[ Highest Rank #101 in Mystery/Thriller ]
Time has passed. Things have changed. Isabeth, Benny, and Faith aren't quite the same. They have blood on their hands, a code they honor, and secrets they keep locked away. The Psychopath Maker knows this an...
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"6.77" Alex blinked at the analog clock hanging on the wall. The second's hand ticked over the two like a snail. "6:77?" He rubbed his eyes annoyingly. Alex could see the black numbers in the dim light. His contacts were on. His contacts were on! He fell asleep with his contacts on. Three hours before bed he always took them out, dropped in two droplets of Visine and put on the glasses Isabeth and him spent hours picking out. He scoured through racks of frames at Elkin's Optometry with frames on his head, clasped on his shirt, and hooked over fingers as Isabeth slid frame after frame over his nose trying to find the right pair only to have Faith brand him a nerd. Isabeth attached sexy to it making it all better.
Alex pushed himself up off the couch. He dropped his legs, breathing slowly. He was perplexed. Wasn't he on the floor? Looking through hordes of photos. He cradled his heavy, brick-like head in his rough hands. He looked at the clock once more, blinked through the haze that formed in front of his pupils; then squinted for focus. "6:11"
Alex's legs shook as he rose up. His knees banged together. His head went light as a feather. It floated above his body as he picked up his unstable foot. He fanned his arms out; his long slender fingers gripped the air for stability. He placed his foot down on the fawn rug, the wool fibers felt course against his bare sole. Success. One step down; twelve more to go. He needed water. Aqua. Eau. His mouth was the Sahara and his tongue began to sprout prickled cactus needles. He slowly lifted his other foot. His standing leg wobbled like Jell-O (the green kind.) A cool morning breeze gusted through the open windows brushing against the hairs of his lean legs becoming the straw that broke the camel's back. He went down quicker than Frasier. Instead, of hitting the ground he hit something else. It was soft. Human.
A low groan erupted in the darkness.
Alex scooted over as a dark mass moved underneath him.
"What the hell," Preston grunted rolling over.
"Sorry, dude." Alex used the coffee table to push himself up. His arms trembled. Alex stood tall as the fog from his eyes started to fade. He could finally make things out. Faith was belly down on a bed of slick photos, Harper made the coffee table her pillow, Dalton was perched in a tartan armchair, and Isabeth wedged between the couch and the coffee table. Alex slid his feet along the pine floors afraid to pick them up.
Step eight—he grabbed the countertop for stability. Step ten—Found him! There was Malachi, sprawled out on the island holding a spoon. Step twelve—Alex whipped open the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the top and guzzled the icy fluid down.
"Press, you want one?" Alex asked jutting his hip out holding the fridge open.
Preston didn't answer.
Alex moved, letting the door close itself. He stood in front of the window next to Preston. "Water?" Alex offered him the half-empty bottle.
"Do you see that?" Preston pointed to the pool. "Is that glitter?" Preston turned to Alex. "How hard did we party?"
"We partied?" Alex rubbed the top of his throbbing cranium. He inched closer to the double-pane window.
Gold shimmered above the lit water. Alex had seen that color before. His brain was moving slowly like the line at the DMV. It was when he was in bed reading as a bitter, acetic aroma stung his nose and bit his throat. His eyes left the ant-sized words to peer at the edge of his bed where Isabeth sat swiping a pint-size brush over the nails of her toes.
"Nail Polish." Alex turned around counting heads. "One. Two. Three. Four." He silently counted himself and Preston. "Where's Fiona?"
Preston looked back into the living room scanning the darkness for another body, "I don't see her."
The bottle slipped from Alex's hand, splashing water on the floor, seeping in the bottom of Preston's sweatpants.
Alex tore out the door. He stumbled over the concrete and splashed into the Olympic-size pool. He stroked to Fiona as her body swayed with every movement he made. He kicked his legs with the might of Hercules. Another splash hit the water.
Preston went into tournament mode, becoming one with the water staying true to his nickname, Shark. Fiona lay limply on Alex's chest. Alex clenched Fiona's slippery waist. There was no rhythm underneath his fingertips.
Alex raked Fiona's hair out her face. Her brown eyes were still, fixated on nothing.
"She's gone," Alex whispered.
Who killed Fiona?
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