Particles of Murder (A Shadow of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 1) (14 page)

“I thought I had been telling you to fuck off this whole time.”

“I’ll actually listen this time,” he says. “Promise. If you don't like it, you could always write your own story. That's the best way to process your emotions. Write everything down until it doesn't hurt anymore.”

"I'm not a pour-my-heart-out kind of girl."

"Practice makes perfect," he says.

I keep a tight hold of the stack of paper as I leave. I wonder for a second if I trust him or not. Then I realize that there’s no middle ground and no hesitation in trust. If there is even a flicker of doubt, there is no trust.

T
hey say
God gave us free will because He loved us enough to give us choices and He wanted us to love him enough to choose to love Him. But this didn’t seem right to me when you add hell to the mythology--was it free will if you were punished for all eternity for the decisions you made, while there were so many other religions, all claiming to be the right one?

Long story short, it seemed to me that God gave us a .22 revolver that held nine rounds. Then He put only eight bullets in it and forced us to pull the trigger. God's free will was Russian roulette and since man was made in His image, everyone else seemed to like to force others to play too.

"Mom, I've been really busy," I said into the phone. I leaned next to an abstract painting that made me think of bleeding butterflies. I was supposed to be getting to class, but my mother never could understand the concept that life continued to unfold outside of her sphere of influence. "I've applied to six jobs this semester, but all of the other students are vying for the same jobs. They're giving it to the perky, happy people who have connections--"

"You could act perky and happy," she interrupted. "You're not trying. You always do this. You resign yourself to only do half of what you're capable of, and then you consider yourself a hard worker. You should try."

"I am trying," I hissed. "Why can't you understand that? You've never even been to college, so I don't know why you feel like--"

"How dare you--you know what? This conversation is over," she said. "Call me when you can act like an adult."

She hung up. I rested my head against the wall, staring up at the white ceiling.
Come on, God. I'm getting desperate here. Aren't you supposed to come when I'm desperate?

"You were asking for me?"

I lowered my head. Dr. Zimmer was standing in front of me.

"Excuse me?" I asked. "I wasn't...I wasn't asking for you."

"You weren't?" he asked.

I stared at him. Could he secretly be God? Could God have entered my life when I most needed Him and just didn't make it as obvious as I thought He would.

Dr. Zimmer continued, "Dr. Carrigan said you were by my office and you were asking where I was."

"Oh," I said. "Right. I was. Um. Before the end of the semester, your syllabus said we have to submit a poem or story to a literary magazine. I was wondering if you knew of one that fit my...style of writing."

"Great writing fits everywhere," he said.

"Oh, Jesus, thank you," I mumbled. "But I mean--"

"I know what you meant," he said. "There are a few I could think of that I think would fit your darker style. Is it okay if I just email them to you? It's easier if I have some time to think about it because there are just so many options and my mind is half-filled with Sylvia Plath and half-filled with the fact that I was an idiot and spilled my coffee all over my lap, so I don't have much space for anything else."

"Of course," I said. "Absolutely. That would be...I'd be really grateful if you’d do that."

"It's no problem," he said. "Your work is great. You don't speak up much in class, but when you do, everyone pays attention because you're so adept at pointing out exactly what's wrong with a person's work. You do it without being condescending, and you're always tactful. If you don't feel comfortable in class, you know you can always come see me. You have an immense amount of talent, but I think you're burying it under inhibition and uncertainty over what you're capable of."

"You sound like my mother," I said. "Except less critical."

He raised an eyebrow. "Well, I don't know your mother, but I don't think your self-consciousness is a flaw. I think it means that you're very aware of yourself. I just think it can also be problematic when you let it dictate whether you speak up or not, or whether or not you choose to go deeper into that part of your writing that you're afraid to write."

"I'm not afraid to write anything," I said. "Remember? I wrote that World War I story with all of that blood and gore."

"That's not what I meant," he said. "And I think you know that. There are feelings and scenarios that we consciously or unconsciously avoid writing about because it hits a little too close to home. But I promise you, once you write those words down, get those feelings out, everything around you feels a little bit less heavy."

I looked down at my hands clasped in front of me. How could he know exactly how I felt? Like the air was too thick and gravity was pushing down on my chest instead of my whole body?

"Thank you," I murmured.

"I'll see you later." He patted me on the shoulder as he walked past, continuing on whatever path he had been on before he had seen me. Because that was how all my relationships happened.

But maybe I wasn’t supposed to be meek, like God proposed. Maybe I was supposed to stride forward and take what I wanted. Maybe I needed to speak up and never let my message be dulled by fear.

Or, at least, those were my thoughts before I realized that God had handed me another gun--but this one,
this one
, I wasn't going to use against myself.

After all, when I spoke, everyone listened the fuck up.

