"I Know Who Killed Me"

The snow came down in wet, grimy sheets, somewhere between frozen and liquid; on a night like this, the whole city seems to be in mourning. I am, certainly, because the pretty girl on the news, the sixth victim of the "subway ripper" is my friend. Was my friend. Alyssa was the kind of girl that everyone loved, but few people talked about; when her body was found, so disfigured that they had to use the ID in her wallet to find out who she was, people came out of the woodwork from all over the city. Her funeral was standing room only, but that didn't help. Nothing helped.

No amount of digging, police inspection, or investigative journalism had helped. Three months of searching with the help of an elderly librarian had led only to a dead end and a list of suspects who were already dead or incarcerated. Some journalist I turned out to be.

A bottle of whisky down and no warmer for it, I can only watch the snow pile up on the fire escapes and drop down to pile in the gutters below. The drones that fly from window to window throughout the city look like tiny flying saucers in this light. One of them makes a beeline for my grimy window and bounces against it gently a few times before I realize it's not a mistake; it's looking for me. I point to the next room,

"This window is stuck," I holler, hoping the audio sensors can pick me up, "one window to the left." It follows studiously and wheezes into the room like a tired mule when I open the window for it. Grotty, slightly bent, it drops the payload and turns away without waiting for payment or verification. Just limps away and disappears into the gloom.

It's an unassuming box, barely held together by thin brown tape. It all but disintegrated, soaked as it was, and revealed a necklace - Alyssa's necklace. A tiny, silver, and rose gold pendant I had given her for her 21st birthday, it looks sad and tarnished on the grubby wooden floor. A folded note fell next to it, wet and smudged but still legible, read,

"I know who murdered me."

It's like an electric shock; a terrifying hum of shock and fear and... hope The tiny chain shivers in my hands as I lift it to eye level and search it for signs. It is mute, but definitely hers, and for a second I can hear her laugh. The laptop stares from its corner, a half-written article still open on its screen. An account of a failure, or so I had thought, but now I see the opportunity to plant a seed of hope. Scrambling to take pictures of the box and contents, I add them to the email with the half-finished article and send them to Clarice, my editor. There's no reply, of course, because it's the heart of night, but for the first time in weeks, I sleep well.

The necklace catches the first rays of light in the morning and spurs me to action; swabs, pictures, and then a thorough cleaning before I hook it around my neck before sitting at the laptop to check my emails. No reply from Clarice, but a quick search of popular databases shows that no officially scheduled drone visited my address last night. Another thrill of excitement; a private drone, then, which explains its condition. I snatch my coat and the note before making a beeline for the door.

The library on Wallen Street is tiny and dingy, but unbelievably well-stocked. This is in no small part to Dr. Louden; stooped, bespectacled, and soft-spoken, he has tenaciously built his private collection into a public resource that welcomes all, but recieves few thanks to its quiet location and lack of signage. If I were less selfish, I'd shout about it from the rooftops, but I like having the space to myself more often than not. He greets me the same as always, with a wave of a frail hand and a small smile that falters as he potters to the back stacks. This time, however, I wait for him to come back,

"Dr. Louden," I say as he approaches,

"John, please, call me John," he says and lowers himself into a rolling office chair, "how can I help you Grace?"

"I received a parcel last night," I say and hand him the note, "with this necklace." He leans in, pushing his glasses up his thin, romanesque nose,

"Ah, very pretty," he says,

"It was Alyssa's." I drop that fact like a bomb, but he barely reacts, just raises his bushy brows and opens the note, making a few small sounds.

"Well, well," he says, "what do you think this means?"

"What- Dr. Louden, John," I lean forward, "Alyssa is alive! She must be, she's, she's hiding from the killer and she wants me to find her. To find him so that she can come out safely."

"Well," he draws the word out slowly, "I suppose that is one possibility, yes," he took his glasses off and folded them before placing them carefully into his chest pocket. "Isn't it also possible that it's the killer? Goading you because your investigation came too close?"

"We found nothing!" I can feel the considered, painful turn of his thoughts and it makes me want to scream.

"Well, we found nothing that made sense to us," he said, "but that doesn't mean we didn't find anything connected to the killer." He spreads his hands. "Perhaps we stumbled onto something small without realizing it, and this is a warning?"

