Steve Frech - Deadly Games

“See you at work, tomorrow,” she replies and closes the door in my face.

My apartment has never felt so small. So claustrophobic.

I pull the shades on every window but can’t shake the feeling that there are eyes watching me.

Dinner consists of some reheated leftovers and a beer, but I hardly touch either one as I obsess over watching the news on television and checking the news on my phone. There’s nothing about Emily’s murder, but it’s only a matter of time. A millionaire’s wife found naked in bed at a seedy motel with her throat cut? It’s a true-crime podcaster’s dream.

Midnight hits and I’m still wide awake, trying to imagine what a conversation with Detective Mendez would look like if I tried to come clean now.

I could possibly explain away one thing or maybe two, but there are so many things that I would have to explain. Even if I try to plead that I cared for Emily, it would make me sound crazy, especially when you threw in the blood in my trunk and “my sweet little cupcake”.

The ship where I tell everything to Detective Mendez has sailed.

I go to the bathroom and take a shower. I open the small window to the blind alley behind my apartment building to let out the steam.

While standing under the stinging hot water and trying to think my way through this, I realize that even the text messages don’t really help me. How can I prove it’s her phone? I mean, it’s a burner phone that no one else knew about. Also, where is it? If I admit that I was at the motel that night, wouldn’t Detective Mendez assume I took it, and maybe I’m sending the messages to myself to try to lamely throw him off the scent?

There’s no way around it.

This guy has me in a corner and there’s no way out.

I climb into bed and hit the lights, but sleep is an impossibility.

Lying in bed, phone in hand, I scroll through the text messages. For the first time in my life, I’m having a panic attack. I can’t breathe. My chest hurts and my stomach is boiling. I’m lying here, stewing in my bed, going around in circles, and have no clue as to what I should do next. I want to vent to someone, but who? No way I talk to Detective Mendez. I tried to talk to Katie and that made it worse. There’s no one to—

No. There is someone to talk to.

I quickly begin typing into my phone. The letters appear under my last text to Emily’s burner phone.

What was that at the apartment?

Send.

I stare at the cursor and start typing again.

Why did you want me to go there?

Send.

I pause … and then begin furiously typing.

Why did you kill her?

Send.

Why are you doing this?

Send.

What do you want?

Send.

WHO ARE YOU?!!

Send.

Even though I’m lying in bed, I’m out of breath and gripping the phone so tightly, I feel like it’s going to break. Under the string of messages, the blinking cursor patiently waits for some more unhinged typing.

Minutes pass.

Finally, my phone goes into sleep mode, darkening the room.

Exhaustion crashes over me. I put the phone on the bedside table, pull the sheets up to my chin, and roll onto my side. My body is drained but my mind is still spinning out of control.

My eyes start to close. I just want to sleep, to escape for a little—

Ping.

I’m instantly alert. I roll over, grab the phone, and unlock the home screen.

There’s one new message from Emily’s burner phone.

It’s a single emoji reply …

So, it’s no surprise that I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night.

I don’t know how long I stared at my phone, but eventually, I started to fall asleep and dropped it on my face, hitting my nose and bringing tears to my eyes.

Don’t laugh. You’ve done it, too, and I’m not in the mood.

I didn’t reply to the pyscho’s text and I’m not going to. It would only give him the chance to further mess with my head.

I slept in fits and starts. Every time I woke up, I was certain I had been asleep for hours, only to check my phone and discover that it had been a few minutes. Then, I would check the news. Around four in the morning, the dam broke.

There it was.

Murder in Avalon! read one headline. Wife of Hedge Fund Manager Found Dead read another, which kind of pissed me off; that their best description of Emily was the “wife of hedge fund manager”. That’s really the best they could do? And on it went. Each article was accompanied by photos of Emily’s smiling face and the exterior of the Seaside Motel. Thankfully, the details of her murder were sparse. She had been discovered by a cleaning lady in the early hours of yesterday morning. There were some mentions of her throat being cut, but nothing about her being found naked on the bed.

Needless to say, I was up and out of bed in minutes. I chugged coffee and watched the local morning news, which didn’t have anything on the murder, yet. The next few hours were spent scrolling through the news but there were no updates. By noon, I realized that I was driving myself crazy. I had to get away from it, just for a bit, and did everything I could to get my mind on something, anything else. I cleaned my apartment. I tried to go for a jog but was nearly run over by a car because I wasn’t paying attention. Then, I went to the gym, only to half-ass a few machines, and walk out.

I’m just going through the motions.

It’s all I can do.

Four o’clock. Time to open The Gryphon.

I’ve done this so many times, it’s become mundane. I could do it in my sleep, but now it’s surreal. Everything looks the same as those hundreds of other times, but feels different, like everyone is watching me. Every window, every alley, every parked car that I can’t see the inside of holds a pair of spying eyes.

The blinking white figure of a stickman tells me it’s safe to cross the street, but I hesitate.

The Blonde is on the other side of the crosswalk, but she doesn’t start crossing. She’s waiting. What is she doing? Is she waiting for The Gryphon to open? She’s never done that before.

No. It looks like she’s waiting for me.

I cross the street and try to avoid eye contact as I step onto the curb to walk past her.

“Clay?” she asks.

I pretend I don’t hear her as I reach the door, extracting my key ring.

“Clay Davis?”

“We open in an hour,” I reply, fumbling with the key.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

“Look, I’m sorry that I didn’t get your Stella the other night. I was busy and—”

“No. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

She’s obviously not going away, so let’s get whatever this is over with.

“Okay … What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Emily Parker.”

On second thought, let’s not even start this.

“Absolutely not.” I hasten my efforts to open the door.

“Please. Just a few questions.”

“‘Just a few questions’? I’m sorry. Who are you?” I ask.

“No, I’m sorry. I totally messed this up,” she says, reaching into her pocket and holding out her card. “My name is Genevieve Winters. I’m with the San Francisco Herald .”

Of course, she’s a reporter. Of course she is. I don’t even reach for the card.

“Not interested.”

“I saw how you two acted towards one another at the bar,” she says.

Get away! Get away from her! my mind screams, which only adds to the trouble with the key. Talking to a reporter isn’t going to help me figure out who killed Emily. It can only get me into more trouble.