Chapter 38
I'm sitting, staring out the impossibly small window facing the street. I've been glued to the same spot for almost three days. Why is Lonnie taking so long?
I emailed him the same night after finding this apartment here in South Park. The worst part of Seattle with the highest crime rate. I don’t know if this is wise or not, but I picked a part of town that will seem less conspicuous for something illegal to happen. Nothing would attract quicker attention than a killing happening on 5th Avenue. Plus, Grant probably wouldn’t think to look for me here.
So I picked this area and told him that I was ready for all of this to end and to come get me.
He sent an email that said:
Soon.
His game is leaving dead, mutilated mice on the doorstep. I don’t squeal or cry anymore, only scoop them up and discard the poor creatures.
I’ve stayed awake for most of the time, clutching the gun handle against my thighs. I’ve also slept sitting up, keeping it tight to my chest. I’m not going to waste a moment where I have to grab my weapon and hesitate. Unlike Lonnie, I’m not playing games, I just want him dead. The process is going to be fast.
A screech blares through the apartment, and I jerk upright, glancing around the one-bedroom apartment with its warped floorboard and dirty walls.
Nothing. No one is here, and when it goes off again, I realize it’s a child a few floors above, squealing in laughter. These paper-thin walls block out nothing, the lives of others in this building included.
I sigh and gaze out the window again, hating being here. Seeing Grant again is all I think about during the moments my mind isn’t fixed on Lonnie. I think about Lonnie being dead, and with it, I think of one other person.
Grandpa.
Will I be able to contact him after this is over? I’d love to let him know that I’m safe, strong, and happy.
It’s a shame Grandpa was wrong about Lonnie “hanging” for what he did to Will.
None of the things he predicted came to life.
Sure, he went to prison, but only for four years and just for involuntary manslaughter. He accidentally shot and killed a friend while toying with a gun in his house a year after he killed my husband.
Will's murder was determined to be random. The police couldn't tie Lonnie to the crime. His cell phone pinged at the tower near my parents’ house, and his alibi was airtight. Mom and Pat separately told the police that he was home all day. There was no DNA evidence linking Lonnie to the crime scene. No one saw him in the area, and nothing connecting him to the crime was found.
He walked away.
Me? My mom and Pat wrote me off as a runaway. They told the police I would leave all the time as a teen. Both of Will’s parents had already passed away, so no one was left to vouch for me.
I got labeled an unstable woman who vanished in the night.
Now I’m wondering if my parents have pulled a few strings to give him a taste of freedom. Lonnie has to be on parole and required to stay in a certain area—but perimeters and rules have never applied to him. Plus, I don’t put it past my folks to kick shit under the rug and bribe for him. They were best friends with the chief of police in our little next-to-nothing town while I grew up. Anytime Lonnie did something wrong, my parents always worked around things to keep him out of trouble—all for the sake of lessening his traumatic past.
They’re most likely doing all this leg work again, but their “agains” of wanting to help Lonnie make no difference because he’s about to fucking die.
That's the only consolation I have as the brown car rolls by once more. A yawn breaks out, and my eyelids close. My eyes can no longer keep themselves open. I need to sleep—sitting up, of course.
I stumble to the corner of the wall which faces the door, sink down to the floor, and close my eyes.
* * *
The next day finds me huddled in the corner of my kitchen with my laptop. There’s a fast food place next to me. Their Wi-Fi is just strong enough to where I can log in and check the work email. I’ve checked it a few times over the last few days to see if Lonnie decided to contact me sooner, but he hasn’t.
It's been four days, and I expect an email as the inbox opens.
There is one.
Little doll.
Will you crack or bleed?
Tomorrow we find out.
“Tomorrow. Fuck you, Lonnie.” I slam my laptop shut and scrub at my face. I’m so tired my eyes burn continually from the lack of sleep. I ran out of food two days ago, and he’s not coming until tomorrow?
Fuck him.
If I knew where he was, I’d be beating down his door, killing him on the spot and then leaving.
I sit here, forever, staring at nothing, listening to the faucet drip, loathing Lonnie even more by the second than I do know. By the time my stomach grumbles, the back of my neck is scorching.
I’m also starving, and I’ve held out this whole time, thinking Lonnie would be here soon and I could eat later. But now, since it’s not happening until tomorrow, I decide to finally break down and go get some food. Killing on empty stomach sounds kind of pathetic.