The note stayed folded inside my palm.
IF YOU WANT TO LIVE, GO TO THE BATHROOM BY THE STAIRS WHEN YOU GET THE CHANCE.
I wasn’t sure what scared me more: the three people above me, or the woman who had found me and decided not to say anything.
I crushed the paper into a tighter square so it couldn’t slip from my hand.
Across the room, the man in gray sneakers kept talking.
Boots had called him Horseman. Probably a screen name. Maybe just what he used for tonight.
It didn’t matter.
What mattered was that Horseman was describing Lena Tran’s murder as if he’d done it himself.
“Her hair was still wet when I dragged her out of the bathroom,” he said. “Water kept dripping off her onto the floor.”
Boots asked, “Then what?”
“Balcony.”
“Right away?”
“Yeah.”
Wrong.
The water trail I remembered didn’t run in a clean line from the bathroom to the balcony.
It broke in places. One section even curved back toward the living room.
I remembered because I’d nearly stepped in it while looking for a way out.
Horseman went on. “I wanted the cops thinking jealous ex, revenge, something like that. Women like her-“
“How did you know she was cheating?” the woman above me asked.
Her question came too fast.
Horseman paused.
“I told you. I watched her.”
“How long?”
“Long enough.”
“You have proof?”
“You interviewing me now?”
Boots gave a short laugh.
“Let her ask.”
The air above me changed.
I couldn’t see faces, but I’ve learned not to trust faces anyway. Feet are better. People forget what their feet are doing.
Horseman’s sneakers turned toward the woman. His stance widened.
Defensive.
The woman – Fox, Boots had called her – stayed seated above me. One heel planted. The other trembled.
Boots didn’t move.
“Keep going,” he said.
Horseman snorted. “She had a husband who traveled all the time. Guys came by when he was gone. What more proof do you need?”
That was specific.
Specific enough to mean Horseman might actually have watched Lena.
But stalking someone and killing them aren’t the same thing.
I started dividing everything he said into two piles.
Things a stalker could know.
Things only someone inside the crime scene should know.
The second pile was getting thin.
“The cord,” Boots said. “What kind?”
“A cord.”
“What kind?”
Horseman waited too long.
“Why do you care?”
“Because people remember the tools they use.”
Silence.
My heartbeat picked up.
Boots wasn’t trading murder stories.
He was testing one.
Blood.
The cord.
Timing.
Each question was a pin pushed into the same balloon.
Horseman might not have noticed yet.
Fox had.
So had I.
“There’s one rule on the board,” Boots said. “Anybody can lie online. The person who really did something remembers what nobody else knows.”
The room went still.
So this wasn’t just a meetup.
Not for him.
Horseman tapped his knee. “You think I’m lying?”
“Didn’t say that.”
“You’re interrogating me.”
“Feeling guilty about something?”
Horseman gave a dry laugh. “Fine. You want details?”
He gave them.
Bathroom shelf.
Towels.
The cord.
Water.
Balcony.
Sliding door.
I listened to every word.
Part of me wanted him to stop.
Another part wanted him to keep digging.
He knew Lena kept a narrow wood shelf beside the bathroom sink.
Right.
He knew the balcony door slid sideways.
Right.
He knew there was a framed photo on the nightstand – Lena at the beach with a man beside her.
Right.
He said the frame sat to the left of the lamp.
Wrong.
It had been on the right.
He said he’d gone back for a towel after moving the body.
Wrong.
The towel had still been in the bathroom.
He said the words on the glass were written in blood.
Wrong.
Small mistakes.
If I hadn’t been there, I might have believed him.
But I had been there.
I remembered the room.
The scent of citrus body wash in the bathroom.
The bottom drawer in the bedroom that had to be lifted before it would open.
The lipstick tube near the balcony door.
I knew too much.
That was what finally made me cold.
If Horseman wasn’t the killer, why was he claiming the murder?
And worse –
if he wasn’t the killer, the real person who killed Lena Tran had never been caught.
Fox tapped the couch once with the toe of her shoe.
Not an accident.
I tightened my hand around the note.
Wait.
That’s what I thought she meant.
Not yet.
Then Boots said, “Enough.”
Horseman sounded offended. “Enough?”
“I’ve heard what I need.”
“Whose turn now?”
Boots laughed softly. “In a hurry?”
“Thought that’s why we came.”
“All right. Want to see mine first?”
The boots stood.
Horseman stood too. “Where?”
“Upstairs.”
My stomach tightened.
The safe.
The head.
Horseman sounded almost excited. “You’re serious?”
“Why else would I bring you here?”
Fox stayed seated for half a second too long.
Boots said, “You coming?”
A pause.
Then the heels lifted from the floor.
“Of course.”
All three sets of footsteps moved toward the stairs.
I didn’t move.
They went up one flight.
Then another.
Silence.
I counted to twenty.
Still nothing.
I pulled my tool bag under the couch first, then crawled out.
My back felt like somebody had folded it in half.
For the first time, I saw the full living room under bright lights.
Three empty glasses on the coffee table.
And a black handgun near where Boots had been sitting.
I looked at it for one second.
Didn’t touch it.
If you find a gun in a killer’s house, leaving your fingerprints on it is a poor career move.
I went straight for the front door.
Quiet.
Fast.
No running.
Running makes noise.
The lower lock opened.
Click.
The upper one didn’t.
It wasn’t the way I’d left it.
A reinforced slide bolt had been thrown across the door and secured with a small keyed lock. The key wasn’t hanging nearby. Not in the shoe cabinet. Not on the narrow entry table.
Boots had locked the house from the inside.
I took out a pick.
Given three minutes, I could open it.
Two, maybe.
Thirty seconds?
I wouldn’t bet my life on thirty seconds.
I knelt and started working.
Tick.
I stopped.
No sound upstairs.
Again.
Tick.
The mechanism shifted.
Good.
I adjusted the angle.
Footsteps sounded above me.
I looked up.
Someone was coming down.
Fast.
I yanked the pick free, shoved it into the bag, and looked at the door.
One more minute.
I didn’t have it.
The footsteps hit the second floor.
The couch was too far away. If I tried to get back underneath, whoever was coming down would see me crossing the room.
The staircase opened beside a short hallway.
At the end of it was a door.
The bathroom.
Fox’s note.
I didn’t have time to decide whether I trusted her.
I crossed the hallway, slipped inside, and eased the door shut without turning on the light.
I didn’t lock it. A bathroom latch clicking now would be as good as shouting.
The room was almost black. A thin strip of light showed beneath the door.
I pressed my back to the wall and slid one hand into the tool bag.
Found the hammer.
Footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs.
Stopped.
Boots called from the living room. “Where are you going?”
No answer at first.
Then Fox’s filtered voice.
“Bathroom.”
I tightened my grip.
Her heels came toward me.
Tap.
One step.
Tap.
Another.
As I glanced toward the living room, I caught a tiny red point near the corner of the TV shelf. Probably the standby light on some piece of electronics.
Then Fox’s shadow filled the gap under the bathroom door.
The handle began to turn.
Click.
5 thoughts on “CHAPTER 2 – UNDER THE COUCH”