“
M
arie is
an exceptional student with a creative mind that, quite frankly, makes me jealous. I am certain in one way or another, she will contribute to the literary world and challenge the minds of everyone who reads her work
,” I quote from one of John’s recommendation letters. I hand it to Andre. “Do you think that’s supposed to be a backhanded compliment? It could be that he’s saying her work is too complex, so it’ll be challenging for people to read.”

“It sounded like a plain old compliment to me,” he says, scanning the letter. “Why? Are you jealous what he wrote about her?”

“What? No. Why would I be jealous?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I feel like your relationship with this professor is a lot like mine—you don’t trust him, but you keep finding a reason to be around him. I’ve been thinking maybe there was something going on between the two of you.”

“No,” I say. “I mean, there was something for one night, but—”

“Okay, too much information.” He hands me back the letter. “I don’t see how reading these will tell you anything about the case. I don’t even know why you insist on trying to figure it out.”

“Don’t you?” I challenge.

“Of course,” he says. “Your sister. But you can’t…you can’t dedicate your whole life to her. It’s been twenty years. I know you miss her and you feel guilty, but there’s nothing you can do about it now.”

“You don’t believe that,” I say. “That’s why you’re trying to find her killer. We’re honoring her memory.”

“How is it honoring her memory when you’re obsessing over this idea of justice?” he asks. “There will always be cases where the killer runs free. I just don’t want you to endanger your life because you’re constantly pursuing killers. I love you and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

I rub my face. “You’re really going to use that phrase now?”

“What?
I love you
?” he asks. “Yes. I’ll use it all of the time. I’ll use it as a greeting and as a way to say goodbye. And I’ll mean it every time.”

I pull my hair band off of my wrist and pull my hair up into a ponytail. I avoid looking at him.

“Did you find anything in the letters that might show a pattern with the letters written for the two previous victims?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. “I mean, in those two letters, he seemed more open to showing preference toward them,” he says. “But if we’re going by his level of affection in the letters, most of these people could still be a target. He calls Travis a visionary, he says Jennifer seems like she was born with a pen in her hand, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Lita’s books ended up on the bestseller’s list. It seems to me that this guy had to be overestimating his students’ talents. There’s no way these people were as talented as he made them out to be.”

“Maybe he just cared enough about them to see them that way,” I say. “Focus. The killer has to be going in some kind of pattern, right?”

“Yeah. The pattern of a crazy person,” he says. “If the killer is focusing on Dr. Zimmer’s favorites, they probably were choosing by how affectionate he seemed of them. That’s why the killer chose two students he currently still had, and the first one was his T.A.”

“That makes sense, but it doesn’t help us. He seems to like them all,” I say. “John is the kind of person that—wait. I never told you his name. How did you know his last name was Zimmer?”

Andre’s face is completely stoic for a second. He points to the end of the letter.

“He signed it, Mira,” he says. “Do you really trust me that little?”

I flush. Of course.

“I’m so stupid, I’m sorry,” I say. “I guess…just being at that college, I have this feeling that I can’t trust anybody and it’s driving me crazy. They’re all so secretive there.”

“You can trust me,” he says. “I always have your best interests in mind.”

My cell phone rings. I glance down. It’s my mother.

“Answer it,” Andre says. “I need to get a drink anyway.”

He stands up and walks toward my kitchen. I pick up my phone.

“Hey, Mom,” I say.

“Mira,” she says, her voice sounding more high-pitched than usual. “Mira…something happened.”

“What?” I ask. “Is Dad okay?”

Hearing my panic, Andre steps back out into the living room. His eyes examine my face, trying to figure out every possible emotion I could be feeling. I don’t even know what I’m feeling.

“He’s fine. It’s Liam,” she says. “I don’t know what happened to your brother. The paramedics say he was throwing up in his dorms and then he passed out. I don’t know…I just…We’re all at Tuskmirth Hospital. I know you’re busy with work—”

Not sure how much longer I can avoid the discussion about how I was fired.

“—But, I thought you should know.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” I say. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I promise. I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too,” she says. “Be careful.”

I hang up.

“What’s wrong?” Andre asks.

“My brother was really sick and then he passed out, so he’s at the hospital. Tuskmirth Hospital,” I say.

“And you said you’d be there in half an hour? It’s at least a forty minute drive,” he says.

“I need to get there,” I say. “That’s all I know. I need to get there as fast as possible. My brother never gets sick.”

“Well, luckily you have an expert at backroads and pushing a car as fast as it can go.” He strides over to me and grabs my hand. “Let’s go.”

* * *

I
t's nearly
midnight by the time I step into my brother's room. To my surprise, he's awake, typing on a laptop in his hospital bed. My parents are sitting beside the bed--my mother is just watching my brother like he might disappear if she blinks, while my father seems to be responding to emails on his phone.

"Hey," I say. My parents both look at me, but my brother is too busy typing to hear me or care. "I guess he woke up?"

