Brenda Novak - The Perfect Murder

“What’s going on?” she asked him.

Obviously as confused as she was, he shook his head, so she repeated the question more loudly, this time for Bob. “What’s going on?”

“I’d rather not yell it through the door,” he said.

Sebastian disappeared from the hallway. After running her hand self-consciously through her hair and making sure her robe covered any hint of nudity, she turned the dead bolt. “What is it?” she asked once she’d opened the door.

A bone-thin retired widower, her neighbor had on his typical polyester slacks, Windbreaker and comfortable shoes. “There’s been a murder,” he explained.

The words were so far from what she’d been expecting, it took her a moment to absorb their meaning. “A…what?”

Sebastian came up behind her, fully dressed.

“There’s been a murder.” Bob’s eyes shifted to Sebastian. “Do you own the white Lexus in visitor parking?”

A muscle twitched in Sebastian’s cheek. “I do.”

“What does his car have to do with anything?” Jane asked.

“There’s a body in the backseat.”

Sebastian was already stepping around her. The levity and excitement she’d seen in his face a few minutes earlier were gone. Now he was alert and intent on finding out what had happened. But he stopped when he saw her horrified expression.

“Jane?”

There was a strange numbness creeping up from her toes. But she ignored his concern, keeping her focus on Bob. He was the one with the information. “A body?” she repeated. “Whose is it? Surely, no one in the complex.”

“No.” Her neighbor shoved his hands in his pockets and jingled his change. “It’s an African-American girl.”

Terror clutched at Jane’s chest. “How old?”

“Early twenties or so. Difficult to tell. I’ve never seen her before. She’s not from around here, if that’s what you’re asking.”

That wasn’t what she was asking. She was afraid this girl was one of the two she’d been hoping and praying to save.

The floor began to spin. She grabbed for the door handle and felt Sebastian haul her up against him before she could even touch it. “Breathe,” he murmured.

She nodded, swallowing hard. “I’m fine,” she said, but he didn’t believe her. He forced her to sit down at the kitchen table.

“You okay?” he asked and waited until she met his eyes and he could tell that she was before he stalked off and out the door.

Bob had followed her inside and was sitting next to her. He was always a hard person to escape, even when they were standing in the rain. Obviously shaken by what he’d seen, he was more talkative than ever. “I was out walking my dog when I saw that someone had broken out the window of one of the cars in the lot,” he explained. “So I went over to investigate.” He leaned closer. “We’ve had some burglaries in the area,” he told her as if she hadn’t received the same notices he had. “You can’t leave anything in your car.”

“I know,” Jane answered, as though this was no different from any other conversation they’d had in the past. It was the only reaction she could muster. She wanted to follow Sebastian to the parking lot, but her legs wouldn’t hold her weight. Leaning her head against the back of the chair, she took several deep breaths.

“And when I looked inside, there she was,” he went on. “I’ve never seen anything like it. There was so much blood. I couldn’t tell if she’d been shot or stabbed.” He massaged the back of his own neck. “But I knew she was dead.”

Was the victim one of Gloria’s sisters, as Jane feared? The color of the girl’s skin, the placement of the body, the timing-it was too much to be a coincidence.

What did that say about the man Sebastian was chasing?

It said he hadn’t fled Mary’s house when he was nearly caught. He’d waited around and watched the activity. Then he’d brazenly followed Sebastian. How else could he have found Sebastian’s car?

Had he killed Latisha-or Marcie? And did that mean he’d eventually kill Sebastian, too?

That was the thought that finally brought Jane to her feet. She was still in her robe, but she didn’t care. Leaving her neighbor in the middle of another rambling sentence, she walked out the door and, as her strength returned, started to jog.

“I don’t think you want to see that,” Bob called after her. “I’d stay here, if I were you.”

He wished he hadn’t seen it. That was clear. But Jane was suddenly desperate to know if this was true, if this was reality, because it felt so much like one of her bad dreams.

“Jane?” He’d come to the door to yell, but she could tell he didn’t intend to return to the scene. He stayed where he was, as if just the thought of going back evoked images he’d rather forget.

She didn’t answer. She was already turning the corner, where she could see the activity previously blocked by the building. There were six cop cars surrounding the Lexus-and two men were photographing the body of a young black woman in the backseat.

Latisha had been tied up for so many hours, she could no longer feel her hands or feet. And the headache that had started last night had only grown worse, since she’d been forced to lie in one place. But when she heard the front door open and knew Wesley was finally back, she could think only of her sister. He’d dragged Marcie out of the room when he’d left last night.

“Wesley?” she called. “Is everything okay?”

He didn’t respond, but he must have heard her. The house wasn’t that big, and his footsteps traveled past her door several times. She would’ve shouted again, but she didn’t dare. The last time she’d bothered him when he didn’t answer he’d entered her room with a loaded gun.

The shower went on in the master bedroom. Closing her eyes, she counted to a thousand over and over again, trying to endure the aches and pains. Usually when he tied her up, she could at least sit-but that was when he shackled her to her own stake in the floor. Last night, he’d chained her feet to her stake and tied her hands. The added security measures suggested he had something big planned.

He finished showering and went outside. A few minutes later, she could smell smoke. Had he set the house on fire? Was he leaving her to die?

Helpless, she whimpered at the possibility. But although she strained to hear the crackle of wood or to see smoke creeping beneath her door, there was nothing.

The bang of the front door told her he hadn’t left. She guessed from his movements that he’d gone into the kitchen. She heard the chime of the microwave, smelled coffee. He was making breakfast, which suggested he hadn’t set the house on fire. So what had he done? Why didn’t he come for her? Why hadn’t he made her do the cooking?

And where was Marcie? That was the question that frightened Latisha the most. Was her sister still tied up in the van? If so, why didn’t he bring her in? It didn’t make sense that he’d leave her out there alone. He had to keep an eye on her, couldn’t risk letting her get free. She was the one who’d almost escaped the last time he took her from the house…

Something was wrong. Latisha could feel it deep inside. This wasn’t Wesley’s normal behavior…

After what seemed like an hour, maybe two, Latisha couldn’t take another minute of not knowing. Maybe he’d kill her for it, but she had to call out again, had to find out if Marcie was okay. “Wesley? You there?”

Finally, he approached. There was a click, then the hinges of the door whined as he pushed it inward. “You awake?” he asked.

The lightness of his tone told her he was pretending he hadn’t heard her yell before. Latisha could tell he had, but she didn’t bring it up. She was still trying to figure out what had changed. He had thick razor stubble on his jaw and chin, and the lines around his eyes and mouth were more pronounced than usual. Obviously, he’d been up all night. But why?