By Samantha Sullivan

“Don’t let me forget to empty the dishwasher when we get home,” a woman said, holding a vial of liquid up to the sunlight.

“Yes, dear,” the man responded, exasperated. He preferred to wait in silence, but his wife wasn’t as practiced in patience.

“And Jimmy’s birthday is coming up,” she continued, tipping the vial onto a cloth, soaking it. “We need to get him a gift.”

“A gift? He’s three.”

“He’s five. Starting kindergarten in Fall.”

“Five?” The man shook his head, wondering how their only grandson could be so big already, a proper kid. “Where does the time go?” His wife lovingly patted his arm, a soft, warm smile tugging at her lips.

Their black SUV was parked down a dark alley. The street light was broken here, plunging their car into near total darkness. Here they could wait, unbothered, until the perfect moment.

“This alley reminds me of our first time,” his wife said seductively, spreading out in the back seats. He turned his head to look at her. She laid her petite body on its side, propping her head up with one elbow, her other hand draped lightly over her hip. In that moment, the husband saw his sixteen-year-old high-school sweetheart, with full lips and flushed cheeks.

“Remember how nervous you were?” He teased.

“I remember how you took charge,” she said, a purr to her voice. “Showed me exactly how you liked it done.”

The husband licked his lips, his tongue grazing his thick, dark mustache. He longed to climb back there with her, but at 55, that was easier said than done. Besides, his job tonight was to watch. It was his turn to pick.

The sound of rusted breaks caught his attention. A tan sedan with a dented bumper turned onto the street before them, its one working break light illuminating the curb. A pink-haired woman in a tight purple mini skirt stumbled out of the passenger side. The sedan sped off before she rightened herself.

She stumbled again, then grabbed hold of the chain link fence behind her, using it to keep herself up.

Perfect, he thought.

He turned the key over. The engine roared to life, but the pink-haired woman didn’t notice. The wife, eyes wide with excitement, slide from the back seats into the floor well. She pulled a floor mat over her head.

The husband slowly pulled his car to the curb. He rolled down the passenger side window as the pink-haired woman approached.

“H-Hi,” he said, faking apprehension. The wife suppressed a snicker.

“What can I do ya for, big guy,” the woman slurred.

“H-How…”

“Much? 50.”

“The husband nodded. The woman climbed in.

Like a cobra, the wife sprang from the footwell. She clamped a chloroform-soaked cloth over the prostitute’s mouth. She struggled, trying to fight off the wife. The husband chuckled and calmly rolled up the windows, pulling away from the curb. Eventually, the pink-haired prostitute went limp, her arms sliding to her sides.

The husband turned on the CD player in the car. Their wedding song floated from the speakers as he drove into the night. The wife, cheeks flushed crimson, sunk back into the seats, panting.

“I love date night.”

Detective Roy Sanchez hiked up his muck boots. The cool air bit at his face, tickling his mustache. Pink and gray clouds obscured the otherwise blue sky. Morning dew clung to the grass blades, shinning in the pale light of the sunrise.

Sanchez took in the musky smell of the air as his boots sank into the soft earth. He carefully made his way to the river bank, were two crime scene investigators stood talking, a gray corpse laid out on a tarp between them.

CSI Ian Harrison was now taking photos of the body, while CSI Courtney Pruse went to scrounge the river bank for personal effects. A beat cop was interviewing the dog walker who found the body. The dog, a black lab, sat patiently with its head on its owner's knee, as the walker sobbed.

"What've we got," Sanchez asked Harrison.

"Prostitute," Harrison responded, snapping another photo. "Been a while.”

Sanchez nodded. Linn County had a bloody history, ghost stories stretched as far back as memory. For the last forty years, a woman was murdered annually. Always the same clientele: a drug-addicted prostitute. Sanchez glanced at the blue-gray arms. Sure enough, needle tracks.

He crouched next to the body. Her gray-blue skin horribly complemented her bright pink hair. She had no shoes, but wore a tight purple mini skirt and a black cropped-bra-top-thing.

A boogeyman plagued Linn County. But, it had been five years since the last murder. The long pause had townsfolk hoping the boogieman was dead.

"Dog walker found her face down in the river," Harrison continued. "I count about twenty stab wounds. But I'll know for sure when I get her on the table."

"Ten on each side?" Sanchez asked, dismayed when Harrison nodded. Whether the boogieman was real or not was a heated debate amongst townsfolk. Some claimed a sophisticated killer, others a gang. But there was one thing no one could deny: the killings had a pattern.

Sanchez had a different theory. A pastor’s son, Sanchez remembered the panic of satanic cults from his childhood. His father forbid him from playing violent video games and Dungeon and Dragons, calling them “gateways.” His mother spent her evening glued to the news channel, decrying Godless families and latchkey kids.

Sanchez quickly scanned the banks.

“No blood,” he said. “So…She wasn't killed here?” Sanchez asked Harrison.

Harrison looked at Sanchez over the edge of his camera. “That’s usually want that means…”

It could just be a gang, Sanchez thought, straightening himself. That’s what most cops thought anyway. Probably one from the neighboring city, crossing into their territory, their home, to committee these atrocities. A sick initiation ritual.

But the consistently of the killings threw that theory out the door. What gang had the kind of structure and patience to stab someone twenty times, once a year? That’s why Sanchez thought something more sinister was brewing under the surface.

Once, at a barbecue at Chief John Louis house, Sanchez got drunk enough to voice his suspicion. He had just been promoted to detective back then, vice. The other detectives laughed at his theory, claiming the “satanic panic” was fake, that killing cults didn’t happen in Linn County. He laughed with his colleagues, feigning light-heartedness. Later that night, Chief Louis approached him.

“I think you might be on to something, son,” the chief had said. That Monday, the chief transferred Sanchez to homicide.

Ironically, that was five years ago, just before the killings stopped.

Sanchez looked back at the pink-haired prostitute, her unseeing eyes gazing at the blue sky, her mouth slightly agape. Now was his chance to prove his theory right.

The car wheels crunched dead leaves on the driveway. Sanchez had promised his wife he’d leaf-blow, but the game had been on Saturday. And Sunday…well…time had just gotten away from him.

He put his keys in the lock and turned, the clicking of the mechanism vibrating in his ears. He turned the knob and pushed the door open. Lights from the hallway spilled out into the night. It was quiet. Eerily quiet.

“Honey? I’m home!” He called, but Mrs. Sanchez didn’t respond. He dropped his briefcase in the entry. Fingering his Glock, he inched inside.