"Why would he spur me on to search?" I demand,

"What makes you think it's a man?" He asks with a benign smile that is all the more infuriating because he's right. He's right about all of it, and right to ask the question. "And what makes you think it's not a threat? You say it could be Alyssa crying for help, I say it could be an easy way for a killer to show you that they know where you live." With that, he leans back and gives me a moment to think, and to admit to myself that it's a real possibility. He leans forward to pat my hand. "Be careful, my dear," he says, "and tell me if you receive anything else."

He's right, of course, that's no shock to me, but there's a seed of doubt planted in my belly that won't stop growing. As the city slips by, I can remember every corner we stood on, every place we ate, every time we lost each other as children and returned, unerringly to that same rock in the park to meet up once more...

"The park." It's a prayer, a whisper that sends me running to the nearest subway station, not without a thrill of fear, and out into the crisp air. The park is quiet, a little dingy, but then again it always was. It's not a tourist trap, just a neighbourhood park for the local kids. It hasn't changed in twenty years. We used to play here, and then sneak out to meet boys here...

The rock at its upper left corner is laden with graffiti, new over old, but the sentiments are the same. Who loves who, who's a whore, which football team sucks... always the same. I circle it again and again until my feet hurt, losing hope with each turn until a ragged edge of grass with loose dirt in it brings me to a stop. It peels back easily, revealing a small hole with a ring box jammed in it. I pocket it and walk away, the back of my neck prickling with each step. If it is the killer, he's a smart one. She. He? Who knows, but the two doubt seeds are sprouting rapidly, fighting for sunlight and nourishment. On the subway home, I peek inside; a USB stick. Plain black with its metal edge gleaming like a fan.

At home, the silence is loud, so loud that the whir of the laptop fan is like thunder. There's only one file on it; a video, and for a second I'm afraid to open it. What if...

What if - a question that plagues me every day now. What if I had met her for dinner? What if I had called her before she went down to the subway? What if I hadn't called her when she was leaving work? Five minutes here or there... what if? The video is black, pure blackness, but the voice is hers,

"Grace? Jesus, I hope it's you, Grace listen to me, I'm not dead. I know it sounds crazy, but... but there were two of us, women I mean, and he attacked us both. When I woke up, she was dead and... I... *sob* I... so I smashed her face in and I gave her my wallet, please don't hate me. *more sobbing*"

I pause the video and sit back, feelings washing across me like waves. Horror, relief, disgust, anger, love. Play.

"Because, I knew that if everyone knew I was alive they'd want to talk to me, and he'd try to come back for me. I need, I need your help. I know who he is. What he looks like, I mean, and I've been trying to find out who he is, and I think I know. But I need your help. If you get this, when you find this, come to the Sunny Massage Parlour and ask for Joy."

A sensible person would take some time to think about it, but, mad with joy and love and grief and rage, I search the address and run the fourteen blocks. By the time I make it to the massage shop, it's closed, but the light is on and a pretty middle ages woman comes to the door when I hammer on it incessantly. She opens the door with a look of irritation until she makes out what I'm saying,

"Joy, I need to speak to Joy, please," I say over and over until she seems to understand and her face clears,

"Come in," she says quickly and ushers me in, locking the door behind me before she leads me up through the building to a cramped living space on the top floor. And she's there, Alyssa, skinnier and tired looking with big dark circles under her eyes, but it's her. She's alive. When I wrap my arms around her she feels soft and light, and she smells of strange soap and shampoo, nothing like herself, but gloriously whole,

"Hey, oh God, hey," I whisper, unable to say anything else,

"Hey you," she whispers back and hugs me so tight that it hurts. I can't bring myself to move away, though.

"Tell me everything," I whisper as the woman turns to leave,

"I... oh, God, it was awful," Alyssa whispers and sinks into a hard chair, "he came out of nowhere, he had some kind of spray and it burned. He caught her right in the face. I was down tying my shoe, I don't think he saw me at first," she said, "and when I stood up, it got me a little too. He was scared, I know he was, because he started swearing. He hit me, or I thought he did, in the chest, and I went down... and when I woke up it was just me and her..." she looks down and picks her nails, "she was dead and he... I..." she pulls her shirt neck down to show a livid scar. "He stabbed me, he must have thought I was dead too. But I wasn't and she was... in much worse shape. And I knew he had gotten a better look at me than I had at him, so I let the whole world think I was dead. But I kept the knife..." she reaches under the hideaway bed. "Susan is my dads friend from way back, she hid me." She hands me a knife, ornate, old. Not a cheap, store-bought thing.

