Two weeks later, her remains were discovered outside of a shelter for women escaping domestic violence relationships. Boys will be boys.
The news reporter's voice from the TV filters in, the vague sound of ‘Locksmith’ snapping me back to the present. I blink and bring my focus up to the screen displaying a picture of a mid-sized woman. She looks young, maybe in her mid-thirties, with blonde hair reaching to her shoulders, round blue eyes, and a wide smile with slightly crooked teeth.
I grab the remote beside me and turn up the volume.
“A neighbor of Jennifer Holbrook reported last seeing her at five o’clock Valentine’s Day night, heading to her car and seeming to be dressed for a date. That is, until yesterday morning, when a nurse at the Blackwood assisted living facility found part of Jennifer’s remains in the back seat of her car. Investigators later discovered the rest of Jennifer’s remains strewn across several unlocked cars in the facility’s parking lot, most of the vehicles belonging to staff. Police still have not provided Jennifer’s cause of death or the details surrounding it, but many believe we’re dealing with yet another victim of the Locksmith.”
Barry told me about her a few days ago, though I’m struggling to even remember the days right now. He didn’t get to say much before he was pulled off the phone, only that he believes Lionel to be responsible. I’m sure the internet is full of articles about it, but admittedly, my brain has been checked out since I woke up in a fucking crematorium.
The camera cuts to the news anchor standing in front of Blackwood, dressed in a thick royal blue peacoat while she reports on statements left by several staff members who discovered Jennifer’s remains in their back seats.
However, her voice dims beneath a low ringing in my ear, gradually building in intensity.
Vomit flirts with the back of my throat as I drop my eyes to the photo. Lionel and I fade away, and the background behind us comes into focus. Specifically, a rectangular, acid-washed stone sign with black lettering on the corner of the street, directly across from the park.
The ringing persists, joined by the heavy thump of my heart. I lift my stare to the TV again just as the camera focuses on the news anchor andthe woman she’s interviewing, standing beside the sign to the nursing home. Written across the acid-washed stone in bold black letters: Blackwood Assisted Living.
My lips part as I look beyond their heads, finding a flash of what looks like a bright yellow slide.
Back and forth, my eyes pinball between the picture and the TV screen, but no matter how many times I confirm what’s in the photo is mirroring what’s on the screen, my brain refuses to accept it as real.
Stunned, I grab my phone and open up the message thread with Barry, scrolling back until I find the text. He sent it around seven a.m. Eastern time last Sunday, six days ago.
Barry: Morning, sweetheart. Today is already off to a terrible start, but I wanted to check in still and see how you’re doing. Will call later if you have a minute. Love you.
Later that night, he told me about Jennifer Holbrook’s body being discovered at Blackwood.
I look down at the photo of Lionel and me, taken by Margaret Lever, which has the Blackwood sign clearly in the background. Then I slide the picture away to reveal the second photo beneath—the one I can barely fucking stand to look at.
A crime scene photo of chopped-up body parts that were left outside of a women’s domestic violence shelter. Front and center is the severed head of the woman, and while her features have changed from decomposition, her black curly hair and traces of bright pink lipstick stained over the lips give her identity away—Margaret Lever.
I received these photographs three days ago.
They were rolled up and wrapped in blonde hair.
My hands tremble, and the ringing in my ears becomes shrill as I look up to the TV screen again. As if some divine being decided to do me a favor, the news station cuts to the same image of Jennifer Holbrook smiling at the camera.
She has blonde hair.
What… the fuck.
For several moments, I completely lose time and stare mindlessly at the screen while I try to make sense of what the fuck is happening. Thescattered puzzle pieces in my brain slowly move, shifting and clicking into place until the full picture begins to emerge.
I blink and scramble off my bed to rush over to my desk. I sit down and set the photos aside. Then, I grab the first notebook I find and a pencil, flip to a blank page, and write out the timeline of events.
Mindy Sackler went missing on February 5th. February 6th, I received the first note from Lionel demanding I come home, along with a pink barrette. On the 7th, Gabi Loren accused me of having something to do with Mindy’s disappearance. That same day, I searched through Mindy’s photos and found a picture of her wearing the very same pink barrette I received with the note.
On the 10th, I came home to find my dorm room trashed, with a newspaper clipping andanother note demanding I come home stabbed into my desk, and a chunk of black curly hair beside them.
Dread refused to let me go to California, and truthfully, I was too much of a fucking coward to go, anyway.
So, on the 14th, Jennifer Holbrook goes missing. Then on the 20th, Lionel calls me. I ask him about Mindy, the dating profile, and all his little gifts, but he plays innocent and asks me to come home again, specifically stating that he has been very patient.
Maybe it was an olive branch, a way of sending me one last warning before I suffer more consequences, but I, of course, don’t fucking go.
The 23rd comes around, and Barry informs me Jennifer Holbrook’s remains were discovered that morning at Blackwood. On the 26th, I receive two photos, one taken by Margaret Lever with Blackwood pictured in the background, and the other of the crime scene photos of Margaret’s remains. And wrapped around them was a chunk of blonde hair.
I set down my pencil and sit back in my chair, my stomach twisting as a mixture of disbelief, horror, and guilt floods my system.