The Sanchez home was a modest, middle-class home: three bedrooms, large flat screen, stocked refrigerator. The entry led to a family room with navy couches and colorful throw pillows. The kitchen had an island and stainless steal appliances. A bright yellow mixing bowl sat on the counter, next to the fastest milk-frother for lattes — wait. Where was the frother? Sanchez did a double-take. The throw pillows were on the couch, but the throw blankets were gone. Some pictures had been removed from frames on the wall. A blown-glass vase, a gift from his mother-in-law to his wife, was missing from the TV stand.

His heart sank. He ran upstairs to their bedroom. The closet doors were open, his wife’s side empty. He didn’t need to check the guest room closet, where they kept their suitcases. The empty spaces would be too much to bear.

Sanchez slumped onto their bed. His limps felt like lead. The silence pressed in around him, squeezing him from all sides. Why, he thought. Why would she do this?

He fell backwards, his head hitting the solo remaining pillow. A crunching noise confused him. He flipped over and saw a note.

Dear Roy,

This is the hardest letter I’ve ever had to write. I don’t even know where to begin. So, I’ll just write from the heart.

I don’t love you anymore.

This probably comes as a shock, which is the problem. We’ve been having issues for a while now. You can’t deny it, though you’ve been trying to. And I can’t deny it any longer, either.

Let’s be honest — we never should have gotten married in the first place. We want different things, and we knew that going in. From small things like me wanting to go out while you want to stay home, to big things like you wanting kids as soon as possible and me wanting to advance in my career first. We both hoped the other would change their minds. Neither did.

We just can’t make this work anymore.

And the worst part is; You always have to be right. I’m tried of that. There is no room for anyone else’s opinion or way of life. You refuse to make room.

So I’m leaving you. If this seems cowardly…well…maybe it is. But we both know how you can get. If this seems extreme, it’s because you haven’t been paying attention. I’m staying at my sister’s. Please don’t contact me. We need space.

Good bye, Roy. Have a good life.

Jenny

Sanchez crumpled the paper and threw it across the room. She should have said something, he thought. Talked to him, yelled at him. She should have forced him to see how unhappy she was. She should have dragged him on dates, counseling, anything! She should have fought for them! Instead, she just packed her shit and left! Who does that?

Desperate women, the thought invaded his mind. Unhappy women.

He was getting a divorce. What would his parents say, rest their souls?

Sanchez dragged his feet downstairs. He slammed the front door shut, but hesitated before locking it. What if… He shook his head, then went to grab a drink.

The man’s dark sunglasses were not helping his headache. He and his wife were lounging by the hotel pool, soaking in the late May sun, regretting the bottles of wine they had consumed the night before. The sounds of kids screaming and splashing were hard to drown out, but the sun felt good on his skin.

“We should go out again tonight,” the wife said, peeking at her husband from behind her romance novel.

“Again?” The man asked. “My shoulder’s still sore.” It was a workout, stabbing someone so many times.

“Oh come on,” she pleaded. “It’ll be months before we’ll get to go out again. Let’s squeeze in another!”

The man looked at his wife’s pouty lips. His knee replacement had taken them out of the game for five years now. It was their longest dry spell, and his wife was parched.

“All right,” he conceded. The woman squealed with glee. “But just one more. Then we need to take a break.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.” She waved off his concern, her gray curls bouncing in the sunlight. “I’ll go get things ready!” She shut her book with a snap and raced to their room.

The man moved his shoulder in a circle, trying to loosen the tight muscles. He may have introduced his wife to the sport, but she had taken to it like catnip.

His father had taught him how to hunt for prey; low lives, always. His father had taught him how to kill; knives, more intimate, more fun than guns. His mother taught him how to clean blood out of clothes and carpets. His parents had been efficient in their game, effective, clinical, even. But his wife…he had never seen anyone derive so much pleasure from anything.

He saw it in her eyes some 40 years ago, in Biology class. The way she dissected frogs, cats, pig fetuses. How slowly she pulled the knife through the flesh, how her gaze lingered a little too long on the corpses. He knew then and there that she was the one.

They changed the prey to prostitutes to make the game more their own. She made every kill fun. The way she inspired fear in their victim’s eyes made him so proud. And the rough, animalistic sex they’d have after, well — date night was intoxicating.

The man laid back on the lounge chair, lost in the memory of his wife moaning beneath him. The scratches she left on his back stung.

One more night would be good for them.

Did they know, Sanchez wondered, walking into the precinct the next day. Could they tell?

He removed his sunglasses, eyes wincing in the bright, florescent lights. His head felt like it was going to split open. He drunk whiskey after whiskey last night, eventually abandoning the glass to drink straight from the bottle. He awoke on top of his sheets, still in his day-clothes.

He kept his eyes glued to the floor, avoiding eye-contact with his colleagues, and sneaked his way to his desk. He sunk into his chair and tipped the navy blue thermos of black coffee to his lips. The hot, bitter liquid seared his throat.

“Hey Roy,” Detective James Ryan, his partner, greeted him cheerfully. Sanchez winced again. “Heard I missed the River Body yesterday. Crazy! After all these years? And when I’m on my honeymoon, of all things.”

Sanchez chanced a look at his partner. The reserved Irishman had been nothing but smiles since he and his fiancé eloped a month ago. For the past week, he’d been in Aruba. Now, his usually pale partner sat across from him, sun-burnt, with an annoying grin spread from ear to ear.

Sanchez grunted, then threw the report onto Ryan’s desk, who starting flipping through it immediately. He looked up at Sanchez and frowned.

“You all right, man?” He asked.

Sanchez swallowed another gulp of coffee. “Yeah,” he said with bravado. “Jenny and I just…overindulged a little last night.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said, that stupid grin growing again. “Good time, I bet,” he winked.

Sanchez did his best to look smug, his head aching.

“Hey Ry!” Officer Lily Thomas called, her way of greeting. “How was Aruba?”

Sanchez made some excuse about needing more coffee as Ryan launched into the details.

Sanchez stood in the middle of the hallway. The break room was full of other officers and detectives. He didn’t need more coffee: his travel mug was full. He didn’t have a lunch to put in the refrigerator either; Jenny hadn’t been around to pack one for him, and the idea hadn’t occurred to him to do it himself.

He grabbed a paper cup from the water cooler by the wall and filled it to the brim. He knocked the cold water back in one gulp, soothing his seared throat. He took a few more gulps. It did nothing for his headache, but hopefully Ryan will have finished his story by now.

Unfortunately, Thomas and a few other officers were still gathered around Ryan’s desk.

“Any advice, Sanchez?” Thomas asked as he begrudgingly rejoined.

“About?” He asked, wincing at the volume of her voice.

