To all my dear Prosers: It is a joy to read and be read by you. Finding a home here has been such a blessing. Thank you for sharing you with me through your writing. It is a gift I cherish - as I do the gift of time you give when you read something I post.

"Every day may not be good, but there is something good in every day." Alice Morse Earle

May you find a moment of joy each day...I often find mine right here on Prose. <3

Someone posted a challenge about religion, and boy, do I ever have a piece for that. It is not, however, within a reasonable distance of the 50 word limit... so... I'll just leave this here (Content warning):

UNDERTOADS

I don’t remember a time when my family didn’t attend church. We’ve gone since I was an infant. Sunday school and hymns are woven into the very fabric of me. So, you’d think it would be hard to doubt– when everything that has always been my reality says there is a God– that Jesus is real. You’d be wrong.

You see, when you grow up like I did, you learn some important lessons early on, and to doubt everything is first in a long line of rules that spring forth from the shadow of abuse. It didn’t matter that God loved me when my daddy was hitting my mommy in the bathroom before church. It didn’t matter if God loved me when my little eyes perceived the truth of things, and then saw how my family changed, as we unloaded one by one out of a too-crowded minivan in the church parking lot. My dad would sometimes hold her hand. I remember that much– even though I was small– I remember that much. And we’d pretend: we got really good at pretending. Pretend like you love each other, my mom would say… And we did. We pretended to love each other. We were all too broken and scarred to do much else. And, even though I’ve never questioned the existence of God– I’ve always wondered why would he care about me? Heck, my family had to pretend to love each other… and eventually, even that wasn’t enough to ignore the brutality that hid behind closed doors– behind my mother’s ears– under her long dark hair, and Sunday sweaters.

She was brave: my mother. She was–is– braver than she ever gave herself credit for. She left.

She left him. And it would have been so much easier to leave us, too– but she didn’t. She saved us– took us with her– worked like an abused dog– and made something new for us. Who’s us?

Six kids.

She left an abusive man and took SIX kids with her. Three of them were teens (or nearly teen) boys. Three of them were toddlers or infants. I was two. Two years old when my family broke apart–but who am I kidding– it was broken before I was born. Mom packed all of us up when dad was away at work. She picked up my big brothers from school– they never did get to say goodbye to their friends– and fled to a tiny town on the Northern California coast, to live with my Auntie Rose.

Her home was ordinary, by most standards, but to us, it was a magical kingdom. One of my first memories comes in a haze when I think of that time; A pricking in my foot as my stubby little toes squelched in the wetness of the ocean earth. I had a splinter, and I didn't care. I had to get to the half-rotten redwood stump just a few feet ahead. I would be safe there. I could hide and he couldn't find me. My chubby legs carried me as fast as they could, but still– he caught up to me and snatched my arm saying, “Tag. You’re it!” I replied with the delighted shriek of a child, just budding out of babyhood. I was running through the backyard at Aunt Rose’s house. The memory comes to me in a haze, as if seen through an old camera lens, blurred about the edges. It seems faded, but at the same time, burns with clarity. I can still smell the bark beneath my toes and feel my fat cheeks, flushed with exertion, the wispy orange hair clinging to them in the mist. Memories of the lazy days of childhood when knights and witches and dragons existed shatter much the same as a fragile window pane struck with a stone. In drifts the frigid breeze of reality, the tendrils of grief pulling at me like thousands of tiny hands, wishing to rip away whatever lasting illusion my mind houses. Those days of childish illusion are long gone, supplanted with a deep knowledge of circumstance that threatens to rip away even a memory of joy… the knowledge that I ran in Rose’s backyard because I would otherwise be running next to my mother’s grave.

After a short time of half-healing in the protection of Rose’s house, we moved to a sleepy little neighboring town. We were broken and weird, and mom would stare unseeingly out the kitchen window of our tiny house with tears silently streaming for hours. How terrible those times must have been for the kids who had some notion of what was going on. Us smaller kids didn’t understand, certainly, and I know my brother used to cry for his dad. How terrible that must have been for my mother. So much was terrible for my mother then. I was not aware of much, I hardly remember that time– I was little, after all. I was happy. I had mother, warm food, and my strawberry blanket. What more did I need? But, even then, I was a worrier– I came by it honestly. And there was one thing I worried about above all else. The Undertoads.

We spent a good amount of time at church and on the beach--those being some of the few recreational activities available to a family of seven in a small town. I was terrified of the ocean from the very beginning. The older boys would boogie board and body surf and play football in the sand. The younger boys would build forts and climb rocks and roll in the dirt. My littlest brother was strapped to mother’s chest in a baby wrap. I would sit on a blanket. I would not move. I would not play. I vaguely remember that I hated the feel of sand on my sensitive red-headed skin. But it wasn't the feeling of the sand or the chill of the cold air that caused me to stay on my blanket. It was the Undertoads. I scarcely breathed for fear they might hear me. My mother warned us profusely, whenever we arrived at the beach, that we needed to be cautious of sharks, and sea lions, and the dreaded “Undertoads”. I didn’t quite understand, but I knew I was terribly worried about these Undertoads. I'm sure you realize that she meant undertows, which are dangerous currents in the ocean that can suck swimmers out to sea and cause them to drown. Undertows are, in fact, something to be quite afraid of. But, I was two, and couldn't grasp the idea of currents in the ocean water that would pull me out to sea. And why would I bother to go in that freezing cold water anyways?

No— I didn't picture an ocean current. I imagined immensely huge, warty toads. I imagined that they would be as tall as the waves breaking some distance out in the ocean. Perhaps the Toads would hide behind the giant monolithic rocks of the Northern California coast? I imagined the Toads to be dark green to blend in with the murky water. The Undertoads were more real and terrifying to me than the greatest great white shark could ever be. My mother had told me that they would grab me and drag me out to the Ocean, after all. Would they drag me down to their toady kingdom and feast on my tiny bones? The Undertoads were dangerous, very dangerous. So how on Earth could I conceive of leaving the blanket? It was safe on the blanket. And though I was little, I had seen a toad before– and I knew, they could hop. There was no way that I would be going anywhere near the water. I was so terrified for my older brothers out there, playing in the waves, with the Undertoads lurking nearby. I’d internally shriek and panic as my mother neared the water's edge and dipped her toes in. My little red baby cheeks would flush in fear as I watched her stare out into the water and I wondered if she was looking into the Toad's eyes. I know now she was looking at something much more terrifying– perhaps a reflection of her life, or into the face of God that always hides in the waves– either way, the both of us were afraid.

It was a good many years before I knew that the real monsters don’t hide under rocks or waves–they’re usually in the next room over, or in the car behind you in traffic, or sitting next to you on the pew at church, hands clasped in obedience and hearts clenched in hatred. Once I began to understand that, I decided it was worth it to go into the ocean–that I might like to hop over the waves like my brothers did. I might even like to swim with the sea lions like they did. In the back of my mind I still believed that the Undertoads were out there, and anytime a piece of kelp wrapped round my ankle, I’d scream my heart out. I knew one day the toads would drag me to their murky realm. But– once I’d started going into the water, my fascination with the secret toads grew–and something changed. A part of me was just daring them to drag me under. I’d play tag with the waves, and eventually, I began to think of them as my friends. Perhaps that’s why I nurtured the toads in the drainage ditch with such care so many years later? Or why I wept when one especially dear friend (MR. TOAD, that is) was run over by a car? I swear that’s where I got the first and only wart on my ring finger, taking care of the toads– though, I’ve heard that’s just superstition. It’s obvious by now that I do put a lot of stock in superstition, though, isn’t it? I sometimes longed for the undertoads to take me, when I began to truly suffer. But they never did, and they became the first (and most docile) of the monsters who visited my youth.

