The Box

I slide my key into the lock of my front door. It's been a long day at work. Another unsolved murder in this big city, another column for me to write. I lock the door behind me and head to the kitchen. I pull my notes from my bag, setting them out before I grab a tv dinner to heat up in the microwave. A strange droning noise interrupts me. I stand still and listen. It's right outside my door. I tiptoe back and peek through my peephole as the sound fades away. No one is there so I open the door, picking up the cardboard box that had been left behind. Surprisingly light despite its size, I carry it to my table. I know I didn't order anything and I stayed late at work tonight. I open the box to find a strange photograph of a brunette woman walking down a street. I don't recognize her. It's when I flip over the photo that I grab my phone and dial my contact at the police department.

'She's next' is scrawled across the back. Fingers tapping, I wait for Detective Samuel to answer the dang phone. When he finally picks up with his southern drawl, I take a deep breath.

"I need you to come over. Off the record."

"I thought we had an only business relationship," he quips over the phone.

"This is serious," I respond, trying to keep my voice level.

"Did something happen?" His tone changing. Guess I didn't sound as normal as I'd hoped.

"You want to see this. That unsolved murder I'm supposed to write about in the morning? Looks like it's not just a murder." The microwave beeps at me and I jump.

"I'm on my way," he hangs up the phone. I pace as I wait, counting down the minutes. I glance at the picture. I don't recognize the woman. I shake my head. Why would the killer send me a photograph? How did he know where I lived? I tread around my small apartment, making sure the windows are locked. A knock heralds the detective's arrival. I check the peephole just to be sure. His face is looking back at me. I unlock and open the door so he can step inside.

"What have you got for me?" I lead him to my kitchen island, where the box and photo are still sitting.

"After I opened the box, I called you." He steps around to look, brown hair falling in his eyes. He doesn't touch the photo or box. "The back of the photo says 'she's next'."

"So you think there's a serial killer," he glances at me. "And he knows where you live." He pulls his phone off his hip and starts making phone calls. I've been tight with the department for years, even helping at times. I've been first on the scene before. I've just never thought a scene would be in my home. He lets officers and forensics in, gathering them around the box. They ask dozens of questions. Where did the delivery come from, how did it get here, do I know who sent it? Of course I don't. A drone had dropped it off without a delivery notice or any indicators. They dust everywhere, but the only fingerprints found belong to me. Whoever sent the package had worn gloves.

After everyone had left, Detective Samuel and I were alone with the mess left behind. "I don't want you staying here alone. Someone obviously knows you're here. You're a target. I think I need to put you in the protection program." I shake my head, even though my heart is racing at the idea that the killer could be someone I know.

"I still have a job to do. No one, not even a murderer, is going to stop me from getting to the truth." I refuse to let someone scare me away from my passion. Or my job.

"Damn the job," I look at Samuel, eyes wide. "I want you safe. I want that killer stopped as much as you, but not at the cost of your life." I study his face, his firm jaw set.

"I can stay somewhere else for the time being, but I'm not giving up. He's sent this to me for a reason." If there's a way I can stop him from getting his next victim, I'm going to find it. "I've got my notes on the most recent unsolved murder. Take me wherever, but I'm not going to stop investigating." He sighs, looking down and shaking his head.

"Stubborn as always. Pack a bag, I'll take you to my place. We can go over what you've got in the morning after I type up my report." I give a small nod and head to my room, leaving him to stand in my kitchen. "But I don't want you going to work," he calls after me. I can't help but laugh. And he calls me stubborn.

We load up in his unmarked cruiser and drive to his apartment. I lean my head against the window, still trying to process what it all means. I stare into the night, streetlights passing by in a blur.

"When was the package delivered?" Interrupted in my thoughts, I glance at him.

"Within minutes of being home. I left my dinner in the microwave." He glances at me, his face unreadable. "He either knew when I left the office, or he knew when I walked through the door." We pull into a parking space.

"I don't like either option," he said as he stepped out of the car. "I need you to lay low, out of sight. We'll investigate more in the morning." He leads me up a flight of stairs, unlocking a door and leading me into a small apartment.

