheek, narrowing my eyes. "Will I be sitting in the back like a child every day?" I tap my fingers on the armrest. I'm sure the windows only go down half-way too—or he has the child lock on. I resist the urge to try it.

"I don't know. Will you be acting like a child every day?" His sculpted face remains stoic and untelling, like we're just having a casual conversation and he didn't just insult me.

"Excuse me?"

"Excuse you, what?" His hard-blue eyes slice through the mirror at me. "The windows are tinted back there, and I would really appreciate it if you lost the attitude. It's for your safety," he says, his cool composure returning.

The word safety curdles in my gut. The police never kept my parents safe, what makes him think he'll be any different. "Everything is always for my safety. Like I can't make a decision on my own. I didn't ask for any of this—"

"And you think I did?"

"Then why are you here?" We lock eyes in the mirror, and I refuse to look away.

His eyes flick to Josie's bumper and he puts the car in reverse. As he's pulling onto the street he says, "Your story got to me...and I want to help."

I lean on the door and press my lips together. How many times have I heard that before? Then when it gets hard, and I can't give them the answers they want to hear, or they can't fix me—they leave.

The rain saunters and mingles in a lazy drizzle down the window. If I catch a drop just right, it transforms the earthy hues of the bakery and blushing pinks and soft periwinkles of the flower shop into a tiny kaleidoscope of color. Each burst unique and only for me—for they'll never be seen again.

The car slows as we near the three-story office building. "You can just drop me off out front." I lean forward, hand resting on the handle.

"I'll be escorting you in this time." He turns the car into the lot next to the building.

"That's really not necessary."

"It'll just be this once. In case there's ever an incident, I need to know the layout."

I don't want to fight him anymore, so I let myself out of the car and walk toward the building, feet slapping in the puddles.

People stare as we walk down the seemingly extra-long hallways. Their judging eyes flick between me and the over-dressed man at my side. Their whispers dart at me like flies to a decaying carcass. I can't avoid them, and when I explain to my boss why a police officer is accompanying me, the eavesdropping ears aren't shy about their intent. I keep my responses vague and try to stop any further questions.

I breathe a sigh of relief when Talum slips from my cubicle and out of the building, probably still casing the exit points. I can do this. I can get through the day.

One table in the center of the room.

Twelve chairs around it.

Ten cubicles line the far wall. The fifth one down is mine.

I sit down in front of my computer fully intending to engross myself in editing an article from last week, but something pricks in the back of my mind. If the police aren't looking into it, then someone should. Instead of editing, I type, Beckett murder theories, into the search bar. Hundreds of results pop up. My stomach turns as I scroll past the advertisements of used or pirated copies of Demented.

I flip a paperclip between my fingers as I read newspaper articles, blogs, and watch videos. Each leads to one of three conclusions: unsolved, murder-suicide, or me.

Suicide—the word tugs on my heart.

I scroll down another page of results. One catches my eye—I click the link.

It takes me to a specialty shop's blog: Mystic, Mystery, and Mayhem. It is a simple black page, with gaudy red and white letters. A little map displayed in the left corner shows its downtown location. I consider leaving as soon as I enter, but one of the titles grabs me. Vampires in West Haven: The Girl Speaks the Truth.

The article is written by the shop's owner, Joe Ellsworth. Next to the scripted text of his name is a picture of a man, maybe in his late thirties, silver spatters his blond hair. He's done his research. It is the closest account of that day I've ever read. He knows all the facts—including my father's job at Sypris Labs. But what piques my curiosity is his claim that Sypris not only knew about vampires, but they were testing them. Shortly after my father's murder, the project fell apart and the workers were dismissed.

My father was a cellular biologist. How would he have gotten involved with that?

I shake my head. It all sounds crazy. The first time someone believes me, and I feel like the crazy one for considering it. A fan group, known as Charley's Disciples comments at the bottom of the page, "We've believed her all along. They won't brainwash us any longer!"

Is this how I sound? All these years later, is this how people see me?

It hurts, but it's true. They see me as a crazy fanatic.