The Murder Of 1998

Chapter Thirty

(A/N) HELLOOOOOO. Its been some time since I last uploaded. As mentioned before, I was editing published chapters to make sure that the story made more sense. If you wanna read the chapters I edited before reading this chapter, heres a list. If you don't wanna read all those chapters then just wait until the end to read a few things i changed (some things are just grammar changes btw). And thank you for being patient! :)

Chapters edited: 1, 2, 5, 8, 9, 10, 11, 15, 21, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29

Mister Murphy, Raymond's next door neighbor, watered his plants in the morning like he always did. He stood still like a statue, using the gardening hose to spray it at his vibrant colored flowers. Summer was always the perfect time to plant flowers, and Mister Murphy had a green thumb.

His peaceful thinking was taken away when he saw Raymond stepping out of his home and walking to the mailbox, barley able to even stand. He was drunk again.

Raymond opened his mailbox, seeing an envelope with the same red wax stamp with a rose imprinted on it, sealing it shut. He grabbed it and looked down at it, sighing.

"Lets see what you got now bastard." He eagerly ripped it open, pulling out the letter.

To Raymond Hunter, the loneliest man in the world,

The beach. Very intelligent thinking. Im almost proud of you. Not to mention your wife's killer was at the beach. I observed him very closely. I even spoke with him. He was watching you like a hawk. An angry man he truly is.

You didn't find my note though. But thats ok. It doesn't really matter. I mean it could have revealed the identity of the killer but its no longer important.

Anyways, I've put your next clues into another zip lock bag. No worries, theres no blood this time. But perhaps look at the pictures in a private setting. I mean you should be reading these in private anyways, but now I'm warning you.

Have a fantastic day.

School huh?

Yours truly, Jack

Raymond looked up to see Mister Murphy staring straight at him. Creeped out, he shut the mailbox and walked back into his house. He quickly rushed up to his room and shut the door, locking it as well so that he would be sure that no one would walk in. He grabbed the photos and took them out of the ziplock bag. It was a small stack of polaroid photos. The first one was just a simple picture of a young woman, aged anywhere between her early twenties to late twenties.

Innocent enough. Raymond examined it closely. Something seemed off about her. Her clothes and the way she stood suggested something else. She was a prostitute. It was obvious.

The next picture was her in a sexy position. She laid on a bed with beautiful white satin sheets covering it. Her clothes were still on though. But as he kept looking through the photos, more and more of her clothes started to disappear until they were completely gone.

Raymond was just like any other red–blooded man, but these pictures didn't arouse him in any way. He rolled his eyes and just kept looking through them. But he began to think, whats the point of this?

Finally, he reached the last picture. A picture of a young girl who looked very similar to the woman in the other pictures. Unlike the other pictures, this one was more innocent and less seductive. She had to be about ten years old and celebrating her birthday. There was no writing on the back of any of the photos. But there was a small note attached to the last picture.