He took a swig of his whisky, sloshed it in his mouth, and then let the burn hit his throat. He had been sitting in a booth at the restaurant for a couple hours now. He was a few drinks in, the buzz only intensifying the sense of pride he felt at what he had done and what was about to occur.
It was late on a weekday, and the restaurant was relatively quiet. Only a few men sat at the bar—regulars—speaking louder than they realized, sloshing their drinks in their hands at each laugh. It was the type of crowd he had hoped for tonight, because he knew they would never bother him. They wouldn’t spark conversation, they wouldn’t even recognize him, as people usually did. They were too into their drinks, and he was too concealed in his booth to make a presence.
He stared down at his whiskey, deep into the empty glass, and he smiled. It reminded him of the clues he left behind, the strategy he had followed, and that no matter how close law enforcement thought they were, they too would only be left looking into an empty glass of what once was a lead.
He snapped out of his trance as he sensed movement, and looked up to see the waitress who so often waited on him smiling before him. Her long, slender body was accentuated with an apron tied tight around her waist. “Another?” she asked as she reached for his glass and placed it atop her tray.
Without hesitation, he nodded. He already had a strong buzz, but tonight he deserved it.
“Where are your friends tonight?” she asked, beaming.
“Tired.” He laughed. “We all had a long day.”
She nodded. She understood. And without another word, she turned on her heels, the smile still plastered on her face as she moved to the bar to place his usual order.
At her exit, his eyes moved to the television, sitting over the bar. The news was on. His story was on, the story he had created. It was everywhere, on every station, on ever television in everyone’s home, in every restaurant—it made him glow with pride.
A picture of the girl he had recently buried hung in the corner of the screen as an anchor pleaded for anyone with information to step forward. The station then cut to a reporter standing outside in the dark, highlighted only by the production lights behind the camera and the lights of the search crew that lined the beach behind her.
“I’m here reporting from Fowler Beach, where law enforcement has been diligently searching for any sign of Sofia Hernandez,” she started. “So far, no trace of her whereabouts has been reported, and no body has been found, but law enforcement has been extending their efforts.”
As he stared at the television, listening to the reporter’s words, he knew exactly where she stood, because he had stood there too. The search was closing in, they were getting closer, and his body tingled with excitement. He knew exactly what they were going to find; it was only a matter of time.