It was never the cops that scared Sam. It was what she'd have to do to them if she got caught.
She'd already ducked the caution tape and stood at the end of the dark hallway, working a tension wrench through the keyhole. Every time her phone lit up with that same smiling face, a twinge of guilt tugged at her heart, and each time the light flickered, she felt the bile creep back up her throat.
I can worry about money,
she thought, grunting and forcing the lock pick,
I can worry about missing a date, getting screamed at by my aunt- tomorrow. Not when the coroners coming tomorrow. Not when the cops wont even investigate this as a murder.
Sam had heard all the chatter. The man was late fifties, balding and overweight. He'd been reported missing, same as all those girls, and the police finally came once the neighbors reported loud banging noises.
I don't care if it doesn't make sense,
Sam thought,
I don't care if he's twice their age, I don't care that he's a fat old man- the m.o.'s still the same, and if the cops can't make that connection, they're just gonna get another girl killed.
They'd written it up as heart failure.
They hadn't dusted for prints. They hadn't looked for footsteps, hadn't even questioned the neighbors. They'd put up crime tape, took a few photos, and called it a day.
Sam held out her hand. A neon, violet light danced from her fingertips in thick, splotches, falling out across the floor in glowing puddles.
She took careful steps towards the man, squinting in the flickering, violet light. She kept her eyes low, noting every footstep that had begun to glow.
There were hundreds of the fat man, no doubt there. Footsteps ran in circles, haphazardly scattered all across the floor.
No spouse, no significant other,
Sam thought,
No known family- same as all those girls. Whoever'd been taking them wanted as few people to miss them as possible. And as far as I can tell, the landlord hasn't entered since he replaced the air filter last month. So whose footprints are these?
Sam squatted low. She pressed her palm flat against the wooden floor, and slowly smeared green and blue ultraviolet light across the ground, illuminating the print like a Christmas tree.
It was the last left,
she realized,
and fresh. With feet three sizes smaller than the man.
She stood and held her hand out, taking a few steps towards the man.
The set dressing was well done. The man was slumped back in his chair, his neck slack, his eyes still open. He'd been sitting at the dinner table, opposite a half eaten plate with bacteria blossoming between the noodles.
But he's on his fifth day of bloat,
Sam thought, turning back towards the plate,
But that molds only been growing for about two days.
She turned back towards the man,
and if the cops did their job, they wouldn't find an ounce of that food in your stomach, would they?
She let her bright blotches rain down around the man, as she tried to figure out his story.
What else did they do to you?
Sam's phone buzzed again, the screen lighting up with that same smiling picture that couldn't hide the impatience with each new text.
She shoved it back in her pocket,
At least it's just him,
she thought,
I can handle disappointing someone. It's a hell of a lot easier than getting screamed at, or getting another goddamn pity text from Lacy asking her if she'd found another job and gotten back on her feet yet.
Sam had thought about walking away a hundred times. She could go home, spend the night at her aunts, studying or watching tv, far away from danger. She could get back into baking. She could be going restaurant to restaurant, trying to find another job- anything to make ends meet.
It feels like walking into a fire to rescue a puppy,
she thought,
no one wants you there. You're in the way. The firemen scream at you- but if I don't, no one will, and this man will just be forgotten, and whoever's doing this, will just move on and take another twenty year old girl, same as he's been doing for weeks.
Sam had been gritting her teeth through each time she'd tried to help. She'd been screamed at for stopping a purse snatcher. Chased by the cops for stopping a jewelry store break-in, even knocked unconscious just because she tried to stop a woman stealing catalytic converters.
Her phone buzzed. Again.
She pulled it out and saw that same smiling face, juxtaposed with another twenty texts, increasingly worried, increasingly annoyed.
She took a glance back towards the dead man, and thought for a moment, wondering what else she'd missed.
There's a serial killer,
she thought,
Or at the very least a serial kidnapper- and that's not even SAYING anything about all the gang activity-
She'd been about to write him back. Tell him how sorry she was, but she was on her way, she'd be there as soon as she could-
A shot rang somewhere outside the window. Tires squealed against the blacktop, and a car sped off through the narrow streets.
Whatever happened here can wait,
she knew,
I know he was killed. I know the police won't do shit. Right now- I need to try to save a life.
She took a long, running start. She sprinted towards the window, leaping as high as she could, and crashed through the glass in a ball of splotchy, vibrant energy.
