Deadly Games. Steve Frech

dread turns to anger.

      This guy is messing with me.

      There’s nothing here and there’s probably nothing in my car. I had just believed him when he said he put blood in it, and his knowledge of “my sweet little cupcake” caused me to panic and lie to Detective Mendez, when I should have come clean.

      I know how to fix this.

      There’s an easy way to prove this guy is full of shit, and when I do, I’m going right to Detective Mendez. I don’t care how this guy knows about “my sweet little cupcake”. It was a joke. Detective Mendez will understand.

      Let’s settle this.

      Stepping out of the lobby and into the Avalon sunshine, I stride purposefully across the street towards my Civic.

      There’s no blood in my car. Once I prove it, I’m going to tell Detective Mendez about the affair. It doesn’t make me a killer. Yes, I was at the Seaside Motel, but I didn’t kill her. I’ll show him the texts. No, I don’t know who they’re from and no, I don’t know where the phone is now, and yes, I lied before, but he’ll understand. I’ll tell him about “my little cupcake”, which will be difficult, but I’ve got to do it. This guy said he put Emily’s blood in my car. I’ll show Detective Mendez and he’ll see that there’s no blood in it. Sure, he’ll be skeptical at first and it’ll take a lot of explaining, but he’ll believe me. He’ll understand why I lied and I’ll admit that it was a terrible mistake.

      I unlock the car doors and open all of them. I begin meticulously inspecting every inch of the interior. My car is pretty tidy and any blood is going to stand out against the cloth seats. When I don’t find anything, I’m going straight to Detective Mendez.

      There are no signs of blood on the dashboard. No signs of blood on the seats. There are no signs of blood on the floor, either, only some wayward nickels, two pens I swiped from The Gryphon. These spots right here? They’re from a while back when I spilled a little bit of energy drink.

      Each passing moment of non-discovery adds to my confidence.

      I pick myself up from inspecting the floor of the back seat, go to the driver’s side, and pull the handle to pop the trunk.

      I’m already rehearsing what I’m going to say to Detective Mendez.

      “First off, Detective, I want to apologize. I lied to you but I hope you understand. You see, Emily Parker and I were having an affair, but I didn’t kill her. It was someone else who is now using our relationship to set me up. They said to keep quiet or else they would tell you about the blood in my car, but as you can see—”

      I lift the lid of the trunk.

      My lungs seize up.

      There’s a moment of shock and revulsion. Then, I slam the lid closed but continue staring at the trunk.

      I can’t go back to Detective Mendez. Not now. Not ever.

      The inside of the trunk of my car is covered in blood.

       Chapter 3

      My knocking on the door goes unanswered for two seconds, so I knock again.

      “Katie? Katie, it’s me.” I’m trying to keep my voice somewhere between making sure she can hear me and not alerting the neighbors.

      I rap on the door, again.

      “C’mon, Katie. Open the door.”

      She’s home. I know she is. This is the only night of the week that The Gryphon is closed and there’s a car parked in the spot outside her apartment.

      “Katie, please, op—”

      The door flies open. Katie is staring at me with wide, furious eyes and flaring nostrils.

      “What the hell are you doing?” she asks, breathlessly.

      “I have to talk to you. Can I come in?”

      “It is really not a good time.”

      “Listen, I have to know: what did the police ask you about Emily and me?”

      “Clay,” she says, quickly glancing over her shoulder. “This is not the—”

      “Please. It’s important.”

      “They asked me about the other night at the bar and I said that I didn’t talk to her and that you were the one taking care of her.”

      “Did you tell them that we were … you know?”

      “Sleeping together? No. I didn’t. Now, can we talk about this later?”

      “Did they show you the photos?”

      “What photos? What are you talking about?”

      “Katie, Emily Parker’s dead.”

      She freezes, her mouth hanging open.

      “Someone killed her at the motel where we were going to meet, and when I spoke to the police today, I didn’t tell them about us.”

      Katie finally finds her voice. “You have to go back, right now, and tell them.”

      “I can’t. Something’s happened and I can’t.”

      “What do you mean you can’t? Clay—”

      “Katie, please listen to me. I know I screwed up, I do, but if the police ask to speak to you again, I need you to do something for me.”

      She begins to shake her head. “Clay, stop.”

      “Please, please, don’t tell them or anybody else about Emily and me.”

      “Shut up, now!”

      “Katie, please listen to me; I had nothing to do with this. I swear to you I didn’t, but something happened, and I need some time to figure it out. All I’m asking is that you don’t tell anyone about me and Emily.”

      “Clay, stop!” she hisses through clenched teeth.

      “Katie? Everything okay?” a voice asks from the inside of her darkened apartment.

      For the first time, I notice what Katie is wearing: a long T-shirt and apparently nothing else. Her hair is disheveled and her cheeks are flushed. Also, that’s not her car in her parking spot.

      Over her shoulder, a man appears from the doorway to the bedroom. He has sharp facial features, a chiseled, hairy chest, and he’s wearing jeans he hasn’t bothered to button.

      Katie closes her eyes and hangs her head in resignation. “Everything’s fine. I’ll be back in a second.”

      The man and I lock eyes.

      Oh, this is sooo bad.

      “Hello, Mr. McDermitt,” I say in a quiet mixture of panic and mortification.

      “Clay,” he responds. He’s obviously not my biggest fan at the moment.

      I wanted to talk to Katie to keep anyone else from finding out about Emily and I. Instead, I’ve added one more person.

      He turns and goes back into the bedroom.

      “Seriously?” I ask Katie.

      “I told you it was a bad time.”

      “That his car in your spot?”

      “Yes. Mine’s in the shop. Nick’s been giving me rides to and from work. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to switch out-times the other night. He gave me a ride to the station this morning and we came back here.”

      “And what does Mrs. McDermitt think about this?”

      Katie crosses her arms.

      “I