Eric Turner was an impatient man. After no more than twenty seconds, he buzzed the doorbell again, and again, and again. It was the right call, though, as I was even later than him.
I rushed up the stairwell to meet him, my bag flailing on my shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Turner."
"Oh, it's fine." He waved my apology off while I hurriedly unlocked the door. "I shouldn't have picked a Monday slot."
"Haha. Just give me a second." I scrambled in; Eric followed more slowly behind. After I panickingly and half-assedly arranged my desk, I waved him into the next room. "Sincerest apologies."
"Already told you there's no need." He waved again as he followed me in. I sank into my couch; so did he, across the table.
"So, wanna tell me what's up?"
"Argh..." Eric rubbed his temples; his toes were drumming, and his knees were unsettled. "Same old, same old. Nearly identical problems as last time."
"Cold war. Gotcha." I nodded.
"Yeah, I don't know. She still doesn't want to talk to me. And it makes me feel shit, y'know? Like, why? Why doesn't she want to talk to me?"
"Was not a word exchanged this past week?"
"She said, 'Our next conversation is about that night.'"
"That night would refer to... that night?" I tapped my pen on a note I made last week.
"Yeah..." He sighed heavily. "That night..."
"Didn't I tell you to give her the truth?"
"I know, I know. But..." He slapped his thighs, his lips pressed tight. "I don't want her to worry. Like, I don't... I don't want to show the weaker side of me."
"Because you're afraid she wouldn't like it."
"Something like that." He shrugged. "I mean... I got into a brawl just because of a bad day at work, hahaha." He laughed bitterly at his stupid past actions.
"Happens to everyone. It's just stress. Sometimes violence can be very helpful to breathe again. I'm not suggesting you get into another fisticuff. I just wish to let you know it's not as bad of a thing as you think it is."
"It's pathetic." He shook his head, his face tightening. "Genuinely pathetic... She fell in love with this—" he gestured at himself, "not that."
"If she can only love one side of you, she wouldn't be with you. You've never shown your other side. Why are you so sure she wouldn't like it?"
"It's..."
"A healthy relationship builds on honesty, Eric. You should tell her. She can take it, just like I can."
"Well, taking my rants about my life is sort of your job."
"It should be hers too. And her rants are your job too. That's how it works in a relationship." These words weren't from me; Matthew deserves the credit. "So, regarding this topic, I'll give the same advice as last week."
"Tell her."
"That's right."
He sighed even heavier, letting his entire back fall against the couch, sliding lower and lower until his knees hit the table.
"That's not the only thing you want to tell me, though, right?"
"Hell no, I would've gone to couples therapy if that were the case."
"Tell me then."
A barrage of rants about his colleagues and his lack of direction in life later, I dealt with another client, then another, then another, then two more.
———
Matthew parked his car near a shady bar under a highway, the crime scene already secured.
"Oh damn." Matthew whipped his head around the bar, shocked at the sight of blood and flesh covering everywhere. The metallic tang in the air was unbearable; Matthew quickly covered his nose, as did everyone else inside.
"Yeah," Vincent said, palms pressed on his waist. "It was a massacre in here. How many dead are we looking at here, Pat?"
"Eight... maybe nine..." Patricia from forensics answered through a gas mask, taking pictures of the crime scene. "All died by the same gun, it seems."
"Oh fuck, don't tell me." Matthew hurried over to another officer, who was pulling out a bullet stuck inside the cracks of a wall.
A bullet with a carving of a cross.
"Janitor again." Matthew gritted his teeth.
"Two nights in a row. That's a first." Vincent grimaced at the sight of a pile of red mush on the ground.
"Where's Detective Chatman?" Matthew realized.
"This isn't the only thing that happened last night. The one who got away, Gordon Hill, was strangled to death in his cell."
"What?"
"Yeah. I wonder who did it."
"O'Neil." Matthew nodded, and Vincent nodded back.
"Fuckin' hell, I'm paying the bastard a visit after this," Matthew spat, teeth grinding.
"I'll join you," Vincent proposed.
"Everything here looks just like our guy's spraying," Patricia analyzed, then pointed to a particular blood spatter on the bar, slightly different from all the others. "But that blood mist there suggests blunt force."
"Huh." Vincent shrugged.
"Yeah, and look at this." Patricia followed the blood to the floor.
"Footprints."
"One escaped. Janitor's slipping," Patricia stated.
"Two nights in a row." Vincent smirked. "Guess he's not so professional after all."
"How has the lucky survivor not reported yet?" another officer joined the conversation.
"He's also a criminal," Matthew answered. "We're the last people they're going to after something like this. Sergeant House isn't here either?"
"That one... I don't know." Vincent shrugged; his arms fell to slap his hip.
———
"IT WAS FLOATING... LIKE... LIKE..." Lila was at the precinct, describing her experience with better hand gestures than words.
"Calm down, miss."
"IT WAS FLOATING! IT WAS JUST... FLOATING!"
"I'll take this one." Jonathan interfered, waving the officer away, then turned to Lila with a disdainful glare. Not a single officer liked someone who escaped the system.
"Please... you have to believe me..." Lila clasped her palms.
"Next time something floats, light a fire." Jonathan may have hated her, but his job came first. He gave her his card and said, "Whatever you see then, you report to me, and only me. Leave now."
Lila's raised hands were still trembling, as was her tense face, as Jonathan left her alone with the card and not another glance.
Lila clenched her fists hard; her teeth ground so hard they nearly sparked. But none of that garnered any attention from the precinct that resented her, so all she could do was storm off.
The front door was swung hard and thudded against the wall, rebounding and nearly closing before it opened again, just slightly, by itself.
Lila power-walked through the busy streets, her hands massaging her arms. She felt constantly cold, and constantly itchy.
She rotated her head frantically, trying to see something hiding in the passing crowd — some shadow she feared and sensed but could never see.
"Go away..." she muttered, head still spinning violently, eyes bloodshot and fingers twitching. "Go away!" she raised her voice, and passersby flinched.
She continued walking, each step more unstable than the last. Her frown grew deeper and deeper; her panting grew heavier and heavier, until she yelled,
"GO AWAYYYYY!" And she collapsed to her knees in the middle of a zebra crossing, successfully becoming a human magnet, repelling everyone.
"Shut the fuck up!" The voice of a young man echoed from a distance.
Lila tugged at her hair on the asphalt, her knees squirming and scraping; drops of blood appeared around. "Stop it... stop it... stop it... stop it..." she muttered repeatedly until the crowd around her dissipated.
It was the car's turn to move.
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
A very furious Mercedes forced Lila off the road, but she was as distraught as ever. Given her junkie-like appearance, no one really gave a shit.
"Fuckin' methheads," a passerby muttered.
The only one who cared about Lila was Sophie, who knelt down to her level, observing her.
But her gaze wasn't of concern. It was of contempt and disgust.
As if sensing her presence, Lila whipped her head to the right, only to find nothing but the knees of passersby.
Nonetheless, the feeling was strong enough for Lila to bolt away to her left.