“For Ryan! You’ve been married how long now?”

Sanchez nearly chocked on his coffee. “Four years,” he managed.

“So?” Thomas persisted. “Any advice for the newlywed?”

“Oh…Uh…” Sanchez stammered. Marry someone loyal, he thought, bitterly. “You know,” he said. “It’s different for everyone…”

“Oh come on,” Ryan said. “You and Jenny are perfect! Seriously, what’s the secret?”

Sanchez took a long gulp of coffee, trying to give himself a moment to pull something out of his ass. “Good sex,” he said, winking. Ryan laughed while Thomas rolled her eyes.

It was her turn. She practically vibrated with excitement; a Cheshire-Cat smile plastered on her face.

“Her,” she hissed, eyes alight.

A guy strutted out of a nearby alleyway, a girl in a neon green mini dress tripped and stumbled behind him. He hoped in his sports car and sped off. She leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.

The man tsked at the guy in the sports car. At least have the decency to pay for a motel room, he thought.

The man watched the prostitute. Her bright dress looked like a searchlight in the dark. She had hitched her leg up, her green heel pressed against the wall, creating a triangle in the shadows of the streetlamp.

“Are you sure?” He asked his wife.

“Of course,” she said, her eyes trailing the woman’s body, lingering on her elongated torso. “Look at that canvas.”

The wife ducked down into the footwell. The husband turned the key in the ignition. He slowly pushed the car toward the hooker.

“Hey sweetheart,” the prostitute said with a wink. The husband made his usual stuttering murmurs. But something in her eyes made him stammer a few extra times. Moments later, the neon-clad woman climbed into the passenger seat.

The wife sprang like a panther, laughing manically. The chloroform-laced cloth smacked over prostitute’s mouth.

She didn’t scream or thrash about. Instead, her hand moved to her thigh.

A flash. The wife screamed, blood erupting from her hand.

Miss Neon pushed the passenger door open and rolled onto the pavement. “HELP!” She screeched. “HELP!” She pushed herself off the ground and took off running.

The husband whipped open his door. He chased the prostitute, his mechanical knee protesting. He only made it to the end of the block before she disappeared into the night.

His car pulled up next to him. “Get in!” His wife ordered. She floored the gas pedal before he’d shut the door.

“Damnit! Damnit! Damnit!” He yelled, slamming his fist on the dash.

“How did you not lock the door?” The wife yelled.

“How did you pick a live one?” The husband fired back.

She hadn’t tripped or stumbled out of the alley, the husband realized. She’d adjusted her weapon.

“What do we do now?” The wife begged. The husband shook his head. This had never happened to them before.

Tara Williams adjusted her neon-green mini dress as she sat on the couch of the police station lobby. Black mascara ran in thick streams down her cheeks. Ryan placed a steaming mug of tea on the table before. She wrapped her hands around the mug as if it were a lifeline.

Ryan sat next to her, sinking slowly into the break room couch cushions. He didn’t touch her, but his presence was soothing enough.

Sanchez sat directly across from them on a hard, straight-backed chair.

The police station break room was awfully dingy. Fingerprint stains dotted the handle of the white refrigerator, crumbs littered the countertops. The sink was piled with mugs and plates from the officers. The secretary used to clean up after the cops, but she’d had enough and recently went on “strike.” The officer claimed to be having a test of wills to see who would break first.

Everyone knew it would be Ryan.

“Miss Williams,” Sanchez began, trying to stop his foot from tapping against the linoleum. “We really need to know what happened —“

“When you’re ready,” Ryan interjected.

Tara took a calming breath, fidgeting with the mug. “I thought he was just another client, you know?” She chocked out. “He seemed so normal.”

He, Sanchez thought. Singular. His heart sank.

“Can you describe him?” He asked gently.

Tara nodded. She described how the man looked older, with jet-black hair and a thick, black mustache. She also described a black SUV, but she didn’t have a clue about the plate.

Sanchez scribbled in his notebook, the ink blotting where he pushed too hard. Just because it was one guy tonight doesn’t mean there aren’t more out there, he tried to reassure himself. They could take turns, teach other tricks of the trade.

“Then I got in the car,” Tara continued, no longer crying. “I even looked in the back seat and I still didn’t see her.”

Sanchez’s head snapped up. “Her?”

“Miss Williams,” Ryan said softly. “Are you saying there was more than one?”

She nodded again. “Two. He was driving, and she was behind the passenger seat somehow. She had this cloth-thing that she put over my mouth.”

Two, Sanchez thought triumphantly. He tried — and failed — to stop the smile spreading over his face.

“Did they say anything? Chant, Maybe?” He asked excitedly.

Tara looked confused. “Uh…No…”

“What kind of cloth?” Ryan pressed on. “Like a gag?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “As soon as she put it on me I went for the knife.” Ryan raised his eyebrows inquisitively. Tara blushed. “I keep a knife on me,” she explained. “For protection.

“When she attacked, I cut her. It surprised them, I think, ’cause I was able to open the car door and get out. The man tried to chase me, but he was too slow. I think he was limping.”

Ryan nodded supportively. “That was quick thinking,” he said.

“Where did you cut her,” Sanchez interrupted.

“The hand, I think.”

“Which hand?” He snapped, no longer able to contain the frustration in his voice.

Tara’s eye widened. “I..I don’t know. Her right, maybe?”

“This is important, Tara! Think!”

“Roy,” Ryan cautioned.

“It all happened so fast!” Tara said, the tears falling again.

“Try harder, Tara!” Roy said angrily, but she was crying too hard to respond again. “Jesus, do you want us to catch them or not?”

“Roy!” Ryan scolded. “That’s enough.” He shot his partner a disgusted look before turning back to Tara. “Did you see her?”

Tara wiped at her eyes, shaking her head. Ryan nodded slowly. There was a pause. Sanchez was desperate to fill it, to ask more questions, but a second look from Ryan told him he had crossed the line. It told him to shut up.

“Where did you meet him, Tara? Which alley are you girls using now?”

Tara didn’t answer. She averted her eye’s from Ryan, looking scared now.

“You’re not going to get in trouble,” Ryan continued. “Nor are any of your friends. They might go back there. If you tell us the alley, we might be able to catch them.”

Tara took a moment to think it through, then nodded.

“It moves,” she said. “The alley…it’ll be different tonight.”

Sanchez leaned back in his seat. He kept one hand gripped on the steering wheel, his white knuckles shinning in the moon light. The other hand was poised on his knee, prepared to spring to the start-button at the slightest notice. Ryan munched on a granola bar next to him.