She fell fast, plummeting down all twenty-three stories, before throwing her hands out, and shooting thick, viscus, splotches of color, cascading like a turbulent waterfall, with just enough energy to slow her fall.
The car squealed around a distant corner, crashing through signs, as another shot rang out. And another.
Sam took off at a full sprint, the glowing beads of color whisking off her like sweat, falling with every footstep. Panting, she dove around the corner, and saw the car's tailpipe, just before it disappeared from view. She threw her hands forward, and throttled a vibrant energy spear into the side of a building, narrowly missing the bumper by an inch.
She started back the opposite direction, watching the car flicker between buildings like a zoetrope. She bounded up a dumpster at a full sprint, hurdled a fence, and landed on an overpass. She sprinted between traffic, her eyes fixed on the shooter, and landed hard, her knee immediately erupting in pain.
She stood, opposite the swerving car, and hurtled another energy spear directly through the tire. The car swerved and crashed through scaffolding.
Sam could barely breathe. She sprinted forward, her arms raised, as the man reached for a pistol. She threw a flurry of colorful, neon energy, hundreds of dancing, amorphous blobs, that shot the pistol from his hands and pinned him up against the far wall.
"WHERE IS HE?" Sam shouted, "WHO'D YOU SHOOT?"
The man struggled against his vibrant restraints, his neck twisted, tugging against them like he were trapped behind a seatbelt.
Sam pressed her hand forward, and let colors start to dance and spiral, just enough to make him wince.
"Back... on... 15th...," he wheezed, blinking in the bright neon light.
Sam took a step back, killing the colors immediately. "That'll keep you there," she spat, "A perfect spot, nice and neat for the cops."
She turned back towards the way she'd come, and sprinted, praying whoever'd been shot hadn't already lost too much blood.
Sam rounded the corner, panting. It wasn't hard to find the victim, a man sprawled out on the pavement, a pool of blood slowly radiating outwards.
Jesus,
Sam thought. She rushed forward, and threw her colors as precisely as she could, stemming the bleeding, giving her light to work with.
She fumbled for her phone, and dialed 9-1-1, smearing the man's blood all over the screen.
Please,
she thought, PICK UP!
"THERE'S A MAN!" She finally yelled, "HE'S BEEN SHOT! HE'S BLEEDING OUT!"
She spoke as quickly as she could, relaying the details, telling them about the shooter, where he'd been pinned up.
She pressed against the wound with all the force she could manage. His heart was still beating but faint, so very faint.
She stayed right up until she heard the sirens. She gave one final burst of colors, desperate to stop the blood before turning, and sprinting, knowing full well she'd be leaving in handcuffs if they caught her.
She raced up a fire escape, and watched, silently praying they'd keep the man alive.
She watched them load the ambulance and disappear down the street before she finally caught her breath. She pulled her blood-stained phone back out from her pocket. She had another call to make.
Noah had been fine with taking things slow. He knew what it felt like to get fired. He knew what it felt like to try to study to get ahead, to have to live with the only family you've got. He understood. He wasn't gonna rush Sam until she was ready to take a big step.
Maybe that'd be tonight, he thought, maybe not. Maybe she'd be comfortable. Maybe they'd talk about their future, maybe she'd finally spend the night. They'd been talking almost three months, was it really such a crazy hope?
Instead he got radio silence. Nearly three hours of absolutely nothing. No call, not even a text, just him alone in a nice blazer, at a nice steakhouse, spinning his fork, over and over, having his water refilled so many times he'd started to hate the taste of it.
He was fine for the first thirty minutes. He wasn't gonna panic, wasn't going to be the overbearing boyfriend that had to demand to know where she was, why she was running late. He'd made that mistake too many time already in college.
He'd sent his first text around the hour mark, still trying to justify everything to himself.
Hey, maybe she just forgot, right?
By an hour and a half, he was flip-flopping between annoyed and worried.
Wouldn't she have called by now? Am I getting ghosted? Did something happen to her? Doesn't she respect me enough to at least tell me what's going on?
Then two hours passed. Then three.
He'd loosened his tie. He'd given in and ordered a nice steak. He'd finished the appetizers, cleaned his plate, and fuck it, even ordered a nice lava cake for dessert.
He waited another few minutes, angrily checking his phone, shooting off another text, then slamming it back down. He stared at the bill like the numbers were about to change, then slammed that back down too.
He shot off one final text, paid, and left.
