Boston's Man-Eater

LV

As I quickly scurried off the floor, it took a last minute debate to grab the remaining folders and rush out the room.

Unfortunately, I found one of the maids dusting an antique vase at in the hallway.

My mind screamed at me, but I had to be rational.

I was sure that any second she was going to turn around, and seeing me, she'd immediately report me to Mason.

Then all of it will be over.

What would be the point of keeping a man on the face of Earth who came to know a fact that could shatter him to pieces?

I gently shut the door as I recited the Lord's prayer.

Much to my relief, there wasn't a moment when she bothered to check, so I tiptoed down the carpet.

"What are you doing?" Gerald's voice boomed, and I clenched my jaw.

I turned around, wanting to tell him exactly what I had discovered.

"We have forbidden you to wear earphones during working hours, Doris! Obey orders or pack your bags and leave this instant!"

I took the opportunity to slide into the arched doorway, and quick stepped to my room before shutting the door.

Splaying the folders onto the bed, I grabbed the second folder and flipped to the first page.

Damien's autopsy report.

Manner of death. Homicide?

Lucas Stevenson: Manner of death—Homicide.

Derek Harris. Manner of death. Homicide.

I glanced at the window with a dumbfounded look, and read the paper again.

But they had said it was an accident! I would've known that because I was one of the suspects!

How did he do that?

I reasoned that he'd bought his way into the authorities, including the coroner.

The third folder was extremely thin and black, and held a strong lavender fragrance.

My fingers trembled on top of the leathery cover, and I braced myself for more disturbing news.

Iris Walker. The name said boldly.

Height: 5'6'

Weight: 57 kilos

Eye color: Gray

Hair color: Brown

The stranger's signature was scribbled at the bottom of the paper, and I strolled my eyes past the imprint and turned to the next page.

On that crisp white paper lay an oath with the stamp "terminated" watermarked across it, and that immediately caught my attention.

Nothing here made any sense.

Iris, who is or used to be what I assumed to be the serial killer was a supposed vendetta queen.

On the final page of the folder, was a list of names printed neatly in a straight column.

One by one, my deafening heart punctuated all the names of the deceased men who had been killed by the hands of Iris, and like most at the top, they had been crossed out in red.

So, now I was panicking.

Utterly afraid for my life as I comprehended the kind of person I was dealing with.

Mason was a part of this. Mason knew who she was. And Mason was an accessory to murder, probably being a murderer himself.

When I closed my eyes and held the folder tightly, the accustomed eigengrau color soon visioned pools of blood, and pale faces I had seen at the respective crime scenes.

She was merciless. A cold blooded killer.

What exactly is the meaning behind all this?

I was restless, eager to know more.

Mason still hadn't showed up, and I could feel my mind stir with wild ideas of planning an ambush and fleeing the place.

It is impossible, I remember saying to myself.

No man alive could possibly take down an army of 20+ with a simple kitchen knife or whatever minor weapon that was possible to possess.

So, one day when I decided to creep back into the office and exchange the folders of for others, I carefully skimmed past the other drawers, and stopped at a blue folder.

And when I picked it up and looked back into the shelve, I could not believe my eyes.

There laid an old iPhone model, and I grabbed it like my lifeline.

Powering it on in hopes of it still functioning, the apple logo came to life.

"Oh!" I whispered with relief.

The phone had no passcode, and I wasted no more time in calling 911. And when it rung, so did my heart as it echoed in my ears.

Pick up please.

Just when I thought that hope was lost, a voice crackled from the other side of the line as it registered it's services.

"Hello, my name is Kyle, I've been taken hostage by Mason Loughty at a—"

"Hello?" The female voice interjected.

"I've been taken hostage, please help me."

"Sir, I can't hear you, the connection is weak. Please repeat it slowly for me."

At this point my patience was rapidly thinning, alongside with the newly found hope I had welcomed with open arms.

"My name's Kyle Anthony. I've been kidnapped by Mason Loughty, and I don't know what my location is."

"Please state your location," she said, and my nostrils flared with anger.

"Trace my location, I don't know where I am."

"Okay Sir, if you—"

And the line died.

Peering up the desk, I waited to meet the venomous glare that was held in Gerald's face.

But then I didn't.

There was not a single soul in the room with me.

I tried to call 911 again, but all of a sudden, service had disappeared.

Something was wrong.

So I quickly snapped pictures of all the documents, the room, including the wardrobe.

And when I thought things couldn't get any worse, I heard two pairs of nearing footsteps, setting my subconscious on fire.

Glancing around the room for hidden shelter, I dashed for the wooden closet.

And just as I shut the door, the office door swung open.

My quivering knees threatened to fail me, but I steadied my heart, and gazed through the gaps of the doors.

"Would you like some tea?" Doris asked.

"No. Have Edward clean the car and burn this dress at the incinerator. I have work to do."

That voice? Where do I know that voice?

The color drained on my face as the knowledge dawned on me like a sudden bright light.

It was—