The entire way back to Bridgette's my mind turned the strange scenario over and over. Did the Midnight Murderer call me? Was it a mistake?
I had nothing concrete when I pulled up to the house.
I knew something was wrong immediately when I saw the front door open.
I ran through the house, calling for Bridgette. Crunch. I'd stepped on glass. A broken cup was scattered on the floor. The coffee table had been flipped over. An ottoman had been upturned. Red words— My throat closed up.
Red words covered the wall.
I have your friend. Find what I need and you might see her alive again. Fail, and I'll send her back in pieces.
Chapter Eleven
Blood Tells
TIME SEEMED SKIPPED, frantic, like the scattered heartbeat of a dying hummingbird. I called Detective Gray.
"This isn't my jurisdiction," he said.
"Then coordinate with the local police force. Call in favors. I don't care. I told you the Midnight Murder is still out there, and you ignored me. Get your ass here!"
"Miss Travis—"
"Don't fucking Miss Travis me. Do your fucking job." The f-bomb seemed my new go-to profanity lately. I'd become a harsher version of myself.
He sighed. "Fine. I'll be there."
I hung up and paced the room. Have to keep moving. Have to keep moving. Because if I stopped, I'd have to think. And I couldn't think about my best friend… Because if I thought about my best friend…
I took quick breaths. Sharp. Clean. I focused on them.
The Beaumonts came home. Had I called them? I couldn't remember.
"Catelyn, what's wrong?" Mrs. Beaumont asked.
I kept pacing, pulled my hand from my mouth. I'd been chewing on my nail. "Bridgette's…"
"Yes?"
I stopped moving. "She's gone."
They froze.
As if on cue, the police arrived. They scoured the house looking for clues, taking notes, taking pictures, leaving markers everywhere. Gray and another detective, Clark, with nondescript brown hair and a face you'd forget in a second, took down my statement.
"I left because I got a call that I needed to sign forms for my car. When I got there, they already had my signature and said no one called me. When I got back, this is what I found." I was shaking, my head pounding behind my eyes, the lights and sounds and crowds of people making me dizzy.
Clark frowned. "The Beaumonts said you were arguing before they left. What were you arguing about?"
Was I a suspect? Absurd. I ran upstairs, accompanied by an officer, and handed them the photos. "Someone slipped these under my door at our dorm."
Gray raised an eyebrow. "Was something going on between Bridgette and Ash?
I shook my head. "Someone wanted me to think there was."
Clark examined each picture, realization spreading across his face. "You're dating Ashton Davenport?"
"Yes."
His eyes fell to the diamond heart I was unconsciously fiddling with.
"I see." He stuck the pictures into an evidence bag.
Ash showed up and I ran into his arms, tears finally spilling where before they'd been pent up in fear and interrogations. "They think I had something to do with this," I said.
"That's ridiculous." He kissed my head and held me as he took in the scene around us.
Detective Clark came over, Gray on his heels like a trained dog. Clark showed Ash the photos. "Do you know who took these?"
Ash looked at the pictures and then to me. "How long have you had these?"
I explained to him what happened and when.
He sighed. "This is absurd. Bridgette was worried about Catelyn after the hospital stay and came over to talk to me about what we could do to help her. Nothing untoward happened. I don't know who took these pictures, but it was clearly someone trying to hurt Catelyn."
"It was the Midnight Murderer." I pointed at the wall covered in red. "He's done this before. Wrote me a message in my dead cat's blood."
Gray sighed. "The words are written in lipstick."
I put a hand to my heart. "Thank goodness. I thought it was—"
"I understand. Shock blinds a person." He opened a nicotine packet. Popped the gum in his mouth. "You've been through a lot lately. You should really consider… oh, why do I even bother? Call me if you remember anything else." He walked away, shaking his head.
Ash held me by the waist. "He's right, you know. You have been through a lot."
"And?"
"I know someone who can help. An old friend of the family."
"A therapist?"
"A good one."
I pressed my head into his chest, tears welling in my eyes. "Maybe."
An officer walked up to Detective Clark, lowering his voice. "That ottoman is heavy, like real heavy. Who you figure flipped it over?"
Clark frowned. "Someone who worked hard to make this look real. Too hard." They both glanced at me.
Before I could say anything in my defense, someone hollered from the patio. "Detective, we found blood. A lot of blood."
And then I saw red behind my eyes, bright and viscous. It pounded through my head and body until I saw nothing at all.
Chapter Twelve
Private Investigator