“Hey man,” he said, crumbs stuck in his red beard. “You going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Sanchez shot a look at his partner.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Ryan raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been acting different. Angry.”

“I’m fine,” Sanchez grumbled. “I just…want to catch these guys. Okay?”

Ryan chewed his bottom lip. He didn’t look convinced.

“You look like a slob,” Sanchez said, shutting down the conversation. Ryan brushed the crumbs out of his beard, still looking quizzically at his partner.

“The likelihood they come back,” Ryan started, allowing the change in subject.

“Yeah…I know.”

The killers had never let someone get away before. Ryan was sure they would be laying low. Honestly, Sanchez figured Ryan was right, but he hoped they would strike again — needed them to strike again.

He had been so wrong. Wrong about everything. Wrong about this case, wrong about his wife… What else in his life was he wrong about?

He really needed a victory.

The alleyway was dark, darker than usual. A few street lights were out, allowing the men to blend into their cars. The women, standing just outside the light’s cast, glowed in their bright, short dresses and skirts. Some stood straight and tall, others appeared hunched, broken, high out of their minds. Sanchez could see now how the killers hunted, how they picked their targets. They weren’t the masterminds everyone thought they were; collecting victims here was easy. Hell, Sanchez could drive up to any of these girls and get them in his car. If Ryan hid in the back, they’d be easy to overpower. Sanchez could do whatever he wanted with them…

“Heads up,” Ryan said, dropping his granola wrapper to the car floor. Sanchez turned to the left. A black SUV had appeared in the alleyway — when and how, he didn’t know. They must have rolled in, creeped in neutral with the headlights off. Slowly, Sanchez straightened, trying to see into the driver seat.

With a screech, the SUV sped into reverse, peeling out of the alleyway back onto the street.

Sanchez slammed the start-button. He spun the wheel, pulling into the alley so fast, the girls on the sidewalk jumped. Ryan radioed dispatch, calling out the SUV’s description.

The SUV sped onto the highway, Sanchez rushing to catch up, siren blaring, lights flashing. Ryan relayed the direction.

The killers picked up speed. Other cars on the highway moved out of the way just in time. Sanchez slammed the gas pedal. He needed to overtake the SUV, force it onto the shoulder. Soon. Before it picked an offramp.

“We need a roadblock,” Sanchez called over the screeching siren, as Ryan called out the speed: 90 miles per hour.

“Shut down the on and off ramps,” Ryan demanded into the radio. “You know we don’t have the man-power,” he said to Sanchez.

Sanchez slammed the gas pedal down harder, but there was no where for the pedal to go — it was already floored. The SUV moved closer. It was only two car lengths away now.

Suddenly, it made a sharp turn. Sanchez barely followed it, cranking the wheel just in time to take the same offramp.

“Damnit!” Sanchez yelled. The SUV was heading straight into downtown.

“Nearing 100 miles per hour,” Ryan reported through the radio. “Sanchez, we’re going to have to let up.”

Sanchez ignored him. The SUV spit rocks from its tires, cracking Sanchez’s windshield. The lights from town grew closer.

“Sanchez,” Ryan said, louder. “Let up!”

Sanchez gripped the wheel tighter. He pushed the pedal down methodically. There was still time, he told himself. He just needed to get close enough. He needed to see at least one of their faces…

He could see the silhouettes of buildings now. Ryan called his name again, but the SUV wasn’t slowing down. It was going to blow through downtown at 100 miles an hour, through stoplights and signs. It was almost 2 a.m. Bars were closing, people would be out, waiting for Ubers and taxis, running through the streets looking for late night tacos and burgers…

“ROY!” Ryan screamed.

Sanchez let off the gas. The car slowed; the SUV didn’t. He watched it speed into town, take a sharp turn and disappear.

“We lost them,” he heard Ryan report.

The husband paced back and forth. The wife sat crying on the bed, her head in her hands.

“You were right,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry!”

The husband said nothing. He kept pacing, physically biting his tongue. He knew it had been too risky. The girl had gotten away; they needed to cut their loses. But his wife had insisted on trying to find her again. She said she hated the idea that someone was out there who had seen their faces. But the husband knew the truth; she hated that a filthy prostitute had gotten the best of her. They both hated that their prey had gotten away.

But a good spouse never said: “I told you so.”

“It’s okay,” he opted instead. “We got away.”

The wife raised her head just enough that her wet eyes peeked out above her fingertips.

“But we’re done,” he said firmly. “No more hunting.”

The wife’s eyes widened. The ache of desire gnawed at her insides. She dropped her hands. “I…I don’t know if I can.” She spoke in barely more than a whisper.

“We have to,” he commanded. He understood her reluctance; he felt the same ache, the gnawing that no one else in the world felt, the desire that bonded them together.

Outside the hotel, a grayish tint pierced the darkness. The morning sun peaked over the horizon, blending a bit of purple into the black sky.

The husband finally stopped pacing. He looked down at the woman he’d loved for over forty years, his soulmate.

Slowly, as much as his old knees would allow, he knelt in front of her. He placed his weathered hands gently on her skinny thighs.

“I know it’s hard. This…calling of ours. Ignoring the need hurts,” he said. The wife placed her hands on his, her head still hung. “But we have to. If we want to stay hidden, if we want to do it again, we need to stop. Today.”

The sky had turned from purple to grayish-blue, the sun now a half sphere.

The wife threw her arms around her husband’s neck and kissed him passionately. The husband lifted her to her feet. He wished they could stay in this room forever. Alas, it was time to submit to reality.

The wife grabbed the bleach. She would scrub the motel bathroom so throughly, not a drop of blood would be left behind. The husband ripped the black mustache from his upper lip, wincing at the pain. Gray hair-dye waited by the sink; his wife would apply it for him when he got back. But now, he needed to deal with the SUV. They kept it in a storage container. He would switch out the license plates and peel the black wrap away, returning the car to its original white color.

Deputy Chief Mitchel slammed his office door in Sanchez and Ryan’s face, causing them to wince. The Deputy Chief had just finished ripping Sanchez and Ryan a new one. Defeated and deflated, they dragged their feet back to their desks, the eyes of their fellow officers searing holes into their backs. Sanchez slumped into his desk chair and cursed behind his computer.

“We’re not the only ones who lost them,” Ryan grumbled under his breath.

“Let’s just,” Sanchez said, catching another officer staring, “finish the report.” To add insult to injury, they had to explain themselves in writing.

It had been seven hours since they lost the town’s most prolific serial killers. Word had traveled fast. Sanchez hadn’t slept. He and Ryan had waited at the station for Mitchel, who had to deal with the reporters before he could deal with them. They said nothing, just watched the cold, morning sun rise in the distance.