"Minimalistic," I comment as he leads me to his office space. A small couch sat on the opposite side of a desk.

"I figure you won't get much sleep, so you can use the desk. If you ever get tired, there's the couch. I'll pull out a pillow and blanket for you." He walks back out the door. I pull out my notes and sit at the desk. A little lamp with a slot for pens and pencils sits on the corner and I turn it on. I separate my notes on the murder and take up my notebook. Writing down the timeline for when I got the mysterious package, Samuel walks back in. Setting a pile of bedding on one end of the couch, he steps over and looks at what I'm writing. I've started a separate timeline for when the first murder victim was reported missing to when the body was found. He takes his leave with a shake of his head. I shrug to myself and continue working. Between my stacks of notes, I begin to try to piece together the puzzle. A young woman had been brutally murdered, brunette and average height. The woman in the photograph flits across my mind's eye. She had been walking down a street and turning into a storefront. No idea that someone was stalking her. How soon would the killer act?

Frustrated, I set down my pen. I didn't have enough information. Why the killer had sent the package eluded me. What did I have or do to catch his eye? As an investigative journalist, I was often involved in detective work. It's how I met Samuel in the first place. With a sigh, I lay down. It was late and I needed rest if I was going to keep a sharp eye out.

I tossed and turned all night. As the light began trickling in through the small window, I got up and turned on the news. Another missing person's report. I grab for the remote as a picture flashes across the screen. The tv is still paused as Samuel enters the room. He looks at me questioningly.

"It's her. From the photograph."

Another series of phone calls and Samuel sits down beside me, laptop in hand. I hold my notebook, adding to my timeline.

"So what's happening?" I look at him from the corner of my eye. He sighs audibly as he opens his laptop.

Running a hand over his face, he responds, "She went missing within hours of that box being sent to your house. Whoever this guy is, he works fast." He shakes his head. "We estimate the last victim was with her killer for a matter of days, three or four, before she was killed and the body found."

"If that was his first time," I trail off. He gives a short nod.

"This time might not take as long."

"The last victim was a workaholic, how does she fit in?" I muse.

"Workaholic? Wait," Samuel begins typing on his laptop. "Bingo. Part of his MO looks to be young brunette mothers working more hours than the father."

"Do you think that's a mother complex?" I ask, thinking about the motive and the angle.

He shakes his head again, fingers still moving over the keyboard. "I don't know. The first body was found on the south side of town. We need to figure out where his base of operations is."

He's beginning to talk more to himself than to me. I reach for my phone. I start to open the web browser when I realize I have a notification.

"Samuel," something in my voice makes him turn to me, "I have a notification for a package at my door."

"Shit," he mutters, grabbing his phone and making a call. "I need someone to meet us at journalist Rosalind Montgomery's apartment, asap. There's another box."

I grab my shoes and throw them on my feet. "I'm coming with you."

"No. You stay here."

"That's not happening. It's a box sent to me at my home. If you're going there, I'm coming with you. If not, then I'm walking." I stare him down but he shakes his head, grabbing his jacket and opening the door.

"Fine. Only 'cause I know you well enough to know you'd really start walking."

We pull into my apartment complex, police cruisers already there. They have the box in the back of one of their vans. A couple detectives stand near the doors, one of them watching for Samuel. As he makes his way to them with me trailing behind, one of the men taps the other.

"We haven't opened it yet. Dusted it, but there's no fingerprints." Samuel gives them a nod. He moves over to let me stand with them.

"Why don't you open the box," he gives me a nudge. I glance at him, one eyebrow raised, but I do it anyway. I need to know what's in the box.

There are two photographs and a short note. One photo is the victim taken last night. She looks busted up, but fully clothed. Alive. The next photograph is another woman, similar to the first two with long brown hair, walking down a different street. I read the note aloud.

"You won't be able to save Emily. She's already gone. But maybe you can stop me before I take my next little birdie. I'll even give you a hint. Her first name is Sarah. That's all it says." I look at Samuel but he's already turning away with his phone in hand. I glance back at the pictures in the box. Twenty-four hours, and it was already too late. How long would we have this time?