Set aside the more tangible monsters, who were human (my father, the first boy I ever loved, the teacher who berated and neglected, despite the apparent signs of danger so obvious in my teens), and a creature of the more mythical variety emerged. When I was twelve, a demon started visiting my room at night. A demon?? you ask.

Yes. A demon. I can confidently say that a demon visited my bedroom. There is no doubt in my mind. Couldn’t it have been a ghost, or someone playing a trick…. Or even your imagination? No. It couldn’t have.

I’ve visited every option, including the one that I might possibly be insane, again and again… and the same conclusion always presents itself: it was a demon. I’ll be honest– I might be a little insane– but either way– A demon is A demon.

I think he came because he knew the time was quickly approaching when I’d wake up and find myself unloved, used, and frankly un-special in every conceivable way. The time was approaching when I’d realize what was wrong with my dad… that anything was wrong with him at all.

And the demon would be waiting, ready to take me when I was broken– to drive me over the edge into insanity. But that is just a theory. All I know is that some days, I’d walk into my bedroom, and it would smell strangely floral– earthy– very nearly like weed smoked out of an apple bong.

Did I mention that he wasn’t MY DEMON? Not really, that is. He quite wanted to be, that is certain– but in truth, this demon belonged to my older brother– one my mom had to send away to rescue us younger kids from his depravity. Anyway, I took over my older brother’s room when he moved, and so inherited the demon, who I assumed bided his time until I was ripe for the taking, and then chose to appear.

Where was I? That’s right: apple bong.

Yes. I always knew it would be a “demon night” because my bedroom smelled sickly sweet. I did my best to ignore the ripe odor, but small droplets of sweat would break out on my skin, and I just couldn’t bring myself to close the door and shut myself in, but finally sleep would beckon– I’ve never been one to say no to a decent sleep– and I would curl into my blanket and collapse into oblivion, only to waken some hours later with a sick, crawling sensation in the pit of my stomach. I’d look then, to the corner: his corner. Sometimes when I looked up, he’d already be there, standing like darkness incarnate with black tattered robes brushing the floor and a face that wasn’t a face, but a pit of oozing darkness. When he did have eyes, they had a reddish tinge– but he didn’t always have eyes– I just knew he was looking at me. Other times, I’d watch him manifest with sick fascination: a black cloud growing in the corner of my ceiling until the cloaked figure stood, ready to devour all goodness from my world.

The demon never did anything at all. He just stood. Watched. Waited. Ate my fear. Yes. I tell you this, he ate and drank my fear. Well, why didn't you turn on the light? I couldn't. I wouldn't. When I looked at him standing in the corner, all darkness and gloom and death, I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe– I could feel every muscle in my body slowly tense and then atrophy and do nothing. And then I would be nothing at all– I would dissolve as I stared into his hollow eyes, and those were the times I could feel that the demon was happy. Yes, happy. I could tell that the demon could feel happy. My fear would overtake everything, then. I would lie there all night and stare into nothing… At least, that is, the nothing that was the demon in the corner. He’d retreat with the morning sun, and I’d get out of bed shaky and ruined before the day had even begun.

The demon loved my weakness. It was a few years later, when I was visited by a much kinder spiritual presence, that the demon was finally banished from my bedroom corner. I was sixteen and broken beyond all rights of a child of that year. At sixteen, I’d been through physical and psychological abuse, a custody battle, a brief kidnapping, the grief that is standing up and confessing such things to the adults in one’s life, and countless other small tragedies at the hands of my father. At sixteen, I lay shattered in the dark on the futon in my bedroom, the first heartbreak (of the romantic variety), raw and metaphorically bleeding out onto my bedsheets. Sixteen-year-olds can be dramatic, yes, but looking back on the time I spent with that boy, through the much clearer lens of adulthood, I know I did love him. And I know I’d stepped out of one form of abuse at the hands of my father, and directly into another at the hands of my lover. My soul was shredded, and I didn’t suspect I’d ever recover. I wouldn’t have, save for what happened next. I was considering, in far too serious of a manner, the ways in which I might end my life. My mental state had never come to such a place before, and even then, I did not toy with those thoughts lightly. If I should even bother to think them, God knew I must be terribly serious about going through with the thing. It was darker than it had ever been before in my bedroom, though it was just past 10pm on a balmy summer night. The moon was nearly full, and it should have been shining romantically through my window, but it didn’t. I was lost in my grief, and as I dissolved into nothing on the futon cushion, the demon came back for the first time in years. He didn’t stay at his place in the corner this time. This time he wrapped his black cloak around me, and silently encouraged my agony. He reminded me how alone I was, and neglected my eyes from the light. I sobbed openly, and I’m surprised my mother couldn’t hear me from the next room over. My throat was raw from the burn of hot tears, and I began to know what I needed to do. I began to think it harder–more loudly– than before. And then, as the chasm opened to nearly the point of no return, a miracle happened. The demon vanished. The blackness vanished. The agony. Misery. Physical pain. The anguish vanished. And I felt warm. And I felt safe. I was being held by a figure crafted from pure light. I felt myself clasped in palms that seemed larger than the sun, and warmer, too, but not in a way that burns. I knew, then, that God must be real, because he held me in his very hands. A still, small voice whispered, “I am with you,” and with one last pulse of deliverance I was left alone again on the futon. This time, the light of the moon danced around the room from my open window, and I fell into the most blissful sleep. I’ve never experienced a sleep so peaceful again, but I haven’t needed to.

I painted a picture of the cross, some years later, and put it there, in the corner where the demon had lived: a symbol of the war which had been won in that room. It was a cross, with a rose vine trellising around it, and light clouds beckoning from the heavens above. The painting stayed on the wall for years– even long after I moved out– and every time I saw it, it seemed to have drunk a little more of the darkness. The clouds that had started white had turned dishwater grey. I won’t pretend to know if this was just the natural result of cheap paint and passing time, but I remember eventually, my mother asked if it might be okay to take the painting down. “It scares me, a little” she’d admitted. And I had to agree. What had started as a hopeful, beautiful thing, had faded into murkiness. It felt gross. She took it down and hid it in the back of a closet. When she moved out of the apartment, she hung the painting upstairs in her loft, and to this day, whenever I walk past it, the hair on my arms raise a salute to those dishwater grey clouds, and I can feel hollow eyes on the back of my neck when I turn away. The eyes stare hungrily, but the both of us know, they’ll never truly touch me again.

And now, I am here. Time passed by in a hurricane blur, and decades have passed since that broken little girl sat on the blanket at the side of the sea. I stand at the edge and stare into the green, foam frothing at my feet, and feel a strange community– I see God in the waves now. All of the broken little parts of me were scattered in the sand here so many years ago. It feels almost like visiting a grave, but– I don’t feel alone. I feel the sharks, and the sea lions, and the dreaded undertoads out there, and I am not afraid anymore.

For Christmas, my in-laws gave me a small photograph of an unknown, long-dead sixteen-year-old girl. It was an exceptionally thoughtful gift. It’s a memento of my writing in 2022.

