My Killer Vacation

“Have you been reading my diary again?”

By the time I pull open the door to the laundry area, I’m having such a good time with my brother that I don’t believe what I’m seeing at first. It has to be a joke. Or a television screen playing a grisly reenactment from a Netflix true crime documentary. There cannot be a large, dead man stuffed in between the washer and dryer, face purple with bruises, eyes glassy and unseeing. And there in the center of his forehead is a neat, black-edged bullet hole. It simply cannot be happening. But the bile that spears up my throat is real. So is the ice that hardens me, head to toe, a scream freezing in my throat. No. No, no, no.

“Taylor?” Jude approaches, sounding concerned.

On instinct, I try to push him away. My little brother shouldn’t see things like this. I have to spare him from this. My hands prove ineffective unfortunately and before I can summon enough strength, enough wherewithal to prevent Jude from looking into the laundry room, he’s there beside me. And then he’s dragging me backwards several feet, yelling, “What the fuck?” An eerie buzzing silence descends. The image doesn’t go away. He’s still there. Still dead. There is something vaguely familiar about the man, but I’m shaking and trying not to vomit and that is garnering all of my concentration. Oh God, oh God, what is happening here? This isn’t a joke?

“Okay,” I whisper. “N-now I think we should call the police.”





Chapter 2





Taylor





* * *




I’m wrapped in a blanket, awash in the glow of flashing blue lights. This is not supposed to happen in real life. I’m trapped in an episode of Etched in Bone. I’m the innocent bystander who stumbled upon the macabre scene. Of course, the years of therapy I will need to recover won’t even be mentioned in the show notes. The pithy hosts won’t pronounce my name correctly. But me? I doubt I’ll ever forget the sight of that murdered man as long as I live.

Unless…maybe this is a very vivid nightmare?

Nope. There is definitely a huge black bag being wheeled out of the house by medical examiners. Out of the crime scene while Jude and I watch it all happen with our jaws in our laps. We’re trying to focus on what the police officer is saying from his seated position on the coffee table in front of us, but we have now given him our statements three times each. Not a single detail has changed. And now that the adrenaline of discovering a murder victim is beginning to wear off, I’m getting a strong case of the get-the-hell-out-of-heres.

“It has to be murder, right?” I say, mostly to myself. “He couldn’t have shot himself straight on in the forehead like that.”

“No,” admits the officer—a man in his early forties named Officer Wright who bears a striking resemblance to Jamie Foxx. So much so that I did a double take when he walked through the front door. “It’s next to impossible.”

“So the killer…they are still out there,” Jude says. “Maybe even next door.”

The officer sighs. “Well, yeah. Another possibility. And that’s going to make our job pretty tough. Damn near all of these places become rentals in the summertime, meaning it’s not locals in residence. Could be anyone from anywhere. A visitor of a visitor of a visitor. These rental sites like StayInn.com have become a goddamn nuisance. No offense.”

“None taken,” I say automatically, watching the final stretch of the body bag disappear out the front door. That’s when it hits me. Why the man looked so familiar. “That was the owner of this house. Oscar. I remember now.” I fumble for my phone. “His picture is on the listing—”

The officer rests his hand on mine, stalling my actions. “We already know he’s the owner. Matter of fact, we know all too well that he lived here.”

A different police officer passes by and clears his throat loudly.

Officer Wright’s mouth snaps shut.

As soon as the other man has walked out of the house, Jude and I lean forward almost simultaneously. “What did you mean by that?” Jude asks. “You know all too well that he lives here?”

Wright checks over his shoulder, sighs, pretends to be writing something on his notebook. “Someone at StayInn.com should have gotten in contact with you. We communicated at length with them over the whole situation. They should never have let you come here.”

“Wait, slow down.” Jude drags a hand down his face, visibly regrouping. “What situation are you referring to?”

“We were called here a few nights ago for a domestic disturbance.” The officer’s voice is low enough that we have to lean even closer to make out his words. At this point, I can basically count the hairs of his goatee. “One of the renters down the block phoned it in. Reported shouting. Loud crashes.” He taps his pen against his thigh, checks side to side again. “Turns out, a bunch of girls were renting this place and they came across the peepholes upstairs—”

“Oh my God!” I slap a palm against my forehead. “I forgot about the peepholes.”

“You were pretty distracted,” Jude says, patting me on the back, but keeping his attention on the officer. “So we weren’t the first to discover that little bonus amenity?”

Wright shook his head. “The girl who found them called her father. Big, long-haul trucker type. Well he showed up pissed as hell, understandably, but instead of calling the police, he had his daughter call the owner and bring him over. The father got a few punches in before we arrived to break it up. The girls agreed not to press charges as long as they got a refund and no assault charges were filed against the father. But StayInn.com was contacted about this by Barnstable PD. You should have been informed.”

“Yes, we should have.” Mentally, I’m already writing a stern email to StayInn.com. It might even include a few choice words, like emotional trauma and legal counsel…and account credit. “Did they actually catch Oscar looking through the holes?”