"Yes," my mother says, standing up. She hugs me, her embrace a little tighter than usual and her voice lacking the chipper tone she usually has. "He woke up about--what do you think, Tom? Twenty minutes ago--I think it was twenty minutes ago. He immediately asked for a laptop because he said he needed to stay in contact with those other activists and he wouldn't take no for an answer, so...your father went back to the store where Liam had left his bag, and grabbed his laptop."

I shake my head, sitting down near my brother's feet.

"Hey, Liam?" I ask. "I'm pretty sure the world can wait to be saved. We need to figure out what's wrong with you."

"There's plenty of things wrong with me," he says, not looking up and continuing to type. "It's part of being a human in a society where flaws are dressed up as desirable traits--aggressiveness, greed, ignorance, lustfulness. But I can't wait. If someone is trying to kill me, I need to get all my thoughts out."

"What makes you think someone is trying to kill you?" I ask. "I mean, what happened to you is similar to the murder victims, but you're still alive and you aren't a student of Dr. Zimmer's."

"Isn't it obvious?" he asks, looking up at me for the first time. His eyes are a slightly darker shade of green than mine, but the intensity is enough that I've seen full-grown police officers step back. "I'm trying to push the police into continuing these investigations until the killer is caught and you, my sister, are part of that investigation. This is a threat to me and to you. I wasn't meant to die this time--or at least, they didn't intend for me to die--but this person has no fear of committing murder and if they think it will get the police off their back, I'm sure they'll have no problem killing me."

I rub my temple. Most of the time I find his theories a bit farfetched, but this one makes some sense. Except for one part.

"Actually, uh, I'm not part of the investigation anymore," I say. "I'm not even working for the police anymore."

"What?" my father blurts, setting down his phone. "What happened? Why would you leave such a good job?"

"I...didn't," I say. "I was...well, there's a lot to it, but the lead detective decided that I shouldn't be part of the murder investigations, and that involved me no longer working for the police and being fired. I think it was better that I left though. They didn't care about solving murders for the sake of justice--"

"Amen," Liam mutters.

"They just wanted to solve murders that would make them look good," I say. "I couldn't stand around and watch that."

"So...you were fired," my father says.

I force a smile and turn to face Liam, trying to ignore the disappointment on my father's face.

"So, you feel fine?" I ask. "How could the killer even know that you're my brother?"

"Well, I think I have an idea who it is and I had heard that you had been at his office, so he could have figured out who you are and made the connection through our last name," he says. "Or he asked around."

"Who are you talking about?"

"Dr. Pierce."

"Dr. Pierce?" I echo. "I talked to him and he seemed to be lying before, but I couldn't find anything that was concrete evidence."

"Well, maybe you should have just asked your dear little brother and I could have given you an eyewitness statement that Dr. Pierce and Victoria were acting like they were closer than a student and professor should," he says. "He had his arm on her shoulder. They were definitely involved. Maybe Everett witnessed Victoria's murder--"

"No," I interrupt. "There was a third victim that wasn't even from this college and they all connect back to a different professor. He has a solid alibi, though, so we're thinking the victim has a grudge against him or something."

He stares at me. "My theory could still work. Maybe this other victim knew something."

"I don't think so, Liam."

"Mira, I nearly died," he says. "Or I could have died. That least you could do is ask him about his relationship with Victoria."

"What did you think I was doing the last time I questioned him?"

"Well, put more pressure on him," he says, his voice raising. "Tell him you have an eyewitness that saw him getting overly comfortable in Victoria's private space."

I rub my temple harder. I wish I could push all the way through my skin and touch my brain to make it work better. Or actually, I’d rather shut off all of my thoughts so I no longer have to deal with them.

"I can talk to him again," I say. "But I have to be careful. The police will be angry if they see me still involved with this case."

He nods. "Good. Good. Mira--I'm really glad that you chose to do what's right over your job. I know I've always been critical of you, but I just want truth and justice to win out. I don't want the dead’s voices to be snuffed out because of bureaucrats."

"I'll do my best," I say. "But you need to get better."

"I'll get better when whoever tried to hurt me is caught," he says. "So, please, don't just sit here like Mom and Dad. Find the asshole and make sure he's arrested."

"I'll do my best," I repeat.

He turns back to his laptop, so I spin around to face my parents. They’re looking at me with a combination of disappointment and sorrow that simultaneously makes me want to hide from them and burrow into their arms.

"Look,” I say, “I know you think it's bad that I don't have a job right now, but I'm going to figure it out."

"I know you will," my mother says, reaching forward and hugging me again.

My father nods, but returns back to his phone. I have a feeling that he's getting in touch with all of his contacts, but I don't think anyone in the magic business can help me right now.

However, I might be able to make a killer reveal his tricks.

* * *

D
r. Pierce's
office is distinctively different from John's. It's full of bright colors--including a painted red desk and sky blue bookcase. I get the sense that it's made to make Dr. Pierce feel happier rather than be an expression of his personality because I haven't seen a single hint of vibrancy in him. Then again, I don't think I would be too lively if I were being constantly accused of murder, either.