When a commotion sounded from the station lobby, Sanchez sunk further into his chair, scared family members of the victims had come for his head. But Mrs. Martinez, the secretary, was greeting someone warmly.

“So happy you’re back, Chief,” he heard her say. Sanchez’s heart dropped into his stomach. Somehow this was worse.

Other officers stood to greet Chief John Louis and his wife. Sanchez steeled his courage, then made his way to the lobby with them. “Mrs. Louis!” Ryan called, beaming at the petite old woman, who was setting a tray of brownies down on a spare desk.

Mrs. Betty Louis was the sweetest woman Sanchez had ever met. She was bird-like, with gray curls stacked neatly on her head. Once a week, she brought treats to the station: home-made brownies in the winter, hand-squeezed lemonade in the summer. She’d flutter around the station, asking after everyone’s spouses and children, never forgetting a name or grade level. She beamed at whoever she spoke to and hung on to her husband’s arm lovingly.

Sanchez watched the couple, surrounded by admiring colleagues, with an ache in his heart. He had truly thought he and Jenny would be that way someday. She’d glide into the station with gifts and a smile, a kid or three in tow. She’d make all the other officers jealous of Sanchez. But she was too busy with her career; BBQs and fundraisers were all she would attend.

“Chief,” Sanchez said. Chief Louis, a once fit man gone round, with gray hair, took his hand in greeting. “We’ll talk later,” the chief said under his breath. Sanchez gulped.

He turned to Mrs. Louis, greeting her with a kiss on her cheek. “Vacation good?”

She fumbled with the plastic forks Mrs. Martinez had brought from the break room. “Oh, just wonderful,” she cooed. “So refreshing. Exactly what we needed.”

She fanned out paper napkins in an elegant pattern. When she took the foil off the tray, Sanchez noticed a bandage wrapped around her hand.

“Oh no,” he said. “What happened?”

She snatched her hand away, making Sanchez jump back a bit. “Nothing, dear,” she said, wide smile returning quickly. “Shard of glass hiding in the sand.” She crumbled the foil in her fist.

Mrs. Martinez returned with paper plates. Mrs. Louis grabbed a large, sharp butcher’s knife from the table. She pressed it slowly into the warm brownies, dark chocolate oozing from the cut. She dragged the knife through the cake, then lifted it delicately… lovingly. She thrust the knife into the brownies again, this time Sanchez thought he saw a twinkle in her eye.

“Hey Boss,” Officer Thomas said, swinging an arm around Ryan’s shoulders. “Settle a bet for us. What makes a relationship work?”

“What do you mean,” he Chief asked.

“You know. How do you make it last? You and your wife. What’s your secret?”

Louis laughed. “Well, her baking is reason enough to stick around.”

Sanchez watched Chief Louis joke around with the officers. He thought he saw faint red line decorating the chief’s upper lip. But from what? The chief was a clean-shaven man, former foot-soldier. Years of chasing bad guys had done a number on the chief’s knees, but he refused to carry a cane — even after his replacement surgery five years ago.

Ryan twisted his brand new wedding band around his finger. “Seriously, sir,” he persisted. “Tell us youngins. What’s the secret to a happy marriage?”

Sanchez narrowed his eyes. He remembered that red line. His wife used to get one, after a waxing appointment. Or, Sanchez realized, after a Halloween party two years ago, when she dressed up as him, much to Chief Louis’s amusement — fake mustache and all.

His eyes snapped to the chief’s hair. Did the gray looked darker? Was that a tint of black hiding beneath it?

“A shared interest, I guess” Chief Louis said, finally. “Something the two of you can do together, whether times are good, or bad.”

The chief and his wife took a vacation once a year, Sanchez thought.

“A hobby,” the chief continued. “Keeps the spark alive.”

Sanchez looked back at Mrs. Louis, who was now using the knife to serve slices of brownies. He looked at the cut on her hand. Her right hand.

With a thump, Sara Water’s heeled-boot fell to the pavement. Woozy, she exited the cab, grateful to be back on solid ground. She was used to LA traffic, but these Parisian roads were a different beast. She straightened her blazer while the driver fetched her suitcase. They exchanged bag for tip, then he quickly sped off, disappearing into the throng of cars.

The sweet scent of cherry blossoms pushed away the acidic smell of cigarette smoke and gasoline. She turned to the towering hotel before her, taking in its grandeur. The statuesque building seemed to touch the sky. The stunning architecture and art-deco influence awakened her spirit, sending a coursing energy through her body, despite the almost eleven hour flight. She knew what to expect, of course — most hotels were similar, when you got down to it. Her room would have a bed and a dresser. There would be a closet with empty hangers and a bathroom with miniature, plastic bottles of toiletries. The first floor would have a bar where she’d spend a majority of her evenings. There would also be many, many conference rooms where she’d spend most of her days.

The mundaneness of hotel-living did not quell her excitement, for this was the French version. The rooms would be French rooms, the bar would have a French bartender (probably). Even the hallways would have French paintings on the walls, the elevator a “lift.” When Sara looked out her window, she’d see thousand-year-old buildings and Parisians going about their French lives. In the morning, she’d be awaken by the smell of French pastries — she had Googled bakeries nearby on the plane ride over, between her romantic movie marathon. She found a delightful looking one only five minuets away between watching “Sleepless in Seattle” and “Along Came Polly,” and couldn’t wait for breakfast.

Sara gave a small shimmy on the sidewalk, trying to shake off the last remnants of her flight. This trip was a big one. All the branches from her international company were here. She brushed off lint from her blazer and trousers. This would be the first time since the pandemic she’d get to see everyone — in person and from the chest down.

Nervously, she made her way up the marvelous marble steps. Normally, she wouldn’t care this much about her appearance after an eleven hour flight, but her fellow American colleagues had much shorter flights and were already checked-in, probably already at the bar. She had sprinted to the ladies room after de-boarding and hastily exchanged her hoodie and leggings for an outfit suitable for a business meeting or associates’ dinner. Most of her colleagues were men and wouldn’t understand the need to “freshen up.”

Sure enough, as soon as Sara entered the grand foyer:

“SARA!” Bob Newton’s baritone boomed across the lobby, causing the concierge to give him an ugly look. The lobby was really a decadent salon, with the bar tucked in the far corner. The fact Sara could even hear Bob was truly impressive, the fact she could hear him so loudly and clearly was a token of the Chicagoan.

He jumped from his stool and wrapped her in a bear hug, almost knocking her suitcase to the ground. “’Bout time,” he complained. “We’ve been here for hours!” His pink-tinted cheeks shown in the bar light.

