“Rosalyn?” Reluctantly putting one foot forward, she eventually journeyed forth on weak, wobbly knees. “Rosalyn, can you hear me?”
The bedroom’s French doors were already open, inviting her in.
As she stepped into the doorway, her stomach mixed what little contents remained, threatening another revolt. The smell hit her before she turned the corner, but by then it was too late; the decision to intrude had been made. At first, she thought it was only the chickens, but her sixth sense kicked in and told her differently, that the rancid odor was compounded by another, new stench.
Rosalyn’s head had been set on the right side of the headboard, on the farthest golden-knobbed spike, hanging there like a baseball cap. Stripes of scarlet twisted and crisscrossed their way down to the bottom of the brass pole. Her grayish-brunette hair, which was now tainted with dark orange tones, had been mussed with hot wet blood. The rest of her body lay crumpled in the corner like some lazy teenager’s soiled laundry. The murder weapon was staged on the bed, a fine-toothed saw taken from the garage, one of Rosalyn’s husband’s reliable tools she had never had the heart to toss out. The saw blade was covered in crimson, as was the comforter on which it rested. Little shredded scraps of flesh were wedged between the saw teeth. Angela backed into the hallway, her eyes jumping from the saw back to the woman’s severed head, landing first on the ragged red outline of her dangling flesh. Then she lifted her gaze, stopping at Rosalyn’s eyes; they weren’t wide with bewilderment or abject horror as one might expect when looking malice in the face, knowing the grisly end was near—instead, her final expression was calm, almost peaceful, as if she knew exactly how she’d be handed her fate, accepting it honorably. Her mouth wasn’t agape or shaped to indicate that she had cried out for help in her final seconds, but closed and tightlipped, as if she were keeping something inside from crawling out.
What secrets you had, my little Rosalyn, an unknown voice spoke deep from within Angela’s subconscious.
Just then, a warm breeze flew in through the open window, brushing Angela’s hair against her cheek. Whoever had savagely butchered the old woman had escaped through the window, dove out onto the roof, jumped down to the patio, and was halfway to the state border by now.
She glanced over at the phone stationed on the dresser. Next to the cradle, an orange light blinked, glowing and fading. She hustled over to the piece of ornate furniture, her first thought to call 911 and get them over here as quickly as possible. That time was of the essence when it came to catching murderers. The more she delayed the less chance they had of tracking down the bastard. Hot trails get awfully cold, awfully quickly, or so those true crime shows always said.
As she snatched up the phone, her thoughts swam. Too many ideas and opinions populated at once. For one thing, why had someone killed Rosalyn? It was too much of a coincidence to be a simple robbery. Besides, judging from the condition of the room, it didn’t look like they had taken anything. Her jewelry box remained where it had been, next to the pile of dead chickens. No, this was an execution, plain and simple. A deliberate act which raised many questions. Another thought: why didn’t they kill me too? Whoever had committed the crime had to know the woman wasn’t alone, that Angela was there, present within the house; her car wasn’t exactly hidden being on the street corner. Furthermore, whatever secrets Rosalyn knew, she had relayed some of them to Angela. Did she not tell her enough? What else did the woman know? What was it that had gotten her killed?
Rosalyn, what else did you need to tell me?
The room spun as her brain fabricated endless possible answers. All at once, things suddenly became very real, very dark. Shadows crawled across the room, draping darkness over the walls, and Angela could feel them slipping inside her soul, poisoning her spirits, sullying her composure. The phone trembled in her hand and the fringes of her vision blurred.
The orange light winked: 1 NEW MESSAGE.
Curiosity bested her, and she pressed play.
“This is 911 services, we received your call. We will be sending help—”
She didn’t remember calling. Had she called? And forgotten about it? No, that seemed like a conversation she’d remember, though her mind had been so scattered lately she thought it was possible. She had called and forgotten in what? The span of five minutes? No, that didn’t seem right. She checked the “placed calls” log and saw the three digit number had been dialed eight minutes ago, well before she’d crossed the bedroom’s threshold.
Then it clicked.
Fuck.
She immediately rushed down the stairs, stampeding down them as if whoever had killed Rosalyn Jeffries was right behind her. She rushed across the foyer, ripped open the door, and expected to see the entire cul-de-sac packed with police vehicles and cops, special task force personnel with their weapons drawn and ready to fire on the old woman’s murderer.
But there was no one. The street was as empty as it had been when she’d arrived. Birds whistled. Wind rustled the tree branches. Scattered leaves scuttled across the asphalt.
And, in the distance, she heard sirens, a consistent wail that always sounded farther than it actually was.
She doubled back for her purse, which she had left in the kitchen; made sure her pills were inside and bolted for the front door. Sprinting down the street, she fumbled around for her keys, locating them in the bottom of her bag. A long stream of curses spilled past her lips, and she continued scolding herself for being so stupid, for parking so far away. She knew she couldn’t have predicted this outcome, but still, prepping for an emergency getaway would have been smart, something she would have thought about had her head not been clouded by recent events.
As the sirens grew louder, she reached the car. They still hadn’t pulled into the cul-de-sac when she peeled out of there, searching the neighborhood windows for prying eyes. There were none that she could see, and she turned back to the road, focusing on her escape, putting weight on the gas pedal, pressing it to the floor.
Speeding down the highway, she passed several emergency response units heading in the opposite direction. None of them paid her any attention, yet she drove all the way back to Red River feeling like there was a bomb in place of her heart, ready to detonate at any moment.
VIII.
LOVE IS THE END OF ALL THINGS
The second she stepped foot inside her own home, she closed the door, clutched her aching chest, leaned against the door, slid to the floor, and began shaking with the onset of crippling sadness. The tears came fast, too quickly for her to prepare, and the heaving sobs attacked just as abruptly. Her whole body quaked as she purged the overflowing emotions inhibiting her to think clearly. After a few minutes of self-loathing and wondering where it had all gone wrong—where she had gone wrong—she glanced up. Through blurred vision, she made out her husband leaning against the door jamb between the foyer and the kitchen. He was watching her with his arms folded across his chest.
“I thought you were spending the night at your mom’s?” he asked.
No ‘Hey, babe! How are you? Is everything okay?’ The way he spoke made her feel like she’d done something wrong.