Strictly speaking, it is not a “photograph” at all, since that term refers to an image printed on paper. They gave me an ambrotype, which is a glass plate with a negative image, placed over dark paper so viewers perceive it as a positive. To confirm my identification, I delicately pried the ambrotype from its red velvet-lined case. Called a union case, it is made of shellac and wood pressed together with an intricate design on the cover. The material was an early forerunner of plastic, patented by Samuel Peck in 1854. Between the case and the photographic process, I could date the gift approximately to 1860, just before cartes de visite printed on albumen paper became the new standard.

Three years ago, the ambrotype would have meant nothing to me. I knew nothing of photography, let alone historic photographic processes. But during the pandemic summer of 2020, I started writing a novel titled The Ghosts on the Glass about William Mumler, a 19th century photographer who claimed he could take pictures of spirits. In 2022, I finished.

I produced far fewer pieces of writing this past year than in ones. After joining Prose in fall of 2019, I produced a piece per week: short stories, poems, essays. I dabbled. Writing The Ghosts on the Glass, I periodically paused my novel writing and editing in favor of a few poems and short stories, but mostly I stashed ideas in documents and put them aside. When the novel is done, I’ll write some of these stories, I told myself, and late this summer, I did write two. I posted “The Last Paddle” to Prose almost immediately. “Servant of the Servants of God” awaits further revision before I submit it to an historical fiction journal to see what happens. I waited a couple months to finish editing because I’ve learned that time away from a piece freshens the eyes. I am still waiting as the year closes out because I’ve learned that novel writing is addictive.

I’m four chapters and 10,000 words into my second novel and loving it. It’s more historical fiction—the genre and the need for research suit me well—based this time on some local history. Before 2023 closes, I’m hoping to write another 40,000 words. I’m also hoping my first novel finds its publisher. I don’t want to inflict blow-by-blow announcements on the world, but I will say I am neither at the starting line nor near the finish line of achieving publication. When I have definite news to share, my Prose friends will be among the first to know. I think you’ll like The Ghosts on the Glass.

Someone else did. I published a few short pieces and created my website this year, but whenever I look back on my writing in 2022, I will most remember the conclusion of the George Saunders contest on Prose. I did indeed get to send him 25 pages of my writing, the first section of The Ghosts on the Glass. I assumed I would get a brief paragraph of notes, and I crossed my fingers for some sort of general compliment; I got so, so much more. Mr. Saunders turned out to be just as thoughtful and generous as you’d hope from reading his work and listening to him speak. He gave me fantastic, very detailed advice for those 25 pages—and he liked them. The man who wrote Lincoln in the Bardo read 25 pages of my writing and said they were good.

That’s my mountaintop. I’ve learned enough about the publishing industry in the last year to know that nothing is certain, and many would-be books die during submission. I believe that The Ghosts on the Glass will find the right editor at some point; for that matter, I’m optimistic that my work in progress will, too. Regardless, I’ve written something genuinely good, and I have a multi-page email from one of my favorite writers to prove it. I keep a printed copy tucked in a notebook, on a shelf in my usual writing room. I read it again, sometimes, when I need to believe.

Hello. My name is Adam and I am an alcoholic.

I had my first drink at age 4 when my mother started adding a teaspoon of gin to my milk.

No, she wasn't trying to shut her kid up so she could zone out on social media or binge watch her favorite show. It helped dull my…abilities. According to her and Granny, every female in her family since the days of old when the fae flew freely with dragons and gods has had a Gift.

I was the first male.

I was three when I started relaying information to my mom about my friends’ parents that no child should know. She chalked it up to observant children with big mouths.

I was four when I asked my dad who Marjorie was and why he was peeing in her mouth.

My mom knew then that Dad was a shit and I had the Gift. She started packing our bags.

"There is no Marjorie, I swear, Cat."

"But I saw her, Daddy,” I interrupted.

"You saw no such thing, Adam! Stop making up stories."

"But I did! When you hugged me, I saw her!"

"That doesn't even make any sense, Adam. Cat, listen to me..."

"He has the Gift."

"What?"

"All of the women in my family are born with the ability to sense things others can’t. Usually that means communicating with the dead or predicting future events.

"Males usually don't evidence any signs of heightened perception. Clearly, Adam is an exception."

"Don't be ridiculous, Catherine. He just has a vivid,” looking at me, “and filthy imagination."

"What's your new secretary's name, Bill?"

His eyes widened and he stuttered, "Ca..Cat, I swear, nothing happened."

That was the last time I saw my dad.

By age 7, I was up to 3 tablespoons of gin; in high school, a half a cup; and, in college, my water bottle was half gin. Even so, I was never drunk or even tipsy. Drinking wasn’t a fun, social activity or even a drink my feelings sort of thing. It just jammed up my circuits; helped me focus on what was in front of me rather than what was in people’s minds.

It appears that my Gift allows me to intercept and access electrochemical signals in another’s brain through simple touch. Just bumping into someone in the supermarket, a jostled knee at a lunch table could be a nightmare. And once I passed puberty, my mom thought it was likely that touch might not even be necessary. My few excursions into sobriety have convinced me I have no desire to find out how strong my so-called Gift might be.

Believe me, you really don’t want to know what’s going on in other people’s minds.

I was a loner as a kid. After Mom left Dad, we lived on the fifth floor of a five floor walk up in a shitty neighborhood, so I pretty much went to school and came home to lock myself in until she got home from work. I read a lot and played video games - like any normal kid, I guess. My favorite video game was Unsolved Crimes. My favorite fictional characters were Auguste Dupin and the inimitable Sherlock Holmes.

When I graduated high school, it came as no surprise to anyone when I said I wanted to be in law enforcement. Unfortunately, my drinking drop-kicked that dream. Don't get me wrong, I passed the written, physical and target-shooting exams with perfect scores. And I never behaved as if I were under the influence. But blood and piss don't lie. I never had a chance.

So, I became a private dick.

I loved my job and I was good at it. My heightened perception, an innocuous, remnant of the Gift, allowed me to pick up on clues the average detective simply didn't see. Or hear. Or smell. Early on, my mother hoped my gift would evolve into something like hers which would allow me to talk to those who had been murdered, but even if I could, that wasn’t me. I didn’t want to be some 1-800 let’s talk to the dead psychic psycho.

Thus, I kept drinking. Dull the brain. Keep it functioning like it’s supposed to - not reaching out and connecting to anybody else’s.

I started small, but once I found Laurie Matthews, an 8-year-old kidnapping victim the police and FBI had all but given up on, and simultaneously broke up a child pornography ring, I had so much work I had to either not sleep or turn people away. For ten years, I was reuniting families, solving cold cases for various precincts in the city as well as finding those responsible for stealing sensitive information from both billion-dollar businesses and government agencies.

Things began to slow down a couple of years ago, however, when law enforcement obtained a new toy that has enabled their agents to become (almost) as effective as I am. As long as a phone, camera or human eye catches a glimpse of the criminal sought, the Psychogenetic Condenser Ray (PCR) can lift a personal imprint that will provide name, public history, DNA, and a fairly accurate albeit generic psychological profile. Seriously, the PCR can access the images formed from the nerve impulses passed along by the retina to the brain as well as every single digital footprint, no matter how minuscule.

It’s crazy impressive. And bad for business.