Sara shook hands with all her fellow branch managers; John Ryan from Boston, Bill Weaver from Milwaukee and Mike Johnson from Pennsylvania. When she got to James Marsen (New York), Sara felt her cheeks flush. He lifted his drink to her and gave her his signature shy smile.

James and Sara has gotten to know each other very well over the past several years. She started at the New York branch only a year or two after he did. They bonded over the fact they were the youngest in the leadership teams, her at 29 and he at 31.

All the other managers who attended conferences like these had at least 10, if not 20, years on James and Sara. The two often found themselves together, giving each other pointed looks whenever a fellow manager made a dated reference or used a phrase that had fallen out of favor. They once spent a meeting, before Sara had moved to LA, discreetly Googling ’70s movie references just to impress the CEO. They also had a jointly held irritation at being called “kid.”

“Whatcha drinking, kiddo?” Bob asked Sara. She bit her tongue, and saw James hide a laugh behind his glass. She clocked that all the men were drinking dark liquor, so she ordered an Old Fashion.

“How’s that dinky LA office?” Bill asked good-naturedly. Sara scoffed in mock outrage. Out of the corner of her eye, Sara noticed James had stopped smiling.

The LA branch was tiny. The company wanted a “west coast presence” and expanded into LA three years ago. Not many wanted to move across the country, but Sara jumped at the opportunity. She was the manager of the sales department, a big promotion from her position in New York. Though she loved the Big Apple, Sara knew the fastest way to get that promotion was to move; it would have taken years in the boy’s club of the New York branch. If she played her cards right, in a few years time, she could become manager of the whole LA branch, like Bob and Mike were of their respective branches.

“Sara is doing a great job,” James said from across the bar. Sara and James had discussed the LA opportunity at length, usually over late-night Chinese food back in the New York office. James had even considered applying himself, but decided against it at the last moment. Last year, he had been promoted to “Assistant Head of Sales,” meaning he was also in line for a branch management job.

“You know, sometimes I’m still surprised you actually did it. Moved, I mean,” James said, loud enough for only Sara to hear. He had moved seats to sit next to her.

“California’s actually pretty nice,” Sara said. James pulled a face. “It is!” She protested. “The weather, the beach —"

“The traffic.”

She gave him a sour look. “I’m not missing out on anything by being in LA. It has everything New York had.”

“Except Broadway. Museums. You know, culture?”

“Rats. Germy subway cars. Snow,” she countered. James shook his head, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“Dinky or not, we owe Miss Sara a toast,” Bob announced. He held his drink high above his head, the liquid sloshing in its glass. His words were only slightly slurred. “For posting the highest sales numbers this quarter! Impressive for a young branch. And young kid!”

The other men raised their glasses as well. “Watch your back, Marsen!” Bill yelled, causing everyone to laugh.

James had been the rising star of the company before Sara arrived. It led to some healthy competition between them — and a bit of teasing via email and chat messages.

“That’s right!” Sara said, pretending like she had just remembered. “How much did my branch beat yours by, again?” James rolled his eyes.

“It’s always New York or Chicago, and now LA?” Mike lamented. “The rest of us are just trying for fourth.”

“Philadelphia will never make the top five, let alone four!” Bob shouted.

“I don’t know,” James said. “I heard their new manager, Lindsey Frank, might give Sara and I some competition.”

The group finished their drinks and made plans to meet back downstairs in an hour to find a spot for dinner. Sara went straight to the receptionist desk and finally checked in. James waited for her. He was staying in a different hotel across the street from this one. More employees than ever had wanted to come on this trip, and the company obliged them. After two years of being stuck at home, people were itching to travel, even to a boring conference.

“Hey,” James walked Sara to the lift once she was checked in. “Watch to ditch the old guys? There’s a restaurant nearby that’s got great reviews.”

Sara agreed, then went up to her room to drop off her bag.

“Bummer they had to put us in different hotels this time,” James said as they climbed into the cab. Sara had met him on the street where he was holding a taxi for them.

“Yours is, like, ten steps away,” Sara said with a laugh. “It’s not like it’s on the other side of the Channel.”

“I know,” James trailed off, looking out the window of the cab. The city lights streaked by as the cab picked up speed. Sara pulled her eyebrows together, unsure why James cared.

She ordered Pot-au-Feu, the national dish of France. At least, that’s what a quick Google search in the cab told her was the national dish of France. The waiter’s exasperated expression left her afraid she had committed an Ugly American crime. Oh well. She had done the same thing in London a few years ago, ordering Bangers and Mash, and planned to do it again at the next city she was privileged enough to visit.

Since Sara won the sales game, the bill was on James tonight, as per tradition. They had played this game back when they both worked in New York as well. However, it was less fun now that Sara lived almost 3,000 miles away. Sending one another a victory meal via a delivery service simply wasn’t the same.

James ordered a bottle of Champagne to toast to Sara’s win, again. Sara loved Champagne. She watched the bubbles swim to the top of her glass before taking a long, slow sip. She allowed the liquid to wade over her tongue, like waves in the ocean, kissing a sandy beach. She savored the dryness of the Brut before swallowing; She was no sommelier, but thought she tasted a bit of apple.

“Congratulations on your ‘win,’” James teased, bringing her back from her musing. He used one hand to form air quotes around the word “win” while the other kept the glass held high. “Even though I beat you — handily — last quarter.”

It was true that she barely edged out James for the title this time. But her branch was still a baby — a toddler — she explained.

“Besides, next year, I’ll crush you,” she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

James pretended to look scared, his eyes lingering on her exposed neck. “I guess I better watch my back,” he joked.

James looked down at the table, fidgeting with the forks and napkins. Sara’s eyes followed his movements. For the first time, she noticed some gray mixed in his tousled brown hair.

Once the Champagne was gone, they moved on to wine. James ordered the house red — neither needed to order a bottle based on region or grape. They simply weren’t sophisticated enough.

Sizzling beef signaled the arrival of dinner. The delectable scent of beef stew and roasted potatoes made Sara’s stomach ache and her mouth water. She dug in.

The conversation left work and turned to families and friends. James’s brother planned to propose to his girlfriend of less than a year.

“That seems quick,” Sara said, her spoon suspended in midair. James shrugged. “I guess when you know, you know.

“Better to act than to miss out,” he added. Sara sensed something behind his statement. He was nonchalant, neither his expression nor his tone giving anything away. But he had stopped mid-cut into his chicken, his knife dividing the two pieces. The space between the two supple hunks of meat seemed miles apart, and James seemed — that couldn’t be right, Sara must be misreading his expression — angry?

