Friday, June 29th, 2018
Pixie jerked herself awake, her body covered in sweat, her heart beating out of control.
“Are you all right?” John mumbled next to her, his voice sleepy and coarse.
“I’m fine.” Going online to re-watch some of the Boston news footage and read new articles had been a bad idea. As though the victims’ headshots had been imprinted in her mind, she couldn’t shake off the possibility that he had had something to do with the poor women’s demise.
Focusing on her breathing, Pixie finally managed to slow down her heartbeat.
She got out of bed, grabbed her laptop from the nightstand, then went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of herbal tea, to soothe herself and somehow try to return to sleep, but she found it unlikely.
What if it was him?
She remembered his fingers braiding her long blonde hair. He’d always been fascinated by it. He’d even kept a piece of her hair when she’d shaved it off in her rebellious years. How he loved braids.
Her hair had long since regrown; that was the way John liked it. That was why she’d posed with a braid like that in the final photo they’d sent him.
Had her plan for freedom backfired in the worst possible way?
Well, she already suspected it had backfired, but she’d assumed it had started and ended with Mr. Thompson.
But what if it hadn’t?
Had her lies and deception turned him into a monster?
And if so, what could she do about it now?
She opened her laptop and Googled her way to the Boston PD website. She quickly found the phone number to their anonymous tip line.
A quick glance at the clock followed by some mental math told her the sun had already risen in Boston.
She got up and dove her hand into her purse, retrieving her phone, which she stared at for what had to have been ten minutes, minimum. Calling the tip line was anonymous, so they said, but they probably received all sorts of tips through that line. Who knew how long the police took before acting on them? Chances were, all sorts of crazies called to report shit, right?
No, she needed to talk to the detectives. But doing so wouldn’t be anonymous. She wrote down the detectives’ number for the Roxbury district, which she’d remember hearing on the news.
If Pixie called—and if her gut was right—she could put an end to this. She could potentially save innocent lives.
But if she called, she’d also potentially get both John and her into trouble. They’d broken the law.
Was their hard-earned freedom more important than the lives of women she didn’t even know?
Maybe there was a way to have her cake and eat it too. Calling from her cellphone would be too risky. She had to find a public phone. Where the heck would she find one of those nowadays?
“Hey, babe. What’s going on?” John asked as he walked into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. “It’s four in the morning. Come back to bed.”
“I gotta go and run an errand.”
“Now? Nothing’s open.”
“There’s just something I gotta take care of.”
“Come on, you can do it later. Come back to bed.”
“No, I need to get this done. It’s about… him.”
“What?” He rubbed his forehead and blinked. “Don’t tell me he found you, after all we did to get away.”
“No. We’re still safe. But to keep everyone safe I just need to make one phone call. An anonymous one to the Boston police.”
“Can’t you just file a report online?”
“I need to talk to the detectives, but I don’t want to call or email from my devices.”
“Whatever you say. You’re the genius. But if you’re going anywhere at this time of night, I’m going with you.”
After they drove around aimlessly for an hour, Pixie spotted a phone booth, and John stopped to park their car. She had absolutely no idea how much calls cost these days—her last call from a booth had to have been at least a decade earlier—she grabbed a handful of coins and the piece of paper where she’d written the BPD number.
Pushing the folding door to enter the booth, a concentrated smell of urine reached her nostrils.
What the fuck?
She stepped right out.
Staring at the phone through its glass surroundings—the scent still present but much less potent—she debated whether making the call would be worth it. The black machine looked different from those she remembered. It had a slot for credit cards. It also had quite a few pieces of faded, chewed-up gum stuck to its side, and some snotty-looking residue dangling on the cord.
“What’s wrong, Pixie?” he yelled after rolling down his window.
“It’s fucking gross in there.”
She turned away from the booth and looked at her surroundings. The phone had been placed near a strip mall for those with dwindling budgets: Western Union, a pawn shop, and a dollar store. A liquor store and diner were the other two businesses, and only the latter appeared to be open.
Would they have a phone?
“I’m going to try the diner. Wanna go in with me?”
“Sure,” John said before getting out of the car.
They walked there together while Pixie pondered giving up if they didn’t have a phone. Perhaps it was just the universe telling her not to bother with the police.
But she also knew guilt would tear her apart if her gut turned out to be correct.
A bell tinkled as she pulled open the door, letting the scent of frying oil and coffee replace the remnants of what she’d smelled in the booth. Only a handful of patrons were in. All of them sitting alone, tables away from each other, as though they needed their own private areas for rummaging through their thoughts.
Pixie headed to the bar, John followed. If they had a phone, she’d best be positioned to see it from there. And spending money in the diner would most likely help her get permission to use their phone.
“Morning, dear!” a woman standing behind the bar said. Her graying hair was tied in a bun and then wrapped with a black hairnet. She placed a porcelain mug on the paper placemat in front of Pixie. “Coffee?”
“Sure,” Pixie said.
“Please,” John said.
“Decaf or regular?”
“Regular please.”
“Same.”
The woman reached out to the nearby pot, then filled their cups before handing them menus and various types of sugar packets and individual cream servings.
Pixie wasn’t hungry but seeing pancakes on the menu made her salivate a little. She and John never made pancakes at home. Why not?
“I’ll have some pancakes with real maple syrup if you have it.”
“Afraid not. Maple-flavored syrup all right?”
Pixie shrugged. What could she do? “Fine.”
“And you, sir?”
“Just coffee.”
The waitress disappeared into the kitchen, granting Pixie more room to—not so discreetly—stand and stretch her legs, her feet on the footrest of her stool so she could look at the counter across the bar from where she sat. Glasses, coffee mugs, a sink, and other kitchen things one would expect. Turning her head to the other side, she spotted a screen, which she assumed was used for keeping track of orders or printing bills.
“Watcha looking for?” the waitress asked, making Pixie’s heart skip a beat.
She was a paying patron. The worst the waitress could say was no.
“Any chance you have a phone I could use?”
“No cellphone, eh?”
Pixie shook her head, hoping her eyes didn’t give her away.
“Sure, as long as you’re not calling China.”
“No, it’s a local number,” she said, tacking one more lie to her conversation. Toll-free was as good as local in her head, and the same was most likely true for all phone companies.
“Let me get it for you.”
A few seconds later, the waitress handed Pixie a cordless phone, which relieved her beyond belief.
“If it’s all right, I’ll just go in between the entrance doors. For a little privacy.”
“Whatever. I’m not sure the signal reaches that far, but maybe.”
“Thanks!” She told the woman before addressing John. “I’ll be right back.”
Fidgeting with the piece of paper in her hand she made her way to the entrance, then dialed the number.
Several rings echoed before a woman picked up. “Detective Wang.”
The name didn’t seem like the one she’d heard on the news, but now wasn’t the time to back pedal. “Hi, I’m calling about the man killing women in Boston.”
A slight paused occurred before the detective spoke again. “What’s your name?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Do you have any information for us?”
“I think so. You need to look into the murder of Mr. Eliah Thompson.”
“Pixie,” John said as he pushed the entrance door open.
She brought her index finger to her lips while widening her eyes.
“Your food’s here,” John whispered before returning into the diner.
“And how are these murders connected?”
“I think the same man killed them all.”
“And what makes you believe that?”
“I gotta go. Follow the clues. Look for a Caucasian man. Twenty-six years old.”
She pressed the button to hang up and exhaled loudly, feeling better about having given the detectives a useful tip. The ball was in their court now.
And she had not risked their hard-earned freedom. As long as they paid cash for breakfast, the police would have no way of tracking them down, even if they traced the phone call.
She headed back in, eager to bite into her pancakes.