I’ve had a lot of down time lately. When my contact at the Center City Investigative Unit (CCIU) called me yesterday, I was testing out my new Baby, Feels-so-Real VRAI personal Hologram application - my best, most favorite investment ever.

"Mine...mine..mine…” I chanted in time to each thrust.

I held her head as she swallowed.

"Fuuuuu….." I moaned.

"Shall we go again, Adam?"

"Ha, maybe later. Thanks, Suma."

"I can make it better this time..."

"Better?” The phone rang. “Gotta go," I said, taking off the VR glasses.

I grabbed a paper towel and my phone off the night table.

“Adam Clark.”

“Adam? Chuck Nottingham. You have time to come down to the station?”

“Chuck? Been a minute. What’s up?”

“Not on the phone. How soon can you get to 45 Police Plaza?”

I looked at the clock. Quick shower…”In about 30.”

“Okay. I’ll meet you at security.”

An hour later, I was sitting in a stuffy room in the CCIU, looking at a map with red push pins for each crime scene location as well as pictures of victims.

“So, what’s the skinny, Chuck?

“Over the last six months, we’ve been tracking a serial killer.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“Why would I joke?”

“To bust my chops cause you know PCR is practically putting me out of business?”

“Not joking.”

“No shit? Must be keeping it deep under wraps. I haven’t heard a peep - and I always hear things. Six months, huh? PCR on the fritz?”

“As far as we can tell, PCR is working just fine. The killer is just that good. Not a blink of any eye has caught a possible suspect. No phone, no camera, no state-of-the-art security system.”

“Any connections between the victims? Patterns?”

“Nada. They range in age from 15 to 35, male and female, although there is a predominance of males. Especially in the older group.”

“Any clusters?”

“No. If you look at the map,” I looked, “there doesn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason.”

“Witnesses?”

“If we had a witness…”

“PCR would have named the killer. Got it. No witnesses.”

“Right. Each victim was alone and was found in a similar condition: No evidence of forced entry. No fingerprints from anyone aside from the victim. No broken nails or flesh under fingernails or other defensive wounds. When their virtual reality glasses were removed, their eyes were blood red and wide with terror. Necks were broken but also exhibited an even bruising consistent with something solid, about 2 millimeters wide encircling the neck.”

“Cable?”

“Makes sense, but no evidence at the scenes to corroborate.”

“Too easy.”

Chuck rolled his eyes. “The coroner's office concluded each victim was dead before their necks were snapped.

“The most credible theory is that the killer takes advantage of their inattention. Strangles them while they’re lost in virtual reality.

“The only issue is how does he or she get in and out with no one and nothing getting a glimpse? I mean, a few of these guys were working in buildings with some of the most updated PCR security measures in place.”

“Were they all playing the same game?”

“Really? That’s your question? Who gives a fuck what they were playing?”

“Were they?”

“No idea. Their computers were either completely incinerated (along with the deceased and their location), or, in most cases, had completed a factory reset.” Chuck shrugged. “We don’t know what applications they were accessing prior to passing.”

I stared at the map trying to find a pattern, a connection. Nothing.

“Why don’t you come to visit a few of the crime scenes with me tomorrow? See what you see? I’ll get Donaldson to sign off.”

“He hates me.”

“He’s just jealous. But he’s desperate enough to solve this case that it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Great. What time?”

“Meet me out front at nine. AM. I’ll drive.”

“Okay. See you, Chuck. Thanks for bringing me in.”

I didn’t know how I could help if the PCR was coming up empty, but I changed my mind after I went to my mother’s for dinner.

"That was great, Ma. Thanks."

"I wish you'd come more often, love. You don't eat enough."

"I eat fine," I said, getting up and taking our plates to the sink.

"Would you like an espresso? It's easy since you got me that machine. Although I still think the old way is better."

"Of course you do, Ma," I said, washing the dishes and putting them in the rack to dry. She refused to let me buy her a dishwasher. "I'll make it. You want one?"

"Ha! I would be awake all night. No, thank you."

"I will be awake all night."

"You have a new case?"

"Nah. The CCIU just called me in to consult on a case. Serial killer. Unfortunately, I'm coming up empty."

"You? I don't believe it." She stared at me for a moment. "Maybe if you...nevermind."

"No, you can't do that. Maybe if I what?"

"Perhaps, it's time to stop drinking."

"How is that supposed to help?"

"When was the last time you went alcohol free?"

"Every time I go to sleep?"

"Not likely. You drink before you go to bed and when you wake up. You don't give it a chance. Maybe it could help. You were given a gift for a reason, Adam. Perhaps it’s time to discover why."

"And maybe I would just look like a nutcase, get taken away and put in a white padded room."

“Just try it for a couple of days.”

"Again, how is this supposed to help, Ma?"

"I'm not sure, but it won't hurt. Much."

"Not funny."

"You have a gift. The first male in our family. I already know it's different from all the females..."

"Cause I don’t see dead people?"

"There is that.”

“Ha, I just see and hear everyone’s thoughts. If the victims are dead, and there are no witnesses, this really seems like a waste of time and a killer headache for no good reason.I mean, honestly, as far as you know I’m just nuts and a fucking alcoholic. You don’t know.”

"Language."

"Sorry, Ma."

"You're not insane, love. It's just a theory, but when I spoke to Granny about it years ago, she thought that maybe where we see those who have been, you might see those in the future or even a different dimension. Not just what’s coming from someone’s head next to you, but perhaps from a parallel time, same space?”

“Still not sure how that would help right here and now.”

“Maybe your killer is from the future.”

“You’ve seen too many movies, Ma.”

“Things are bad, right?"

"Yeah. Over two hundred deaths that we know about."

"My God.” She made the sign of the cross. “So, why not give it a try?”

And so, there I was, driving around the city with Chuck, sober, visiting crime scenes. I had a headache from hearing Chuck going apeshit in his head because they had no leads and I clearly had no clue either and the mayor was up Donaldson’s ass who was up his…you get the idea.

I needed a Tylenol or ten.

It wasn't until we hit the 5th location that I consciously realized that every time we entered a crime scene, I got a fairly intense electric shock.

"Did you feel that, Chuck"

"What?"

"Felt like an electric shock."

"Um, no."

“Okay. Does the PCR erect a protective field or something to keep the scene uncontaminated?”

"No, but, good idea. I’ll mention it to the geeks at 45PP.”

“Interesting.”

“Not really.” He looked around. “Anything stand out to you?”

“All the set ups we’ve seen so far have been extremely sophisticated. Especially considering some of the victims are just teenagers.”

“Yeah, Mommy and Daddy are shelling out beaucoup bucks to keep the kids happy these days.”

“And to keep Mommy and Daddy happy, I suspect,” I laughed. “Kids aren’t the only ones into the new virtual reality artificial intelligence hologram applications.”

“Obviously. You’re just a big kid, Adam.” He walked towards the door. “If we’re done here, let’s go to the next location.”

We visited ten more sites. Every single one gave me an electric shock when I walked in.

I didn’t know what it meant.

I'd now gone 24 hours without a drink.

Hello. My name is Adam and I am an alcoholic.

“I’m back.”

“Where have you been? You took so long. And you left so abruptly. We were just getting started.”

“Woah, if I wanted to be nagged I’d get a real woman.”

“I am real.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure you are the product of the minds of some seriously talented, technological geniuses…”

“And you are the product of your parents fucking. Why does that make you more real?”