Sara, inexplicably nervous all of the sudden, changed the subject back to work. James lightened. He rolled his eyes while admonishing her laser-focus, calling her a workaholic.

“In the now infamous works of Kim Kardashian, if you want to succeed, you’ve got to ‘get off you ass and work,’” Sara said in her defense, teasing him again.

James blinked. “Huh?”

Saved waved him off with an amused smiled. “Never mind.”

She found James’s disinterest in pop-culture charming. He wasn’t appalled by it, just genuinely not interested. He was a fan of the classics instead and had introduced Sara to some pretty great films. Whenever he made a reference to something she didn’t understand, she made a point to watch or read the source material, if nothing else, but for a reason to text him.

After dessert of Mousee au Chocolat, and finishing the bottle of wine, Sara and James disembarked the restaurant, and based on the hostess’s annoyed look, not so gracefully. The warm spring day and turned into a chilly night. James put his jacket around Sara’s shoulders before hailing them a cab.

“Hey, how about we head to my hotel? For some coffee?” James asked as he held the cab door open for her. “I bet the guys are back and at the bar again.”

Sara was acutely aware of how close she had to pass James in order to get into the cab, and thought maybe she should just go back to her room and call it a night. Something had changed, a shift in the air, a quake in the Earth. She couldn’t quiet place exactly what it was.

James was probably right though — the other guys would, indeed, be back at the bar, wondering where she had disappeared to and begging her to join them again. She had a presentation to give to the big wigs tomorrow — tips and tricks so everyone can post better sales numbers — and coffee now might stave off a hangover…

“Come on,” he added, draping his arm over the backseat. “We’ll thank ourselves in the morning.”

She looked at his warm brown eyes and felt a flush creep from her cheeks to her neck. Had he changed? Maybe it was just the wine. Either way, she relented.

If she was being completely honest with herself, she wasn’t ready for her night with James to end.

The two stumbled up the stairs to James’s hotel, laughing and teasing each other about their presentations tomorrow. They were both blissfully unaware of the group gathered on the corner of the street, armed with picket signs and megaphones.

Lounging in the salon, Sara and James had finished two cups of coffee and were working on large glasses of water when an announcement from hotel management came over the loud speaker. Since they didn’t speak French, they had to wait for the English announcement to begin. The crowd gathering outside were protesting labor wages, peacefully, but management “kindly requests all foreign guests” stay inside the hotel until the protest was finished. Sara and James had assumed the raucous outside was simply Parisians enjoying a Friday night, but could now make out the undeniable sounds of chanting and faint police sirens in the distance.

“Are they asking us to shelter in place,” Sara asked.

“Sounds like it.”

“That’s exciting.” Despite living in LA in 2020, Sara missed the vast protests over the summer, instead only seeing them on TV or reading about them in the paper the next morning.

James witnessed the protests in New York first-hand, and watched the ones in Portland on TV. He also remembered the French striking against President Emmanuel Macron’s pension reforms a couple years ago.

“Unless they picked these hotels because of the international business conference,” he said, his eyes fixed on the protesters. “We should head up to my room.” James reached out for Sara’s hand to help her off the lounge chair. He then placed his hand on the small of her back, almost absentmindedly, leading her to the lift.

James’s hotel room was bigger than hers. He had room for a small loveseat and coffee table, where a coffeepot and two mugs sat on a pewter tray. Sara sat on the loveseat while James went about making a pot of coffee, saying they may as well have another mug. “Who knows how long this will last.” He had a similar desk tucked into the corner of the room that she had, except his desk had been taken over by his laptop and briefcase. Sara saw a yellow legal pad full of notes, no doubt for his presentation tomorrow. He must have been going over them before he met the guys downstairs, something she now wished she had be able to do.

A ball of linens peaking out of the closet caught her eye. She allowed herself to look at James’s bed, something she had been trying to avoid. It was the same single queen she had, but the pillow cases and duvet didn’t have a very French design. As a matter of fact, they looked rather plain.

She gestured to the bed. “Still?”

“I’m telling you,” James said, handing her a steaming mug. “Don’t watch that documentary.”

Sara laughed. “Never!” She ripped open a sugar packet and stirred it into her drink. She couldn’t remember which city they were in when she learned of James’s germaphobic tendencies. Baltimore, maybe? Apparently he had made the mistake of watching a documentary before that trip, the kind where they looked at hotel rooms with a blacklight. She was sure if she looked into the bathroom, she would see that James had brought his own towel from home as well.

James sat next to her on the loveseat. Sara tensed. Once again, she felt a shift in the atmosphere. She brought the mug to her nose and took a deep inhale. The bitter scent of hot coffee always relaxed her. Except tonight.

“It’s going to be okay,” James said, misreading her discomfort. He put his arms on the back of the loveseat, just as he did in the cab. Sara went rigid, so as to not accidentally brush up against him.

“So, how’s Bachelor Party planning?” Sara asking, trying to defuse the tension, but her words came out more rushed and timid then she intended.

“I haven’t even thought about that. Ugh. That’ll be depressing at 31.”

“More depressing than attending the wedding of your younger brother?” She teased.

“I’ll have to find a hot date. Hey, maybe you’ll be in town. And bored enough to come with me?”

Sara gulped. Butterflies danced in the pit of her stomach. She was surprised by how…exciting that sounded. A hot date. Had he really meant that?

Was this the change? This subtle, paradigm shift in their friendship.

What are you doing, she wondered. Why are you here, in his room? They were co-workers, friends, competitors. They teased and mocked, but they didn’t flirt, didn’t ask each other out on dates.

Sara didn’t want James to know how excited she was at his proposal. But, she also didn’t want to close that door just yet.

“It’s a date,” she said, clinking her mug to his. She prayed the statement was light enough to be taken as a joke, in case he wasn’t serious.

The sounds of French police sirens grew louder, their blue lights shinning into James’s room. They looked out at the street below. A couple more cruisers had arrived, but not many. The crowd, however, had grown larger, random passerby joining the fray. The chanting intensified.

They sat in silence for a moment, sipping their coffee and watching the commotion outside.

“Sara,” James said, breaking the silence. “I’m in love with you.”

Stunned, Sara froze. She stared straight out the window, watching the protesters hoist their signs higher, refusing to look at him.

The hints and clues she pretended she couldn’t see surfaced, slapping her in the face. The crush she tried to ignore all these years roared now with a vengeance.

“No, you’re not,” Sara said, finally turning to him.

He frowned. “How would you know?

“Because. We don’t fight for each other.”

