Page 2 of Darach

You don’t look anything alike, Zoey’s older sister had said, sobbing into a crumpled tissue while they’d waited to give statements at the police station. Why would he kill her instead of you?

Charlotte set aside the food the officer had given her, and picked up the comforter, absently folding it before placing it on the end of the bed. She went to shut off the air conditioning unit, which Housekeeping had left on full blast, and pulled back the curtains. Downtown Toronto on a Sunday afternoon still looked busy, and the warmer temperature brought by summer had everyone wearing shorts. They milled below like colorful ants around the skyscrapers as they walked through the pedestrian markets and waited in lines at patio restaurants.

The first wave of the season, tourists and weekend visitors would crowd into the city for the next two months. Would anyone warn them that a serial killer targeting young women had been on the loose?

Your stalker, you mean, Zoey’s ghost chimed in.

The police still didn’t believe the man who had been shadowing Charlotte was the serial killer responsible for six other murders in Moss Park before he’d killed the patrolmen and her friend; they didn’t see any similarities between the crimes. Stalkers, she had been told, fixated on one target and if obsessed enough would kill to get to them; serial killers had specific desires and would kill only victims who could satisfy them. They believed the man terrorizing her to be an overly-obsessed fan who had copycatted the Moss Park Butcher, the serial killer hunting prostitutes and drug addicts in one of the worst neighborhoods in Toronto.

Charlotte would have agreed, except for one thing: the stalker had told her over the phone that he was the Moss Park Butcher.

You’ve seen the news, haven’t you, precious? They won’t mention that I drowned those six girls after I had my fun; they’re keeping that a secret. He’d uttered his high-pitched laugh before he’d asked, What do you think of my art?

Charlotte opened the can of soda and sipped from it, grimacing at the too-sweet taste but making herself drink. If she passed out from dehydration she’d end up in the hospital, and the killer would have no problem getting at her in there. He’d simply dress up in scrubs and a mask and walk right into her room. Like a ghost this man haunted her, seeing everything she did and knowing every move she would make even before she did. She knew now that he wouldn’t stop until he finished this ghastly game of cat-and-mouse, which really left only one question.

Why me?

As a freelance artist Charlotte had been under contract as an illustrator to three different publishers over the last five years. Creating the artwork for the covers and stories of children’s books had provided her with steady work since she’d graduated college, and she liked what she did. When she wanted to do something for herself she would paint original watercolors on the side, which a few small local galleries sometimes showed in multi-artist exhibits during festival weekends.

Her art allowed her to make a modest living and stay out of debt. After her father died she’d received his life insurance, which had been enough for her to pay off her car and lease a small professional studio. No one would call her rich, however, so it couldn’t be money.

As for relationships, Charlotte could count on one hand all the men she’d dated since moving to Toronto from the suburbs. Being very tall eliminated her as a prospect for most guys anyway. The few who had matched or topped her height seemed comfortable with her, but they had all been busy professionals. None had been especially upset when she had called it quits with them. Jack, the realtor whom she’d dated last year, had even assured her that she was great-looking arm candy but a schoolgirl in bed.

You should try to be a little more adventurous, babe, he had told her when he’d taken out a pair of handcuffs one night, and she’d stopped undressing. It’s not like you’re twelve, and who knows? You might even like it.

What’s wrong with treating me like a lady? she had countered.

A lady? Jack had laughed out loud. What do you think you are, royalty or something?

Because of his penchant for bondage, Charlotte had worried that Jack had been the one stalking her, but after she had mentioned him as a possible suspect the police had investigated and cleared him of any involvement. All that lingered from that relationship now was a weary resentment for having wasted her time on such a jerk. Of course she knew her attitudes to be slightly old-fashioned, but she didn’t regard mutual respect as an unreasonable expectation.

In reality she would have loved to find a guy like those she drew in her fairytale illustrations. Her ideal didn’t have to be a prince or a knight like the characters she painted, but he would be strong, fair and kind. A gallant soul who still believed in chivalry and courtesy as well as romance would be perfect for her. He would be the sort of man unafraid to be as affectionate as he was passionate. That kind of guy wouldn’t need handcuffs to make sex exciting.

Her dream man would never let anything bad happen to her, either.

For someone like that Charlotte imagined she could finally toss aside her inhibitions and reveal her own wildly romantic heart, but she knew she’d never find him. These days men seemed to be all about themselves, cheap thrills, and how they could personally profit from a relationship. Even after they’d broken up, Jack had still texted her to crow about making an important sale, ask if she wanted to hook up, or suggest his services if she ever wanted to put her condo on the market.

Another knock on the door brought Charlotte back to reality, and once she checked she let Detective Logan into the room.

“Sorry I couldn’t go to the funeral with you, Ms. Walsh.” A round-shouldered, beefy man with kind eyes, he smelled of recently-applied aftershave. “I’d like to talk to you about your living arrangements. We’ve secured a safe house for you, but…well, let me show it to you first.”

Charlotte sat down at the little table, where the detective showed her the image on his phone. The dingy one-room apartment had water-stained walls, dingy carpeting pocked by holes and tears, and a sagging, mildew-stained window shaker. An army of cockroaches likely occupied every nook and cranny; just looking at it she could almost smell the sour dampness.

“You want me to stay in a place like this?” she asked, just to be sure.

“I’m afraid with our budget it’s the best we can do right now,” Logan admitted. “It might be better for you to make your own arrangements. Do you have any family in the states or overseas, maybe?”

“My grandparents are in a long-term care home. I have some cousins in the UK, but I don’t know them very well.” She hesitated before she added, “My mother remarried and moved to Paris.”

“Could you stay with her for a while?” he asked, looking hopeful. “It really would be best for you to put some distance between you and Canada.”

That was when Charlotte knew he was keeping something from her. “Why do you want me to leave the country?”

Logan grimaced. “I can’t get into the details of the case, Ms. Walsh.”

He had a decent poker face, but the flash of anger in his eyes told Charlotte the situation had gone from horrible to worse.

“It’s the Moss Park Butcher, right? You connected him to Zoey and the two officers who were murdered.” That wasn’t all, either; she saw the way his mouth tightened when she mentioned the killer. “You know something else about him.”