The Creeping

He shakes his head. “It’s picked clean. Whoever it belonged to has been dead for at least eight years. That’s how long it takes for skin and tissue to decompose.”


The finger of someone who has been dead for years. Someone like Jeanie. I shrink back into the cushions. It’s not that I ever thought we’d find her alive. Now, sitting in my living room, it seems weird that I don’t do a double take whenever I spot a redhead my age. I don’t search the bleachers at away football games, just in case. I know Jeanie’s not somewhere, seventeen and sunburned, laughing so hard soda’s gushing from her nose. But I never thought we’d find her dead, either. Maybe it was easier to think of Jeanie like vapor, as though eleven years ago, she turned to dust and blew away.

I catch the tail end of what Shane’s saying. “What I can tell you, promise you, is that we will keep you safe. Whether there is a connection or not, I will keep you safe.”

I nod, believing him, but not comforted. “It was crazy last night. What happened to her scalp . . . it was like a nightmare. Is that how she died?”

He rubs his forehead and averts his gaze. “The medical examiner confirmed it was trauma to the head. It’s too early to speculate on what caused it, but he believes the scalping was postmortem.” I can tell he doesn’t want to elaborate. I rub my arms, the hair standing on end. I don’t really want him to anyway.

With one last heaved sigh, he stands from the recliner, then tilts his head, studying me. “You never called about what you found in your case file. I worried I made the wrong decision giving it to you.”

My eyes trail to his in a roundabout way. If you hunt for monsters, you’ll find them. “It was the right thing to do,” I say. “I needed to know.” He doesn’t look convinced, and I don’t sound certain.

He runs his hand over his jaw. “And it didn’t jog a memory?”

Is that why he gave it to me? Was he hoping it would knock something loose in my mind? “I didn’t suddenly remember that Jeanie was taken by a giant purple monster, if that’s what you mean,” I say.

He shakes his head slowly. “What you said . . . it was probably nothing.”

I stare at my bare knees; faint white lines crisscross them from skinning them as a kid. My gaze shifts to Shane’s face. “But I repeated it over and over. It must have been important.”

“Kids see monsters everywhere,” he says automatically, his tone dismissing it as nothing. His eyes stay focused on mine, though. “With everything being dredged up in the news, it might make it harder for you to . . . you know . . . move on, keep getting over it.”

“I was the one who wasn’t taken, remember? I’m the lucky one,” I say softly. The echo of the newscaster calling me a victim ping-pongs in my head.

“I tell myself that every time I walk onto a new crime scene.” He strides toward the front door. “Don’t dwell. You’re lucky this wasn’t you. Be grateful.” He glances over his shoulder. “It never makes the fucked-up shit I see any easier to handle. Call me if you want to talk,” he says gruffly. I stand rooted to the spot as he lets himself out. The rumble of his unmarked sedan comes to life in the driveway, and his tires squeal as he reverses too quickly.

I focus on my cell to stop the room from spinning. It’s already quarter after nine. Zoey will be here by ten. I pour myself a glass of water to settle my stomach. The doorbell chimes as I take a sip, and I hurry to the door. Maybe Zoey skipped giving herself a morning facial to get here sooner? I peer through the peephole. Rather than Zoey, Sam stands uncertainly on my doorstep.

“Hey,” I say, throwing open the door, probably looking like a grinning jack-o’-lantern, I’m so relieved for the distraction. His eyes go round for a second, surprised. The constellation of freckles on the bridge of his nose shows bright in the pale morning. There’s a corner of red vest poking from under his black hoodie. “You on your way to work?”

“Yeah.” He bobs his head, eyes narrowing. “Some of us don’t have rich lawyer parents.” I can’t help but wince. He takes a deep, struggling breath and jams his hands into his pockets. “Look, I heard about last night and just wanted to make sure you were okay. You’re obviously in one piece. So I’ll go now.” He steps backward off the porch.

“Oh,” I say dumbly. He’s leaving. My throat tightens. I don’t want to be alone with thoughts of dead little girls. “You want to come in?”

He stops, one foot suspended in air, eyebrows drawing together for a confused half moment, like he thinks he’s missed the punch line of a joke. When he realizes that I’m not messing with him, he shrugs cautiously. Slipping past me, he says, “This place looks exactly the same.” He scans our living room, a slow smile warming his expression as he turns back to me, staring a beat. I fidget, self-conscious. Why did I invite him in again? “Some furniture’s been moved around, but other than that, it hasn’t changed in years.”