watercolor killer

Part Three - killer's perspective

You hop in your Subaru, deciding it's time to take another drive around Watercolor Palms. Just yesterday, you'd seen another family mourn their daughter's death. Death at your hands. But didn't these families deserve it, the ones who wrecked your family, too. 

You enter the neighborhood, coasting along streets that are now familiar to you. You pass the Dawsons' house. Nobody is outside. The curtains are all shut. The lights are turned off. It's been that way for a while now, and you like it. 

You make a sharp left turn onto a street you've never seen before. These homes are all pastel oranges and yellows, blues and pinks. You despise the lack of bold color. 

Six houses down from the intersection, a girl that looks to be about twenty is getting into her car, a small gray two-seater. She looks a little dressed up to be around town. You wonder where she is going.

You park a few doors down where you can still see her, and you wait for her to pull out of the driveway before you start following her. From what you can see from behind, she looks nervous. Her posture is straight and rigid, and her hands appear to be shaking on the steering wheel.

She turns out of the neighborhood, and you follow her. Past the grocery store, past Starbucks, past the mall, until you get to a tall, gray office complex. You circle the building until she grabs her purse and walks up to the door. Ringing the buzzer, you hear her say: "I-I'm Vera. Aspen. And I'm here for an interview. To be the secretary."

The automatic doors open, and she disappears. You sit in your car for a while.

You reach in your cupholder for your soda, and your eye catches on a photo of your sister you hadn't noticed before.

Of course. This was your mom's old car.

In the picture, you are around ten, and your sister, Calliope, looks to be about six. You're playing in a kiddie pool together. Both of you are beaming, happy, without a care in the world. 

Your heart fills with anger and hurt. You glance at the photo, at the building, and back at the photo. You can't stop until you're satisfied. And your certainly aren't satisfied.

"Vera Aspen," you mutter under your breath. "You're dead."