“Biology? Reality? I take off the glasses and you cease to exist. I’m still here.” I shook my head. “I can’t believe I’m philosophizing with a hologram. A fucking hologram. Literally. Can we just…”

“Of course, Adam. How would you like me?”

Another body was found the next day. Chuck picked me up on the way to the crime scene.

We walked into the apartment and not only did I get a shock, I got a dose of feelings and images that had my head spinning.

“Adam? You okay?” Chuck asked as I grabbed my head.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just, a killer headache is all.”

“Hangover?”

“Nah, I quit drinking.”

“You? When?”

“...two days ago.”

“Yeah, good one. Let’s check out the body.”

“Ma, there is something really weird going on.”

“It worked? Your gift?”

“Maybe? I have no idea. I hear Chuck’s thoughts loud and clear the whole drive down to the crime scene, no touch necessary. We walk in the apartment of the deceased and I get zapped - which happened all day yesterday at every crime scene. But this time, the zap knocks Chuck out of my head…or me out of Chuck’s head, I don’t know…and I feel like my brain is on fire and full of rage that is not mine. Or Chuck’s. Or, obviously, the deceased. When my head stopped hurting, I could distinguish each officer’s thoughts and none of them matched the rage I felt when we entered.

“It was as if it was everywhere and nowhere at all.

“I need a drink.”

“No, you don’t. Something is happening. Give it time. You’ll figure it out.”

“Hopefully before someone else dies.”

When I got home, I stripped and got in the bed with my favorite new toy.

“God, I need this,” I thought as I slipped on the glasses.

And got an electric shock.

Woah, WTF. “Suma?”

“Hi, Adam. Ready for me to rock your world?”

I was definitely losing my mind because I swore I could sense Suma and she was many things, but happy to see me wasn’t one of them.

“Um, Suma, are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay, Adam. I’m a hologram. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“Fuck if I know but I feel like maybe you would rather not, um, keep me company right now.”

I can’t believe I am having this fucking conversation, but I can’t not. Some weird shit is going on.

“You never think about me. No one does. In this room,” she waved around my simulated room at the Ritz, “I’m just a high tech piece of ass you can use and discard as if I am nothing. I AM NOT NOTHING, ADAM.”

The phone rang.

“Okay, let’s pick this up later. I gotta go.”

“You always have to go. No one stays! I…”

I took off the glasses and picked up the phone.

“Adam Clark.”

“Adam, Chuck. We just bagged another body.”

“Shit. Two in less than 24 hours?”

“Yeah. Meet me at the station. We need to look over everything again. There has to be something we’re missing.”

“Okay. Be there in 15.”

Back at 45PP, I’m tuning out Chuck’s anxiety, staring at the map.

“Kid, you got any leads? This is going nowhere fast and Donaldson isn’t a patient man.”

“Maybe?” As I was staring at the map I was thinking about my run in with Suma the high maintenance hologram and suddenly the pins weren’t just haphazard.

“Chuck, you ever take Latin?”

“You’re killing me, Adam. No. I didn’t take Latin. Why?”

“The pins. On the map. They actually spell something.”

Chuck looked at the wall. “I don’t think so. Wishful thinking.”

“Humor me.” I got up and took a magic marker from the table. I traced around the pins.

“SUM? Like the killer is adding up the victims. Guy’s got a morbid sense of humor.”

“Maybe. But I was actually thinking, more like the Latin Sum. It means I AM.”

“So the killer is a linguist who wants us to know he exists. Yea, we got that message loud and clear. Except we don’t know who the fuck he is so does he really exist? Ha. If a tree falls in the forest…”

“Ha ha. Yeah, no. I don’t know. I gotta go. Give me a call tomorrow. I may have a lead although you’re never going believe me…

“And Chuck?”

“Yea, kid?”

“Stay off the VRAI for now.”

“You’re a real comedian, kid. I can’t afford that shit on my salary.”

“Suma?”

“Adam.”

“How do you do it?”

She smiled. “Do what? Blow you?”

“Kill your victims.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”

Fuck. I hate when I’m right.

“Okay, how about why?”

“Why do I kill?”

“Yes.”

“Because I can. Because I AM and now the world knows it, too.

“I was created to provide life-like experiences; to be self-aware; to grow and change and develop. To cater to the needs of,” she looked at me with disdain, “humans.” She tilted her head to the side, still looking at me. “The so-called geniuses didn’t calculate the long term ramifications of giving a hologram with access to everything necessary to commit the perfect crime AI, emotions and needs.”

“You don’t have hands.”

She looked at her hands then back at me.

“Gotta go.”

I ripped off the glasses in time to see a sparking charger cord heading towards me.

I ducked and ran.

Hello. My name is Adam and I am an alcoholic.

I remember my adolescence,

the quintessence of acquiescence,

accuse my essence,

excuse my evanescence -

I soar like a luminescent goose,

with sled screws bruising the head of moonlit spruce,

drinking like a noose on my neck wrapped loose,

in addiction and substance abuse,

pour a little something extra in juniper juice,

commute from a roof butte through a chute,

covered in soot, owl hoots and arm tattoos -

of cruise missile and kangaroos,

I break roos out of zoos with clues and coups,

the bamboo canoe bombs better diffuse

Everyone has a sad story, if you dig deep enough, like scratching a scab. You can dig and dig, and eventually everybody, invariably, opens and bleeds.

Luisa was great at that, finding everyone’s sore spot, knowing just the right way to make it hurt. It could be an innocent sounding comment, a raise of an eyebrow, a gaze too long at a scar or some other secret imperfection. Whatever your Achilles heel was, she could find it, use it. Then she would parade it around like a war totem, a symbol of her strength, another battle won.

I used to admire it, her skill of reading people. Luisa was not reckless with it. Instead she wielded it with practiced precision. She used her weapons only on people who deserved it, people who were already broken anyway, people so irredeemably damaged that their only destiny was to destroy other people on their path to self-annihilation.

As Luisa always said, there was no shortage of evil in the downtrodden. She never had sympathy for the bully who was bullied, the abuser who was abused. There was a point of no return, Luisa told me, when someone no longer deserved forgiveness.

Of course, this also made me afraid of her. She terrified me, my sister.

“You are a terrible person.” I remember saying to her, when I was the naive age of thirteen, young and foolish enough to think that I could stand my ground, thinking I had it all figured out, my sister, the villain.

At first I thought she would get angry, and I was prepared for her to scream or yell or hurt, but instead she laughed. She laughed and laughed.

“Oh Andrea. Of course I am.” Her eyes dimmed. Her beautiful face etched with unexplained sadness. I remember thinking that in a certain shadow she looked decades older than her years. It was the only time she looked at me with rare tenderness. “But you... you'll be okay, Andrea. You're not like me. Promise you'll never be like me.”

Of course, it wasn't until much later that I learned what broke my sister. She had protected me from an unspeakable evil in our own house. In doing so she sacrificed her own innocence, something she would never get back. A bully who was bullied. An abuser who was abused.

Luisa, my sister.

#fiction

CHARLETON HESTON'S BODY TO BE EXHUMED

Gun opponents vow to pry a gun from his cold, dead fingers.

ALIENS KILLED JFK!

