Deadly Games. Steve Frech

      “Your bar; The Gryphon. Is it any good?”

      Seriously?

      “… yeah.”

      “What makes it good?”

      “Me.”

      He laughs, proving it was the perfect response.

      “What’s your favorite drink to make?” he asks.

      Bartenders hate this question. It’s like someone asking you what’s your favorite sales report to compile. There are drinks that we know we make well, but that’s different than what’s our favorite drink to make. I always give the smart-ass answer of “bottles of Bud Lite”, but this is the one time that I’m relieved someone is asking me this question. This guy wants a friend.

      “I make a mean margarita.”

      “Really? Well, I may just have to come by and see if you’re telling the truth.”

      The way he says that last part about telling the truth, I’m back to not knowing if he’s messing with me, but I’ve already committed.

      “The first one’s on me.”

      He smiles. “Well, all right. Thanks for coming in and, remember; if you think of anything, don’t hesitate to call me. I mean that.”

      “Will do, and I mean it about the margarita, too.”

      He nods and I head out the door.

      I’m staring at my Civic like it’s radioactive. My initial urge was to search the inside of the car right then and there, but it would look really suspicious right in the middle of the police station parking lot. I do a quick scan through the windows. I don’t see anything, but it could only be a drop or two somewhere. Or there might not be any blood at all.

      I didn’t see anything when I drove over here but I wasn’t really looking for—

      My phone pings again.

      It’s another text from Emily’s burner phone. Up until a few minutes ago, I would have expected it to have been a flirtatious message about how she couldn’t wait until she saw me again and I would try to convince her to meet up with me as soon as possible.

      I’ll never receive another message from her like that again.

      Instead, this one reads:

       447 Sweetgrass Road. Evergreen Terrace Apartments. #208. Inside the apartment you’ll find something that will help you. It’s blue. You’ll know it when you see it. The key to the apartment is under the doormat.

      Once more, I glance to the packed park across the street and the countless cafés and restaurant patios that stretch into the distance.

      He’s here. He has to be, right? He had to have been watching me as I walked into the station. That’s how he knew when to send that first message. How else—

      Another text message arrives and answers my question.

       You look nervous. Don’t be nervous. It’s time to play.

       Chapter 2

      “What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing?” I panic-mumble for about the seventieth time.

      What else can I do? My head is still spinning. I can’t have this guy tell the cops about “my sweet little cupcake” or the blood in my car. I have to buy time until I can figure out what to do, and the only way to do that is to play his game, for now. This might be stupid but I don’t have any options at this point.

      From my vantage point, parked across the street, Evergreen Terrace Apartments doesn’t look to be anything special; just another faceless courtyard building of units whose best feature is that it’s perched on the edge of Avalon, and you can sort of see the ocean from here. The banner out front announces that they have a vacancy. The bunches of balloons, tied to the railings leading up to the front door, bob and bounce off of each other in the sun-soaked breeze.

      The glass doors lead to the lobby, which is nothing more than a room with some older couches. Set into the side wall are the mailboxes for the apartments. Another set of glass doors leads me to the open courtyard. The leasing office is to the left. There’s a small pool that takes up most of the courtyard, where two kids are splashing while their mothers sit in patio chairs, talking. They notice me. I smile at them, trying to play it cool, but I’m worried they can tell that I’m barely holding myself together.

      After crossing the courtyard, I take the stairs up to the second level.

      Number 208 is in the corner. The red doormat on the floor proclaims “Welcome!”. I glance around. The only signs of life are the kids and moms at the pool. I quickly reach down and flip up a corner of the doormat. Sure enough, there’s a gleaming, metal key. I snatch it up, slide it into the deadbolt, and twist. The bolt slides back and I push open the door.

      I’m expecting a million things: a torture room, someone pointing a gun in my face, or even the police. The one thing I’m not expecting is exactly what I get: a boring apartment. From the front door, I can see almost the whole interior. The furnishings are spartan. There’s a couch and a loveseat in the living room in front of a television. In the kitchen, there’s a table and chairs. Past the kitchen is a short hallway, leading to a bedroom.

      “Hello?” I call out before setting foot in the apartment, which is, of course, a stupid thing to do if the killer is waiting for me, somewhere inside. But I can already feel it. No one’s been here in a while.

      A quick search of the apartment confirms my suspicions.

      There’s a king-sized bed in the bedroom. The closets are empty. In the small bathroom, there’s some toiletries and two toothbrushes in a cup next to the sink. Two towels hang off the rack. I head back to the kitchen, which is almost bare. There are a couple of plates in the cabinets and utensils in a drawer. The fridge is empty. So is the pantry.

      I don’t see anything that could “help me”, much less anything that is blue.

      In the living room, I check under the cushions of the couch and behind the television. Nothing. At least nothing that looks like something I would “know it when I see it”.

      What is this guy talking about?

      I open all the cabinets and drawers in the kitchen. I check the undersides of the shelves in the pantry to see if there is something written or taped to them, like a piece of paper, telling me what to do next.

      Back in the bedroom, I pull the sheets off the bed. Nothing. There’s nothing on the walls, either. It’s the most basic apartment imaginable. Revisiting the bathroom, I check under the sink, in the tub, and the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. I even check the toilet tank. There’s nothing here.

      After my fruitless search, I find myself back in the living room.

      Frustrated, I send a text to Emily’s burner phone: What am I looking for?

      I hit send and wait … and wait …

      Are you there? I type and hit send.

      The tumbling nerves in my stomach solidify into a knot, which grows into a sense of dread that courses though my limbs.

      I make another search of the apartment as I wait for a response that I’m certain isn’t coming.

      “This is a waste of time,” I say aloud as I rifle through all the cabinets and drawers in the kitchen, again. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve made a terrible mistake in coming here.

      Another search of the closet in the bedroom yields nothing.

      I’m left standing in the bedroom, scrutinizing the bare walls.

      Goddamnit!

      I