"Ok, I can use this, tell me what he looks like," I whisper, "I'll find him."

"I already traced it," she says, "Susan's man is a P.I... he says it's one of a kind. Bought at an auction house in London."

"Ok, by who?" I can feel my heart hammering, getting quicker,

"No name, a company, but this is the address," she says and hands over a slip of paper. It's in the city, ten minutes by car, maybe.

"What did he look like?" I ask and she chews her lip,

"Old, white guy wearing a black trenchcoat..." she laughs, "sounds cliched I know, but it's true. He looked... refined. Not a crazy, you know. I was almost shocked to hear him swearing." She's gone pale, drained by the memory. "I just need you to take this to the police."

"That'll take too long," I say, "I'll sneak in, get some evidence. Say I received it anonymously."

"Will they be able to use that in court?" Alyssa asks, eyes wide,

"No," I shake my head, "but it'll make them take a good hard look at him. Speed things up maybe."

"Be careful," she whispers, as if I'm the one who nearly died, and hugs me tight before I leave.

A sensible woman would not go to a possible serial killers apartment alone, but sensible women don't generally become investigative journalists. So I creep up the quiet street with my hood pulled up and spy on the address for an hour or so, taking pictures before I move closer. It's a grand old house, but it's in bad condition. As if the person living there doesn't care for it or spends their time doing other things. There's a single light on in the lower part of the house, and that's what I avoid.

Unlike most of the houses in this area, it has a basement, and the boxy window has one broken pane. The cardboard covering it comes away easily, but I shouldn't have bothered; the window swings open with a slight creak, and I freeze. The basement is dark and cluttered. No one enters, no sound breaks the thick silence. I wriggle in slowly, and take a second after my feet hit a solid desk to wonder what the fuck I'm doing.

But if there's one place a serial killer might hide evidence, it's in an area of the home no visitor will ever wander into by accident. This basement is such a place, but the stacks of papers piled high are mostly junk. I know this is the house, but that won't convince the police. So I dig, quietly, for something like a clue with my thin blue gloves already getting slick from sweat on the inside. Academic papers, hundreds of them, which makes sense; refined, Alyssa said, and also educated it seems.

Nothing. There's nothing at all incriminating until a floorboard shifts under my foot. Under the shaking phone flashlight, the space is grotty and dark, but there's a shoe box tied with twine that slips off easily under my fingers. Inside there are a range of trinkets; pieces of jewellery, handkerchiefs, and, most horrifyingly, locks of hair. I suppress a retch and take a quick photograph before I fumble to put the box back. The floorboard snaps into place with a sound like thunder and that comforting drone from the TV stops,

"Shit, shit, shit," I whisper all the way back to the window and manage to wriggle out as the slow, shuffling steps reach the basement and the light flicks on. I close the window softly and shuffle the cardboard back into place before creeping around the side of the house. I hear the window open behind me, and as if by divine intervention a clatter echoes from the next garden and the window closes. A latch clicks and the window of opportunity, forgive the pun, is closed.

The question of whether to check the front window for a face is a burning one. Will he call the police if he sees me? Would he dare? More importantly, how fast can he really move when motivated? Can I outrun him? It all pales in comparison to the memory of Alyssa's ragged, livid scar and the burning hate the image inspires.

Thankfully, I don't need to make the choice because as I round the house corner, the porch light clicks on and he steps out into the light. Elderly, slim, refined with a slightly romanesque nose and gold-rimmed glasses. He stands tall, but there's a slight stoop to his shoulders. For a moment, I almost can't breath, then I raise the camera and take a picture. The soft click draws his attention, and when his face turns towards me his heart breaks.

When I break into a run, Dr. Louden takes the porch steps with surprising speed. Fifty years of extra age will slow anyone down, however, and I make it to my car, thanking God I left it open as I lock the door behind me. I expect to look up and see him outside the drivers' side window... but he's staring at the car, at me, from the gate. When I turn the interior light on to let him see my face, he closes his eyes and looks away. He doesn't turn as I drive away, and somehow he's still there when the police go to collect him in the morning. Too old to run any further than the garden gate, I suppose.

When Alyssa rose like Lazarus, however, he did try to run from his place in the dock. I like to think seeing him maced, in turn, gave Alyssa a little peace.