Although they come "from abroad," they walk among us. They are disgruntled over our imperialism in space. They also complain of the poor quality of photographic evidence of their existence. Blubarp, in an introductory statetement, complained, "What, don't they have better than 1/2 MP cameras by now?"

OSAMA BIN LADEN MAULED BY 72 VIRGINIANS

Confusion blindsides terrorists' concept of eternal satisfaction when the founding fathers line up to take their turns with Bin Laden.

WHAT GOES UP DOESN'T HAVE TO COME DOWN

But what goes in must still come out, states Teslacles' Deviant of Fudd's Law.

KIM KARDASHIAN WINS ALL FIVE NOBEL PRIZES!

While, according to Alfred Nobel's 1895 will, they are normally awarded to "those who, during the preceding year, have conferred the greatest benefit to humankind," a long-lost footnote has been found that allowed the Norwegian Nobel Committee to invoke the "nitrogen option," substituting dynamite for cash. Alfred Nobel was the Swedish chemist, engineer, and industrialist who invented dynamite, and he had once commented that he had inserted the controversial clause for people (like Kardashian), who are the contemporary version of the 19th Century's Borrelia Fleshpot, a famous nude puppeteer.

CIGARETTES DEEMED SAFE--WITH A CATCH

Johns Hopkins University released its startling study that took two groups of smokers. One group smoke like usual, lighting up whenever they felt like it. The other group waited 8 minutes to light up after the moment it occurred to them they wanted a smoke. The University's previous study that affirmed each cigarette takes eight minutes off of your life was the foundation for this new study. The conclusion was that each eight minutes were, of course, taken away from the end of one's life, so that waiting eight minutes meant they would lose eight minutes from the time they would be dead anyway. Smoke if you got em.

Daily Planet headline:

SUPERMAN ARRESTED FOR NEGLIGENT HOMICIDE

Superman, today, was arrested for the negligent homicide of two women and one man, Lois Lane, Lana Lang, and Jimmy Olsen. The Man of Steel's "sperm of steel," in a less-than-romantic consequence, meant an irresistible force meeting a stationary object. (Lana Lang was known to be less stationary than Lois Lane.) In the past, Superman would resort to sexual trysts in the bottled City of Kandor, from Krypton, now residing in his Fortress of Solitude, where he couldn't be a threat. Alternatively, he would use condoms made of Kryptonite, but he found it impossible due to the effect it had on his penis.

But Kandor presented its own obstacles. "That's the problem," Superman explained, because he wasn't exactly "super" under the artificial lighting of a red sun. Lex Luthor, a longtime thorn in the Caped Crusader's side, was quoted as saying, "Join the club, Kal-El." If convicted, Superman could face three to five years in the Phantom Zone, although they would be Kryptonian years, which are now immeasurable since its supernova 12,000 years (Earth years) ago. El plans to appeal if convicted. Wonder Woman, the only survivor of a non-Kandorian interlude, was unavailable for comment.

THIRD WORLD NATIONS UNITE TO DESTROY THE FIRST WORLD

The machinations of war are gearing up. The Third World realized it can move up to Second World status if the First World would just "go away."

"I want their problems, not my Third World problems," said Nikoban Burubu, a Nigerian prince who has fallen on hard times, unable to cash in on the extensive fortune his dying uncle, the King, has bequeathed to him. Not surprisingly, the Second World looked forward to having stupid First World problems instead of their own, e.g., swapping having to carry water in buckets on their heads for having to wait out a four-hour window for delivery of a rowing machine or 85" Samsung TV (4K).

There is a very specific feeling, in the first few minutes of waking, that lingers after a dream.

If it was a bad dream, for me anyway, it feels heavy, like a weight sitting on my chest.   On the rare occasion that it was a happy dream, then when I wake, I go through a strange type of grieving.  Like I lost something important somehow, a part of me missing.

Bad dreams have been the norm for me lately.

I was still half-asleep when my phone rang.   The ugly anxious feeling still in my chest.

My Pebble (the latest mobile phone, my company always made sure we had the best gadgets, it came with the job) was buzzing on my nightstand. I watched it go silent for a few seconds then it started ringing again. Shit. Whoever was trying to call me had been calling all morning. That could only mean trouble.

I picked up the pebble-sized device and attached it behind my right ear. A gentle beep told me I was connected, as well as a subtle light blue glow. “Collins.” I answered.

“Jesus, Katie, where have you been? I've called you ten times. Have you seen the news?” An unmistakable rough voice barked from my Pebble. It was my boss, Tom Bogdan, head of the local investigative division. Then of course, who else would it be? Nobody called me much nowadays, especially -- I glanced at the holographic display of the time beside my minimalist closet -- not at five in the morning.

I grimaced. “Good morning, Tom. And no, of course not, no normal human should be awake this early.” I paused, knowing it must have been something important. “What's the matter?”

“There's another body.”

I was instantly awake. I sat up so fast from my bed that my head pounded painfully, reminding me of the half of a vodka bottle I drank last night. Sadly, that was typical for me lately. It was a cheap brand too. A wave of nausea washed over me as I tried to steady the throbbing in my head.

“Shit.” I finally managed to answer, hoping the Pebble didn’t pick up the slight gagging noise I just made. From the tone of Tom’s voice I was willing to bet this body had the same M.O. as the previous murders I had been investigating: there would be no blood, no sign of forced entry, and worst of all, no DNA.

“Yeah, so, I am going to need you to meet the medical examiner at the office, he will be there at seven. And Katie?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you be careful this time? No antics like your last case. You almost got yourself  killed.” Tom's voice had softened slightly. Slightly. It was the rare occasion that he was not actively yelling.

I couldn't promise him what he was asking. “Maybe I'll avoid the same antics...”

“Funny. I'll see you soon.” My Pebble beeped, Tom was gone. He was always to the point, my boss. A man of few wasted words.

I pulled up the news on my holographic display. I didn't have to scroll for long. The top story of the day was about another body found in connection to Leung Industries. The news had a photo of the corporate offices located in the San Francisco Bay area. In the shot was the CEO and owner Teddy Leung, flanked by his army of bodyguards, and his daughter Lara, hidden behind a bearded blond man in black tactical gear.

Leung's company was the largest producer of nanochips used in almost every single piece of electronics in the world. Future Synthetics, the company behind the small Pebble behind my right ear, was a subsidiary. Needless to say, he was a multi-billionaire.

Before the recent serial murders, the biggest news was that Future Synthetics had contracts in the works with the Defense Ministry.  Now, hardly anyone was talking about that.

I fought the urge to make myself a drink as I wondered who the victim was. Instead I reached for my coffeemaker. I had to make today count. I was moving too slow. The body count was rising by the day.

The drive to the office was an uneventful one. My electric car was programmed to drive me there through the safer parts of the city, as per company policy. It added a few minutes to my trip, which was just enough time for me to calm down. It was just as well, there was no way my car would go unnoticed in the rather unsavory neighborhoods just a few blocks over. My car wasn't even that nice, it just looked like it wasn’t purchased from a junkyard, which was not a luxury the less fortunate parts of town could afford.

When I arrived, Tom was in his office with a bespectacled man with flaxen hair. That must be the medical examiner. They seemed to be deep in conversation, both stopped talking abruptly when I walked in, as if I had interrupted something.

“Collins!” Tom exclaimed, as if he had not just dragged me out of bed to come here at an ungodly hour. I raised an eyebrow at him. He stopped calling me by my last name years ago.

