Maybe Jupiter can readminds or control people through physical contact, or is his touch lethal? The possibilities of his “gift” spiral through my mind, Valdemar’s warning of not letting him touch me fresh in my thoughts as the ferry docks, returning me to Amontillado.
Keeping a vigilant eye open for Jupiter or any other possible Raven Hands, I pull my coat tight against the biting chill of the wintery air and scurry to the car park where I left my car earlier today.
Though it’s not quite six o’clock, the sky resembles charcoal, and despite Christmas lights that still adorn the nearby lampposts, the car park feels polluted with a darkness that isn’t just to do with the sun having disappeared.
Convincing myself I’m just a bit wary after visiting the prison, I spot my little black Ford and thrust my hand into my bag to retrieve my keys.
Under the flickering glow of the broken streetlight, I fumble with my fob, my hands seeming to have lost all dexterity.
As soon as the door is open, I slip into the driver’s seat and lock myself in. I hadn’t realised how tense I’d been until my shoulders drop.
Not wanting to remain here any longer than necessary, I go to put my bag on the passenger seat when I notice a white envelope.
Holding my bag like a shield, I stare at the letter.
How the hell did it get in my car?
I definitely unlocked the car just now, so there’s no chance I left it open.
So, what is it doing on my passenger seat, and who the fuck put it there?
All the horror films I’ve ever watched come crashing into my brain—the helpless heroine in the front seat, the murderous madman emerging from the back seat where he’s been lying in wait.
I almost cry out as I swing my head around to examine the back of the car, a blast of obscenities at the ready to attack the crazed intruder.
But there’s no one.
The back seat of my car is empty.
I return to the envelope, the starkness of the paper making it appear as if it’s glowing against the grey upholstery. I could ignore it until I get home and then just throw it in the bin, but the reporter in me is already composing headlines.
Ed’s death only served to elongate the career ladder I started climbing ten years ago, and last year, finding myself still writing up the dregs of what some people considered “news,” I contemplated a career change. Maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a hotshot reporter. Maybe my calling lay elsewhere in the world, and I’d yet to hear it because I was being deafened by the world of journalism. At what point do you recognise your dreams as just that—dreams?
But the thought of starting a new job with new people and a new role to learn filled me with such dread that I knocked thecareer change idea on the head and have still been waiting for my big break.
What if my big break is in this envelope? What if it’s a lead from a friend? What if it’s the story of the century, something Captain will love me for and that could set me on the path towards journalist stardom?
Carefully, I pick the envelope up and turn it over. There’s nothing written on it. The flap has been tucked inside, and it takes no effort to open it.
Holding the thick white paper, I scan the typewritten words.
YOU KNOW WHAT HE IS
YOU KNOW WHAT HE’S DONE
CAN YOU LET HIM LIVE ANY LONGER?
KILL HIM
With shaking hands, I drop the note onto my knee and swivel to look in the back seat again, making sure the bad guy hasn’t been there all along and I missed him the first time I checked.
Holding my breath, I scan the back of the car.
But there’s no one here except me.
My mind starts racing with questions. Who left this note for me? How do they know I’m visiting Valdemar Montresor? How do they know this is my car, and how did they leave this note in my passenger seat without breaking in?
Shit. This is such a mess.