I ride with Samuel to the police department. I give my statement, answer their questions and step back out into the light of day. Samuel leans against his car, waiting for me. I lean back beside him.

"What now?"

"There's a search for the body of the second victim. Police are combing the city for Sarah, assuming she's brunette like the others. Specialists are analyzing the handwriting. I'm taking you to a safehouse." He opens the door for me to climb in. I give him a long look but decide against arguing. Maybe later I'd give him a few words, but right now time was slipping away. We drive for an eternity, silence stretching and distorting time. His phone rings and he listens for a moment before hanging up.

"They think they've found her. Matches the MO with two kids, climbing the corporate ladder. They're en route to pick up the family." My phone gives a ding, interrupting him. I look at it.

"There's been a delivery."

Driving back to my apartment, Samuel drives with the phone to his ear. We're the first ones here this time. Hanging up with his last call, we walk up the stairs to my door. The box is smaller this time, with a red ribbon tied around it. The sun is setting, a reminder of the loss of time.

"Do I go ahead and open it?"

"I'd rather we wait, but if it's like the previous ones then there won't be any fingerprints."

I give a nod, swallowing against the lump in my throat. Kneeling, I pull the string to unravel the bow. No tape this time. I open the flap on the box. There's another picture and a note. I feel the blood drain from my face and look up at Samuel. It's my photo in the box.

He curses under his breath as I stand up, note in hand.

"You finally saved one birdie. But can you save yourself?" I turn to look at Samuel, his phone to his ear. My door is behind me. I barely register the click. I'm grabbed from behind, dragged through the door and thrown to the floor.

The lock slides into place. Banging on the door. A man in a black hoodie turns to look down at me.

"Welcome to the game, sweetheart," he laughs, his maniacal eyes gleaming. I crawl backwards, trying to get to my feet. "A new birdie to add to my collection," he pulls a knife from somewhere. The door rattles on its hinges. I gain my footing and run through my kitchen. I hear his footsteps behind me. I slam my bedroom door in his face, locking it. His laughter echoes as he tries the handle.

"How do you expect to get away?" I call through the door, backing away from it. I glance around frantically, trying to think of a way out. I hear him sliding his knife against the door. I run to my window and push it open.

"Do you think they'll save you before I get to you," he calls through the door. I tiptoe to my closet, climbing to the back corner. The door opens. He walks in, "Has the little birdie flown the coop?" I hold my breath, heart pounding. I'm sure he can hear it. He walks back from somewhere in the room. "I don't think so," he murmurs, closer than he was.

A bang crashes through the house.

"Police! Drop your weapon, put your hands where I can see them," Samuel hollers. Laughter echoes eerily as the killer steps away from my hiding place. Was he alone? Where were the police that were supposed to be on the way? I breathe slowly. The sound of fighting reaches my ear, clattering of metal hitting the floor. I leave my hiding spot, peeking through the doorway. Not in eyesight. I tread through to my kitchen, grabbing an old skillet on my way. Crouching behind my kitchen island, I look around to the dining room. The crazy murderer had Samuel on the ground, clutching his side. A copper smell assaults my nose. But his back is to me. I creep closer to him.

"I wouldn't call you a birdie, more like a bug I need to remove," I bash him over the head with my pan, a resounding bong echoing satisfyingly as he crumples to the ground. I drop it as I run to Samuel's side. He smiles weakly at me as running sounds finally come up the stairs.

"About damn time," I mutter as my shaking hands find his stab wound. The place is swarmed as calls for ambulances and backup ring loudly.

"Guess you saved me this time, huh, Rosalind," he chuckles weakly. I shake my head, giving him a tight smile in return.

"You're crazy," I whisper back. His lopsided grin makes me laugh. Paramedics finally make it to his side. The man is handcuffed and carted off, and I'm escorted to the ambulance where Samuel is strapped in.

"I'd like to ride with him," I tell the officer beside me. He looks at the ambulance driver and they shrug, so I climb in. I take the seat next to Samuel as the EMS works on him. He turns his head to look at me, reaching out a hand. I take it, holding back a smile. Somehow, we'd survived and stopped the murderer. There would be time later to talk. But for now, I was going to enjoy this moment.