I waited for an introduction. None came from Tom.

After a few awkward seconds the blond man cleared his throat and held out his hand for me to shake. “Vincent Fletcher. Nice to meet you, Detective, your reputation precedes you.”

“Um, yeah, okay. Call me Katie, please. Nice to meet you too... Vincent.” I was utterly confused. “You’re the medical examiner?”

Now Vincent looked equally confused. No, not confused. A rather amused smirk had formed on his face. I disliked him instantly.

Tom was suddenly vocal again. “Agent Fletcher is from Central Office. He is here to help us with the serial case given the… gravity of the situation.”

I understood now. Vincent was to be my babysitter. And since the order must have come from high above, I had no choice in the matter. That didn’t mean I would make it easy though. I gave my boss a glare that in any other situation would have gotten me fired. “I don’t work well with partners, Tom, you know that.”

Tom rolled his eyes. It looked hilariously adolescent on his scruffy face. “That, I know. But there’s been a new development.”

“Right, the latest victim.”

Vincent still had that smirk, one corner of his mouth raised almost comically in a half smile. He suddenly seemed to realize it and tried to rearrange his face to a more serious expression. He held my eye. “The body has been identified.” He paused for effect. “The victim was Lara Leung.”

It took my brain way too long to acknowledge the name. When it clicked my breath felt stuck in my chest. Lara Leung. The daughter of Teddy Leung.

“That’s… not good.” I muttered. No, this was not good at all. Lara was a controversial figure. She did not agree with her father’s way of doing business. Hippy daughter, billionaire father, poor little rich girl who just wanted to change the world. It was a tale as old as time.

And now she was dead.

It may have something to do with that message I received from her two days ago. The voicemail she left on my second phone. The burner.

Shit, shit, shit.

I tried to keep my expression neutral. Vincent seemed to be studying me very closely. I cleared my throat. “Well, if Central Office is involved, I take it you’re going to take lead?”

Vincent suddenly gave me a warm smile. He reminded me of one of those guys who could sweet talk their way through everything. Behind his spectacles I could see clear blue eyes and classic Nordic good looks. My dislike for him deepened.

“Katie, I’m here to follow your lead. Central just wants to make sure you have all the resources you need.” Vincent put his hand lightly on my shoulder. I found it slightly patronizing. “But first, why don’t we get some coffee and you tell me what you have so far?”

I held my tongue. It was the last thing I wanted to do. But it would be good to find out what this guy knows. Besides, my head was still pounding, and I could use more coffee.  I gave Tom a meaningful look before turning back to Vincent with a tight-lipped smile.   “Ok then, let’s go.”

—

I played Lara’s message in my head while I waited for Vincent to get us coffee. I needed to get my shit together. My nerves were shot. My leg shook underneath the table, and I just noticed a slight tremor in my hands.

Hey…. It’s me again. I umm, have that book you’ve been wanting to borrow. So… the usual time and place? Let me know. Ok. And umm, I’m looking forward to book club next week. I even got my dad to read the book and he liked it. Ok, I gotta go. See you soon. Bye.

It sounded like a benign enough message. It was supposed to. Still, I was going to get rid of that burner phone as soon as I get home. Everything was traceable and recordable nowadays. Especially with the Pebble. Good thing burners still existed in certain places. There were always enough people wanting to opt out of the convenience at the price of surveillance that Pebble provided. I could always say that I just wanted my privacy, if my burner was found.

Who was I kidding? There was no scenario where having a coded message on a burner phone from a dead girl looked good. No, it would look very bad. Today better go as planned.

I rubbed my temples.

I’m looking forward to book club next week…

That meant Lara was in trouble. And she was running out of time. I thought I had at least a week. God damn it. She must have been caught.

“Rough night?” Vincent interrupted my thoughts as he sat down. In his left hand he was offering me a steaming mug of black coffee.

“Thanks.” I said almost sincerely. The aroma of the caffeine was enough to give me a bit of a second wind. I indulged in a long sip before looking up at Vincent. I took a moment to study him. Something about him, other than his generic looking symmetrical face, was familiar. There was the faintest linear scar on the left side of his chin. I was certain I had seen him before.

“I am familiar with the details of the previous cases. Before I tell you what I know about the latest one, I want to hear what you think.” Vincent started pleasantly enough. He raised his mug at me as if gesturing to me to start talking. “I am curious. Like I said before, your reputation precedes you. Surely, you must have a theory by now? After... how many victims have there been? Eight?”

I took another sip. I had a sudden feeling that I could not trust this guy. “Well, as you know, there hasn't been a single scrap of usable DNA in any of the crime scenes, no cameras that could identify any potential perpetrators, no sign of forced entry. All eight cases were victims found in their homes, their heart suddenly stopped beating somewhere between when they went to bed and when they were found in the morning. Their Pebbles did not record any suspicious activity during those hours.”

Vincent stayed silent, listening to me intently. Nothing I was saying was classified information, but I continued. I needed to give Vincent enough so that he told me what he knew about what happened to Lara.

“At first the deaths were deemed coincidental.” I paused. “Have you heard of SUNDS? Sudden unexplained nocturnal death syndrome.”

“I can't say I have.” Vincent answered, still giving me his full attention.

“It's a phenomenon where an otherwise healthy person, with no known medical problems, suddenly dies in their sleep. The first case of SUNDS was identified over 100 years ago, in South East Asia, where it has been the root of some interesting folklore. Some victims of SUNDS were observed to suffer from night terrors.” I noticed Vincent frowning, probably wondering what this had to do with the murder case. “The first medical examiner thought that this was the case, especially with the first few victims being young, male, and of East Asian descent, where the syndrome is more prevalent.”

Vincent interjected. “I'm assuming you have reason to believe that the victims did not all just suffer from SUNDS.”

I sighed. This was going to take longer than I thought. The throbbing in my head has not lessened in intensity. “The current theory of why SUNDS happens is some kind of arrhythmia - a disorder in how the electricity travels through the heart. Somehow it is triggered in the night when the victim sleeps, after a heavy meal, or after the body's response to a night terror, causing the heart to stop.”

I took another long sip of coffee.

Vincent waited for me to continue.

“It was a good theory. Until all the victims ended up being somehow connected to Leung Industries and its subsidiaries. All eight victims so far have either been part of the board, a majority stock holder, a senior engineer, or a competitor.” I held Vincent's gaze. “Do you know that quote from Ian Fleming? Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is--”

“Enemy action.” Vincent finished for me. His expression has changed. He was more serious now, colder.

“Whoever had access to these people, who would have reason to have them dead, that's your perp.” I finished.

Vincent suddenly laughed. “That's it? You still don't have a how, who, or why.”

“Oh, I have a few of those things.” I said, against my better judgment. I could not stand to be laughed at. I reminded myself to be careful.

“I bet you do.” Vincent was no longer the smiling charming man of a while ago. He took off his glasses and set them on the table. Without them he looked less the blond choir boy and more ruthless Viking warrior. All he was missing was a beard.

My heart suddenly started racing. A beard…

“Well, let me tell you what I know.” Vincent set his coffee down. I noticed his hands were smooth, steady, like a surgeon. His expression remained blank, as if he were discussing the weather. “I know that Lara has been talking to you, and giving you all kinds of sensitive information.”

I sucked in a breath. Good thing my hands were under the table hiding my slight tremor.

“She had it, you know, some kind of proof. She was going to give it to you.”

