The Creeping

I nod but can’t will my legs to move. Sam gingerly maneuvers me back into the house and walks me to the love seat. I sink down into the cushions. “Are we overreacting? Maybe a neighbor just left a gift? They’re just strawberries. Maybe they didn’t know the fruit was rotting?” I whisper, desperate for it to be true.

Sam finds my cell on the coffee table and hands it to me. “Everyone in Savage knows that you and Jeanie were picking strawberries when she disappeared. Everyone knows that Mr. Talcott mowed those vines down every year. People used to talk about him breaking down in tears in the hardware store while he was buying a machete to use on them.”

My mouth goes dry as I scroll through my contacts.

“Stella?” Shane answers after the first ring.

“Shane. Hi. Can you come over? Something’s happened,” I say, a little quaver in my voice.

There’s the rustle of papers on the other end and a muffled apology made to someone, Shane’s hand probably covering the receiver. “Sorry, Stella, I’m back. Are you hurt?”

“No . . . I just . . . Someone left a basket of strawberries on my front porch. They rang the bell, and when I answered no one was there . . . . They’re covered in maggots.”

Shane is quiet for a long time and then, “I’ll be over in five.” The line goes dead.

Four minutes later, Shane knocks. I stay planted on the love seat as Sam, who’s wearing a beach towel from the linen closet over his sopping-wet clothing, jumps to let him in.

“Glad you’re not alone,” Shane says, wrinkling his forehead at Sam and stomping his feet on the mat. He’s trailed by two uniformed police. I recognize the acne-faced cop and his lady partner. I curl my legs under myself and nod hello.

The two uniforms are quietly arguing under their breaths. Their faces are animated and flushed. Shane explains that they’ve been watching my house from an unmarked car parked down the street. “You gave me no choice yesterday,” he adds defensively. “What were we supposed to do?”

The idea of strangers watching me makes me feel ill, even if they are police. “Did they follow me to the cove today too?” I ask. I peek at them sidelong. Did they see me and Taylor swimming? Did they hear what he said to me? The lady cop elbows her partner in the ribs. Both shift their weight uneasily.

Shane clears his throat, wipes a handkerchief he pulls from his pocket over his lips, and turns toward them. It’s clear by their reluctance to meet his eyes that they missed me leaving this morning.

Sam plops down next to me and wraps his arm and the towel around my shoulders. Our sides press together.

Shane has some harsh words for the uniforms after they admit to showing up late and assuming I was inside until they saw otherwise when Sam and I arrived home. I learn their names are Reedy and Matthews, and they took the most horrifically timed coffee break known to man, fifteen minutes ago. They were ordering caramel macchiatos—I know because Shane demands to hear what was so important that they risked my life, and Matthews answered—as the basket of strawberries was being delivered. Shane dismisses them once it’s obvious he’s going to burst a blood vessel if they continue pissing him off with excuses. He drops down onto the sofa with an exhausted groan once they’ve left the house.

“They’ll be more careful about watching you from now on,” Shane assures me. Sam snorts. “They’re going to bag the berries, worms, and basket as evidence. It’s doubtful, but we may be able to get a partial fingerprint off the basket,” Shane adds.

He rubs the scruff shadowing his chin. “We’re dealing with a real sicko. Please don’t go anywhere secluded. No more cove and no more woods. I hoped I wouldn’t have to tell you this, but I think the time’s come.” He pinches the bridge of his nose as if the thought is giving him a headache. Sam’s arm tightens around me. “Not only was Jane Doe’s scalp severed from her head, but not all of it was recovered with her body.”

I try to ask, “What do you mean?” but it’s more of a jumble, my brain outdistancing my mouth, my mouth sounding out words too late or not at all.

“A small portion, about twenty-five percent, of her scalp is missing. Our lab techs can tell that the piece was severed postmortem, as was the rest of the scalp. She didn’t suffer. We have to assume that the killer took it with him as a souvenir.” My throat tightens, each breath labored like Shane’s standing on my chest.

“Him?” Sam asks.