“Notice anything else that was different in the store?”
I hesitate once more, then write down on the pad:The teddy bear was gone.
He slides the pad closer, reads it, then asks, “What kind of teddy bear?”
Huge, bigger than me, and pink. With a sparkly collar. Costs more than 200 dollars.
“Did it cost $219.30?” he guesses.
I lift a surprised eyebrow and nod.
“That would explain the large amount of money in the cash register.” He looks very puzzled. “This means that whoever killed Bill Henson first purchased an expensive, oversized pink teddy bear. So, he wasn’t a thief. And he doesn’t seem to care about being traced. Because you can’t exactly hide a huge pink bear. It almost seems like… like he wants us to know.”
A bead of sweat forms at my temple, and I brush it off. Yes, he’s exactly right. Damien Wells wouldn’t be frightened by some country policemen. And he wantsmeto know.
I can’t help but shudder, and Sheriff Jackson looks at me quizzically.
“Does any of this make sense to you? Do you know anyone who might purchase a huge pink teddy bear then kill a guy and etch a devil symbol into his skull?”
I shake my head, staring him straight in the eye.
It would take a lot more than the fear currently strangling mythroat to rat out Damien.
Sheriff Jackson takes a heaving sigh before standing up and accompanying me to the door. “Thank you for your time,” he says gruffly. “If we think of any more questions, we’ll let you know. I’ll have one of the boys drive you home.”
__
Twenty minutes later, I enter my small house. It’s stifling now. I open all the windows, but the air feels hot and still. It’s almost like I can taste my future death. The stench of dirt outside, after this morning’s cold drizzle, hangs heavy in the living room. I used to like that scent, but ever since I was buried in a hole in the ground, the smell of dirt makes me panicky.
I’ve also grown claustrophobic since that experience, and I usually open my windows wide and keep the front door open to combat the feeling that I’m stuck in a tiny box. But today, I’m struggling between the claustrophobia and my sense of impending doom. I want to hide, but I can’t bear to hide in this place that seems to be closing in on me. Everything about it exacerbates that feeling. Yellow walls, a busy pattern on a polyester sofa, clashing colors on the threadbare carpet. Fake dark wood paneling in the small hallway leading to the kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. Dark purple and orange in the tiny kitchen that looks like a modernist rendition of vomit. A bathroom with its floor and toilet lid entirely covered by a weird burgundy fuzzy material, and the bedroom is the worst of all, with its blood red walls and ceiling and matching bedspread.
I’ve hated this house since the moment I woke up in it with a splitting headache, and the hatred has only deepened with time.
At the same time, I know how lucky I am to have it. Noelpurchased it and handed me the key. I haven’t had to pay a dime for rent, which I’m thankful for, because with my minimum wage job, I probably couldn’t afford it. And now, I guess I don’t have a job anymore, I realize with a sudden pang of anxiety.
A job should be the least of my worries, I guess, what with Damien having found me. I probably won’t live long enough to need another one.
The crack of a tree branch outside makes me snap out of my thoughts. I realize I’ve been standing paralyzed in the middle of the living room, my entire body rigid with the waves of contradicting emotions that have overtaken me.
I quickly go to the window closest to the sound and look out. I don’t exactly know what I’m searching for. I’m sure Damien himself wouldn’t bother with me. He probably sent some of his minions, and they’re trained well enough. I won’t see them until it’s too late.
So, it’s no real surprise when my eyes sweep the forest outside and find absolutely nothing. Nothing but the green trees tinged with orange against a dark sky, and the mountains in the distance, their tops blending into the stagnant fog.
I close the window, and decide right then and there that closed, locked windows, no matter how stifling, are better than the panic I feel at being alone in this little cabin in the middle of nowhere. I like loneliness, usually. But this silent, gloomy kind is wearing down on me.
I shut the kitchen window next, and the one in the bedroom. Then I lock the front door. Finally, gasping a little under the pressure of the box-like sensation that closes in on me, I go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water.
A moment later, the glass is on the floor, shattered, and I’m shaking against the far wall.
Stuck to the one cheesy cat magnet on the fridge, which was already there when I moved in, is a paper.
It’s familiar. Very familiar. In fact, it’s my own words, the statement I gave to the police in my spidery handwriting.
Started work at 8 a.m. Didn’t see anything abnormal. Went to the diner, was served by Wendy. Burger and fries. Left at 12:30 p.m., returned about 1 p.m. I found him dead.
Not for him, no.
Huge, bigger than me, and pink. With a sparkly collar. Costs more than 200 dollars.
