“Mickey Miller,” he said. “Is that supposed to be your ‘English name?’ Is that it?”
He heard a loud click. He looked up from his iMac and saw his door swing open an inch. She’s here, he thought. He pushed himself back until his chair hit the wall behind him. He searched for a weapon—nothing to his left, nothing to his right. He grabbed his wireless keyboard. Just as he went to lift it over his shoulder, the door opened all the way.
Amber stood in the doorway, a key in her hand. She was surprised to see her husband holding a keyboard in his hands like a weapon.
“You okay?” she asked.
Adam put the keyboard on his desk and asked, “Can’t you knock?”
“I did. I knocked. I called out to you. You didn’t respond, so I got worried.”
“Yeah? I guess I, uh… I didn’t hear you. I’m just busy.”
“With what?”
Adam closed the web browser so Amber wouldn’t get suspicious if she approached him. He looked at his corkboard. He had pinned more index cards to it, each filled with more details concerning the murders. Some of the index cards detailed rumors circulating on social media. Some teenagers in the area referred to Miki as ‘Scarface,’ others called her ‘Carved Face.’
Adam lowered his head and said, “Just busy.”
Amber leaned against the doorway and asked, “You start writing that book yet?”
“No. I think I’m going to write a movie instead.”
“Yeah?” Amber responded with a slight smile.
“Yes.”
The room became quiet for a moment. The smile was wiped off Amber’s face.
Adam asked, “Did you need something from me?”
“Yeah… I mean, no, but I’m making lunch and I was wondering if you’d like to join us. Well, if you’re not busy with your movie.”
“Don’t mock me, Amber.”
“What? You just said you were—”
“I know what I said. I just don’t need your sarcasm right now.”
“I wasn’t trying to be sarcastic. I could be more enthusiastic—more caring—if you’d actually talk to me for once. What am I supposed to say? And how am I supposed to say it?”
Adam raised his palm out at her but kept his head down. He said, “Just forget it. I’ll be out in fifteen minutes. Maybe thirty. Can you give me thirty minutes to myself?”
Amber was ready to argue, but she felt the defeat in Adam’s voice. She was afraid Adam might have been depressed, and she was well aware of the ruthless power of depression. It was a mental poison—cancer of the soul. She couldn’t help him by fighting him.
She said, “I’ll make sandwiches. We’ll be in the kitchen.”
Adam waited until she closed the door to thank her. He opened his web browser again and continued his investigation. It took him less than ten minutes to find an article titled: Nine-year-old boy found dead in April Fool’s Day murder. He connected it to the recent serial murders and, according to the article, so did the police.
He felt a sense of comfort in knowing the police were on Miki’s trail. At the same time, another concern popped into his head. What happens if she gets caught? Will she tell them about me?—he thought. A disturbing realization dawned on him: The truth lived as long as Miki lived. It was possible to run from the truth, but the only way to destroy it was to kill it—to kill everyone who knew it.
On the verge of tears, he filled out another index card and pinned it to his corkboard. Hands on his hips, he read his timeline of events. The murders had sickened him at first, but he grew detached. The victims stopped mattering. He was obsessed with the suspect—and only the suspect. He searched for a clue that could reveal Miki’s identity without his confession.
He squinted and muttered, “Wait a second.”
He printed a map of Los Angeles and hung it up on the corkboard. Then he grabbed a jar of colorful thumbtacks from his desk.
Pressing a thumbtack into each location as he read them off, he said, “Griffith Park… Skid Row… Huntington Park… Compton.”
Then he took two steps back and reviewed the map. Connecting the thumbtacks, he noticed the killer was moving southwest. He pointed at Compton, then he slowly dragged his finger to his left. He stopped on Manhattan Beach—his neighborhood.
“She’s coming for me,” he said in awe.
His breath came out in short puffs, his legs shook, and his head swayed. He wobbled back until he crashed into his desk. He grabbed his cell phone and started dialing 911, but he stopped before he could press the big green CALL button at the bottom of his screen. He wasn’t ready to explain his situation to the police. He wanted them to protect him and his family, but he didn’t want to tell them why.
He looked at the window to his right. Through the blinds, he could see the brick partition separating his property from his neighbor’s. He heard something rustling out there.
“She–She’s here,” he stuttered. As he lurched out of his office, he yelled, “She’s here!”
He crashed into a wall in the hallway, injuring his shoulder. The thud was loud enough to reach every corner of the lavish house.
As he barreled down the hall, he shouted, “Amber! Amber!”
Riley started crying, then he heard a loud clang.
“Don’t touch them!” Adam barked as he reached the kitchen.
He was relieved to see Amber lifting Riley from her seat, trying to soothe her. Riley had been frightened by her father’s booming voice. There were two slices of bread on a counter next to the sink—ham, lettuce, and tomato stacked on one and the other white with mayonnaise. The butter knife had landed in the sink after Amber had rushed to Riley’s side.
There were no intruders in sight. The windows were closed and doors locked.
“What are you doing?” Amber asked while trying to keep her voice down.
“I–I heard… Someone’s out… The–There’s a prowler outside.”
“Excuse me? A prowler?”
“I heard someone walking around the house, right outside of my office.”
“Are you being serious right now?”
“Yes!”
Riley looked up at the ceiling and cried upon hearing her father’s shout. Amber had grown accustomed to the crying. She was more concerned about Adam’s claim. She leaned over the sink and peeked out the window. The backyard was empty. She saw bushes and trees swaying, but she couldn’t hear the leaves rustling due to Riley’s bawling.
She said, “I think it was the wind, hun.”
“No,” Adam said sternly. He went to the back door and looked through the windowpanes. Then he squeezed past Amber and looked out the window over the sink. He said, “No, no, no. There was someone out there. It was her.”
“Her? Who? Adam, what is this about? What’s going on with you?”
“It’s… It’s the serial killer. Scarface, Carved Face, whatever you want to call her, it’s her.”
“Carved Face?” Amber repeated. “You’re talking about those internet rumors? Gossip, Adam? Are you kidding me? You’re scaring your daughter and me to death with your screaming. What the hell’s gotten into you?”
“Ma–ma!” Riley cried while bouncing in Amber’s arms.
“Shh, shh, it’s okay, baby. We’re just playing. It’s playtime, okay?”
In a bemused state, eyes distant and face hollow, Adam said, “She’s here. She’s coming after me.”