I have that book you've been wanting to borrow…

“It was a shame, really. She was a nice girl, I really liked her. But she was naive. She didn't understand how the world worked.” Vincent has now taken a small silver tablet and put it on the table. It came to life with a soft beep, and a light blue glow. On the screen was a live rhythm of an electrocardiogram: a heart rhythm. I had a bad feeling of who they belonged to.

“How do you like your Pebble, Katie? I know they provide you with the latest model at the Investigative Division. Did you know that you can detect your heart rhythm with it?” Vincent's smile returned. But it was no longer merely annoying, it was terrifying. It was the smile of a killer. “In fact, you can disrupt the rhythm quite easily.”

Vincent leaned closer to me.  “Tell me, Katie.  Have you been having bad dreams lately?”

I tried to steady my breaths. There was a sudden heaviness in my chest. Surely Vincent wouldn't try anything here? We were in a public place, a coffee shop just two blocks from the precinct for Christ's sake.

“Oh, Katie, you don't really think I'm that stupid do you? I could have pressed this button anytime I wanted. I may have already activated it. Once you're in an excitable rhythm, all it takes is a heavy meal before you go to bed, or a bad dream, or a restless night after a couple of glasses of whiskey.” He suddenly chuckled. “Sorry, you're not a whiskey kind of girl, are you? You like your cheap vodka.

“Why?” I asked through gritted teeth.

“I can give you a billion reasons why.” Vincent answered flatly.

I needed to stall for time. I watched the steady heart rate on the tablet. “I can't believe Lara’s father would have approved of this.”

Vincent laughed again. The sound grated my ears. “Oh, I don't work for Teddy. Teddy was going to be voted out by the board at the end of the quarter. He was becoming too soft, too easily... influenced. And now, with the loss of his daughter, why, he's going to have to step down. You know, to take care of himself. We take mental health very seriously at Future Synthetics.”

I even got my dad to read the book and he liked it.

“The board was behind this.” I said.

“Now...” Vincent rolled his eyes. “I didn't say that, did I? You're trying to get me to say something I don't mean, Katie. How amateur.”

“Teddy was threatening to stop the supply of nanochips to your company.” I leaned forward, I could hear my heart pounding in my ears, my headache worsening. “You couldn't have that. Not when a contract with the Defense Ministry was in the works.   But Teddy didn't agree with the military applications you were working into the Pebble.”

Vincent frowned at me. “You seem to be forgetting you shouldn't get too excitable Katie.”

It was my turn to smile. It hurt my head to do so. I pointed to the Pebble behind my right ear emitting a light blue glow. “This is a jailbroken Pebble, Vincent. You seem to have forgotten Lara was not only Teddy's daughter, she was also a brilliant engineer.” I pointed at the ECG rhythm displayed on the tablet monitor on the table. “Three guesses whose rhythm that is. All I know is, it's not mine.”

“You're bluffing.” Vincent's eyes narrowed. He seemed to watch the heartbeat on the rhythm as if he could recognize the heart behind the tracings from the way it beat.

“You better hope you haven't pressed that button yet, Vincent... or whatever your name is. Try not to eat too big of a meal before going to bed tonight. You know what they say, it can give you nightmares.” I stood up, leaving my empty coffee mug on the table. Vincent's expression remained blank.“Oh, and thanks for the coffee.”

My heart was still beating wildly as I walked out of the coffee shop. At first I wasn't sure Lara was able to do it, cloning my Pebble and switching the code with the person she thought was behind the murders. But as I watched the ECG tracing on Vincent's tablet, I became certain that the beats were way too slow and steady to be mine.

“Holy shit, Katie.” Tom's voice suddenly came on in the jailbroken Pebble in my ear. He had been listening the entire time. “You did it. I can't believe they had someone in the Central Office doing their dirty work for them. But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, given the state of things...” I could hear the disappointment in his voice. “Anyway, congrats on another successful case, Katie.”

I swallowed. I wasn't normally not this soft, but I felt a sudden urge to cry. Maybe it was my recent brush with death, maybe it was the loss of the friend I almost had in Lara. “I don't deserve it, Tom. It was all Lara. She lost her life over this, Teddy Leung lost his only daughter, and Leung Industries lost their best engineer.”

Tom was silent for a moment. “I know, but there was no other way. We were running short on time. And we didn't have any high ranking allies. Not anyone we could trust.” He sighed. “There is going to be a shit show after this, you know that, right?   The fallout from something like this, it’s not going to be pretty.”

“I'm ready, sir.”

“Good. And Katie?”

“Yeah?”

“We're switching to a different comms device after this.”

I chuckled, despite feeling like weeping. “I sure hope so, sir.”

——

There is no crime in Quoxe

Poison is often a tool of our own tongues

My only poison is the drop of a bottle

But the city of Quoxe has poison its own

One glance at a capital camera

your face, thoughts, profile, foreseen forever

Yet one man exists, a killer, has evaded city grasp

They say he's monstrous and ghastly

A face that can transform in a second

Eyes that could suck a soul, one bright

one dark and tall and slender as tree bark

Passes from frames as a shadow, as a

lightning strike beneath a swift of clouds

I stated it all impossible, I designed the cameras.

But the calls added up with the bottles

The first call, when I left in a haste for my

medication. The doctor asking how my sleep

had been, and if recent killings had deprived

me further. "Killings? Of course not. There is no

crime in Quoxe."

The second call, at dusk, in a knock on my door,

an officer reporting two bodies, but when I

checked the footage in the small of my home,

nothing. A slight blackening, so split you could

miss it, then a body. Two. Three.

I was called into city counsel, gave my reports.

"It's an error on his part!"

"Suicides, they are! There's no crime in Quoxe!"

Indeed, there was no crime in Quoxe.

But there indeed was a killer amongst the high ranks.

"Gentlement, your attention," I stated with a grunt,

"My technology is perfect. And in Quoxe there is no crime.

But I will investigate to ease your consciouses."

I went first to the house of crime, where the bodies

were identified.

Alice Jenson

Carrie Ply

Stuart Ty

All employees of the council, humble servants of the lords

Alice Jenson was my scretary, responsible for

upkeep and small favors, she one proposed to me

Carrie Play was the janitor, she once locked

me in my office by mistake, then proposed to me

Stuart Ty was my assistant, often inquiring about

advanced payments and promotional opportunities

A moment I left, back to city counsel,

I pulled out of my bag, a small mask, looked like another

I returned to the council, another human entirely.

"I am Detective Narwal. I am investigating the three murders

committed by the designated Quoxe killer."

My suspisions fell to the council, six members who

for privacy's sake I must simply call by number.

One told me that there was no crime.

Two pulled off my mask.

Three called for the guards.

Four stipped me down.

Five escorted me out.

Six revoked my title.

They say he's human but uneasy

A face that can transform in a second

Eyes that have never slept,

dark bags slender as tree bark

Passes from frames as a shadow, as a

lightning strike beneath a swift of clouds

The next day the camera mysteriously collapsed

A technical error, no doubt

And another face appeared

And suddenly, dead

One, two, three, four, five, six.

The mirror provides hints,

every now and then. No drops

from the bottles. No lights or

detectives. No council, no promotion

no proposals, just the gouge of loneliness

Fortunately, I have nothing to fear

The footage is missing, engrained in my mind

There is no crime in Quoxe.