Outside, the sounds of chanting had gown fiercer. Police cars were arriving in droves now. The blue flashing lights illuminated James’s face as he looked down at her.

“What do you mean by fight?”

She sighed, exhausted. Between the flight, the drinking and now this, it had been a long day. She allowed herself to lean back on the loveseat, her head resting on his arm.

“Why didn’t you say anything before I moved?”

James scowled at the wall. “I…I almost did. When we talked about the LA job, and you were making a pros and cons list, I asked if there was a guy you might stay for. Remember? You didn’t hesitate before saying ‘no.’”

Sara did remember. She remembered scoffing at the very idea of sacrificing a career opportunity for a guy, offended he thought her so weak.

“That’s not the same thing,” she said defensively.

“You’re right. It’s not.”

“And,” she continued. “If I had known you were talking about yourself —"

“Would it have changed anything?”

Sara bit her lip.

“James, are you willing to move to LA?”

She watched him think. “It’s just…my entire life is in New York.”

“Exactly. And now mine is in California. And I really like the sunshine,” Sara smiled sadly. “If I came back, we’d be competing again, vying for the same job. And if one of us got it over the other—"

“I’d be happy for you.”

“But also disappointed.”

“I’d get over it.”

“What about jealous?”

“I’d. Get. Over. It,” James said, pausing between each word for emphasis.

When Sara didn’t respond, James leaned in closer. “Sara, do you love me?”

She put her mug on the coffee table. James’s arm slid from the loveseat to her back. She closed her eyes, savoring the feeling of his touch. This wouldn’t be easy.

“I think I do,” she finally answered. “But, I don’t know if that’s enough.” James looked confused, so she continued.

“It’s just…when you’re in love, aren’t you supposed to act crazy? Irrational, even? Willing to risk everything you’ve built on a chance?”

James smiled. “When you’re sixteen, maybe.”

Sara stood. She walked to the desk and leaned against it, placing her palms on the cool wood.

“Be honest with me,” she said. “Are you willing to give up your career, your home, for me?”

James mulled over the question. “That seems like a tall order, Sara. Especially now. Shouldn’t we try first?”

“I’m not willing to sacrifice my career or home either,” she said, ignoring his question.

James looked frustrated. “Where is this coming from?”

Sara laughed. “Every rom-com I’ve ever seen. Every romance novel, ever love song. It just seems like, when you fall in love, everything else takes a back-seat, willingly or not. It seems like nothing else matters. And it shouldn’t, right? Not if it means being with someone you love, someone who makes you happy?”

The crowd outside started yelling. The National Riot Police had arrived and the crowd wasn’t pleased. From this vantage point, Sara could see officers lowering their shields, preparing to advance on the crowd.

James got off the loveseat. He walked to Sara, coming level with her at the desk. He placed both his hands on her waist, just above her hips. She didn’t protest.

“Hon,” he said gently. “I don’t think that fairytale stuff is real. I think it’s just a marketing scheme. Real life, real love…it’s just not that simple.”

Sara looked into his eyes. “It’s a nice scheme though, don’t you think?”

The air in the room thickened, the sounds of the crowd muffled.

James raised two fingers to Sara’s face. Brushing her skin, he pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“I don’t want to sacrifice everything I’ve built to be with you, and I don’t want you to sacrifice anything to be with me. That won’t make either of us happy. I don’t know about some all encompassing feeling, but I do know that when I am with you, I’m happy. Happier than ever. I even look forward to virtual meetings, because at least I get to see you. And I really, really want to give this a shot.”

“What about a local girl? One who makes you happy and lives next door?”

“I don’t want anyone else.”

Sara blushed. The sounds of rubber bullets filled the air, but the shouts and screams barely penetrated their bubble.

James took Sara’s face in both his hands. She melted at his touch. James pulled her close, and Sara closed her eyes.

And explosion rocked the Earth, forcing them apart. The sky outside illuminated a fiery orange. A protester had thrown a Molotov cocktail, causing chaos among the clashing police and protesters. Tear gas canisters launched into the crowd. James dropped his hands. He took a few cautious steps to the window, trying to make sense of the mayhem.

Sara felt as if she’d awakened from a dream. She grieved the lost of their moment.

“It’s working, I think,” James said. “For the police, I mean. The crowd is running.”

Sara nodded. She went to gather her purse and blazer from the coat rack by the door.

“What are you doing,” he asked.

“They’ll probably let us leave soon,” she lied.

“But…”

“James. I think I should go.”

James looked crestfallen. He moved toward Sara, who took a step back. He stopped. His hand, which had been extended toward her, fell limply to his side.

“I don’t…why?”

Sara had to tear her eyes away from his hand. She wished the fingertips were still caressing her face. She forced herself to look into his sad eyes. Her mouth went dry. She gulped.

“I like fairytales,” she said.

When he didn’t respond, Sara turned to leave. Her hand fumbled on the doorknob. James’s voice stopped her.

“So…that’s it? I’m too late?” He hadn’t moved, hadn’t taken another step. He seemed stuck, lost. Sara looked at his tousled, graying hair, the pink flush on his cheeks. She saw a small, glimmer of hope still shinning in his caramel eyes. She didn’t know what to say, so she decided on the truth.

“I don’t know.” She turned on her heel and ran from his room.

1. When did I begin to write? I’m not sure…I’ve been making up little stories for as long as I can remember. I learned to read early and had a very active imagination. Harry Potter made me fall in love with reading, and I guess what made me want to be a writer. I loved the idea of living in a fantasy world - my own imagination - forever. I remember when I was sure I was going to be a writer, or at least pursue writing. We had to write something for my class in sixth grade. Because of Harry Potter I loved descriptive writing, and I had a lot of fun writing a story with as many descriptive words as possible. Now that I’m thinking of it…that might have been the assignment. Anyway, my story was top 3 in the class. My teacher even stopped my mom in the parking lot during pick-up to tell her how good the story was and how good the description was. I’ve been chasing that high every since!

2. Excellent question. If I said happiness…would that make sense? I feel good after a couple hours of writing. And I don’t just mean I feel accomplished or productive, it goes deeper than that. It’s like my soul has been replenished. Like what was once insatiable is now sated. I guess that is what writing gives to me: if feeds my soul in a way nothing else ever could.

3. My ultimate writing goal is to craft a novel as intricate and detailed as one by Jodi Picoult. I want to examine the world around us, to make it make sense. For me and for you. I want to write a book you can’t put down, a book you will think about for weeks, months, maybe even years to come. And if I can throw in a twist ending that leaves the reader speechless, well that’d be a huge bonus for me.