Mike Omer - In the Darkness

“What did you miss?” Joseph asked.

Zoe ignored him, going back to Maribel Howe’s account. Yup, there she was. Tagging herself outside the movie theater.

The killer stalked his victims through their social media accounts, waiting for them to go out. Once they did, he’d drive to their home, wait for them to come back. When it was late. When everyone in the vicinity was already sleeping. When home was just a few steps away and their guard was down.

The implication hit her hard. That meant the killer didn’t necessarily have one target victim. He might be looking through dozens of accounts. Hundreds. And he could check out their homes at leisure when he had free time, plan his hiding spot for the moment when he chose.

Even now, with everyone scared, surely some of his designated victims might go out.

She instantly had half a dozen ideas. They could do a bait operation, creating a profile for the kind of girls he targeted—she’d done something like it before. They could find accounts of girls at risk, warn them, monitor them. They could maybe get a list of accounts who’d visited Maribel and Nicole’s pages and see if any of those visited a lot of other profiles.

“I have to go,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“But you haven’t even finished your steak.” Joseph looked dismayed.

“I . . . right.” She motioned to the barman. “Can I take this to go, please?”

“Can I see you later this evening? I’m planning on going to sleep pretty late. You can call me whenever you want.”

She looked at him for a long moment, the prospect alluring. “Yeah,” she finally said. “I’ll call you.”

This had to be the shittiest birthday Juliet had ever had. And that included her seventh birthday with that horrendous party bear that had given her nightmares for weeks and her fourteenth birthday, when Roger Asshat Harris had broken up with her. She always told herself to keep her expectations low for her birthdays. Low expectations mitigated disappointments. And yet even her lowest expectations weren’t that depressing.

Yesterday, she’d looked forward to a fun party. Nine of her friends had marked the event as “coming” and five more as “maybe.” She had called in advance to book the long table at Ronny’s, already imagining herself sitting in the middle while everyone sang “Happy Birthday,” a chocolate cake with a tiny sparkler in front of her.

Low expectations, Juliet. Low expectations.

Because apparently there was a serial killer in San Angelo, and he hadn’t scheduled with Juliet before making himself known on her goddamn birthday . And those five “maybes” had quickly morphed into “not attending,” and the nine “coming” had suddenly become “maybe,” followed by apologetic messages and cancellations.

The final count of friends who showed up?

Two.

Tiffany and Luis, Tiffany’s boyfriend. Luis, it was worth mentioning, was not even Juliet’s friend. She thought he was a douche. But hey, he wasn’t a coward.

At least she was spared the humiliation of sitting at that huge table with two people. Ronny’s was almost completely empty, and they could choose whichever table they felt like. She eyed the large table every few minutes, thinking that if only that creep had waited a bit more before killing two women, she’d be sitting there surrounded by her cowardly bunch of friends.

She refused the damn chocolate cake with the sparkler.

Tiffany did her best to be cheerful, but a constant twinge of hysteria made her voice crack, and she kept checking the time, mentioning they should probably leave early. As if serial killers stuck to some sort of timetable. Oh my, look at the time—it’s half past murder o’clock.

Not that Juliet minded. The entire place was on edge. The waitress had already warned them they were closing early. The few patrons kept looking around them, as if verifying they weren’t the last to leave. Safety in numbers seemed to be the phrase of the day, which had been what Juliet had kept telling her canceling friends.

The only one who seemed cheerful was Luis. And for Luis, being cheerful meant he was being a total horntoad. He pawed at Tiffany above the table and, Juliet quickly found out, below the table as well. Twice he accidentally brushed her leg with his foot trying to reach for Tiffany’s. Or maybe it wasn’t an accident at all. Who knew. When Tiffany suddenly gasped, reacting to some invisible under-the-table action, Juliet asked for the bill.

They all drove back in Luis’s car, and his right hand sneaked under Tiffany’s skirt over and over again. It was mesmerizing and disgusting at once, and all Juliet wanted was to get home and go to sleep.

Halfway to her home Luis jokingly suggested a birthday ménage à trois. It was one of those ha-ha jokes that you just knew was meant to be taken half seriously.

Ew, ew, ew. This ride couldn’t end fast enough.

He pulled up by her home, and she opened the passenger door.

“Hey, want us to walk you to the door?” Luis asked, his tone suddenly serious.

She almost said yes, because the serial killer news was actually getting to her too, but his hand was still under Tiffany’s skirt when he asked, and Juliet suddenly wondered if he’d make the same ménage à trois suggestion when they were by the door.

“Nah, there’s really no need.” She smiled at them, doing her best to be nice because at least they’d shown up. “Thanks for coming.”

“Happy birthday, sweetie,” Tiffany said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“We’ll wait here until you get inside,” Luis said.

Maybe he wasn’t a douche, after all. He was a bit horny. So what?

She got out of the car and closed the passenger door behind her. The darkness was stifling. She suddenly thought of all those times her mother had asked her if she couldn’t get the landlord to install some lights outside. She’d brushed it off as another of those things her mom nagged about, but now she yearned for two or three lights along the way.

The door was less than twenty yards from her. It was no big thing.

She walked down the sandy path, stumbling as her right high heel snagged a root or something. High heels were not the right footwear for this path. After a few yards she heard a rustle in the bushes. She froze. Luis’s car was still behind her—she could hear the engine running—but could they even see her in this darkness? What if someone pounced at her right now, dragged her into the shadows? What could Luis and Tiffany do?

And then she ran, panic taking control over her body, her pulse running high, her breathing short and wheezing. She nearly fell again, righted herself, got to the door. She rummaged in her bag for the keys, fingers trembling. Where were they? Where were they?

She felt the familiar shape of the dolphin key ring, pulled it out, keys jingling. Found the key, inserted it into the lock, heard it click.

Breathless, she hit the light switches by the entrance. Both the light in the living room and the light above the front door turned on. She gulped air, trying to calm her trembling breath. She wanted to cry.

She stepped into the house and turned around. Luis and Tiffany waved at her from the car. She waved back, trying to smile.

The car drove off.

God, what a shitty night. She couldn’t wait to pee and go to bed. She turned around, giving the door a kick.

She’d expected it to slam shut. But there was nothing. No slam, not even a light thud.

She was about to glance back when something pressed to her throat, just as a hand gripped her right arm.

“Don’t scream, or I cut. Got that?” The voice was gravelly, angry.

She froze, unable to move, unable to breathe.