Chosen Girls

By Rob Aspinall

Once you’re chosen, you die.

Mayflower, Kansas is famous for corn syrup... and murdered high school girls.

Every few years, the Homecoming Killer snatches another. He keeps her. Toys with her. Then completes his sick ritual, leaving no traceable clues.

It happens on the eve of homecoming and always to the most popular girl in school.

Now, he’s kidnapped cheerleader and track star, Brooke Tanner. The small rural town is again gripped by fear. Police detectives are no closer to a breakthrough. And time is running out fast.

In desperation, Brooke’s wealthy uncle hires struggling private investigator, ALICE PARKS. As brilliant as she is troubled.

But can she crack the impossible case? And what terrifying secret lurks in her own dark past?

Racing against the clock, Alice will go to any length to save Brooke in time.

Yet even she can’t predict the dangers that await.

If you like your crime thrillers packed with psychological suspense and knockout twists...

Get the spine-tingling thriller that readers are calling:

“Brilliant.”

“A real page-turner.”

“Gripping to the end.”

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“A must-read for thriller enthusiasts, it would be a crime not to give it a look.”

Download Chosen Girls now.

*Please note: Previously published as Homecoming.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Aspinall
• Release date: Dec 3, 2020

Book preview

1

Ilie on the hood of my boyfriend's pickup. It's sort of a tradition round here. Find a field. Throw a blanket on the hood and climb on top.

We listen to songs on the radio, gazing at a sprinkle of stars. 

We're still dressed in our game clothes. He’s in his red and white quarterback jersey. I'm in a matching cheerleader outfit.

The stars seem brighter than usual. Like they've come out just for us. I turn to look at him, his smile as wide as the sky. What do you think's gonna happen? Once we finish high school, I mean.

It's simple, he says. After we go to Kansas U, I'll get drafted by the Chiefs. 

Oh, you've got it all worked out, huh?

Got to have a long-term plan, he says.

Will you still talk to me when you're a big-shot NFL star? I ask, hooking an arm around his right bicep.

Of course, you'll be on the cheerleading team.

Is that right?

Head cheerleader. Unless you're going track, he says, running a hand over his dark hair.

I haven't decided, I say. Depends if I'm fast enough.

Are you kidding? You leave me for dead every time.

Ah, that's not hard, I say, getting a playful nudge in the shoulder. Besides I'm thinking of studying law.

Law? he says, slapping me on my thigh. With those legs? Come on.

It pays better than running or cheerleading, I say. Pop reckons it's good to have something to fall back on. You know, in case.

Way to dream big, daddio.

Hey, that's my pop you're talking about, I say, digging him in the arm.

Okay, okay, he says as the sound of a speeding car on the highway grows louder.

I hear it skid to a stop on the road behind us. I turn and look through the windshield, across the field. All dark except for a maroon convertible full of classmates in team colors. The top is down. Headlights blazing.

One guy, Scott, holds the school’s trophy in the air. Go Devils! he shouts.

His buddy in the backseat throws a football. It sails overhead, bouncing across the small stretch of grass we're parked up on. It disappears in the bushes.

The convertible speeds off, the sounds of engine and stereo fading into the distance.

My boyfriend looks over to the dark wall of bushes where the ball bounced in. He shakes his head. Stevie can't throw for shit. That's why he'll never be a QB.

You're not going after it, I say, as he slides off the hood and jogs toward the bushes. Guys and their balls! I shout after him.

He turns and smiles. Grabs his crotch. Back in two ticks, he says, spinning and picking his way into the bushes.

I lie back and think about a milkshake. A banana one, from Kath's Diner. It's open late on Friday, and everyone will be there. 

But as I'm thinking about that milkshake, and a plate of warm pancakes with syrup, I think I hear something behind me.

Feet across grass. 

I turn and look again through the windshield. Hello? I say.

I don't see or hear anything. Nothing but the sound of crickets. I turn and rest my back against the windshield.

I think about the taste of that ice cold banana milkshake. The steam rising off those fresh, fluffy pancakes.

Then I feel a presence to my left. I turn my head. There’s a tall figure stood by the side of the hood.

No. It can’t be—Before I can scream, he pushes a cloth over my mouth and nose. He's crazy-strong. He drags me off the hood by my hair, the heels of my white tennis shoes kicking against the bodywork.

The cloth smells sickly sweet. It fills my head and my vision blurs. The strength drains from my body like water down a sink. One by one, the stars snuff themselves out, until all that's left is the dark.

2

7DAYS REMAINING

---

Alice Parks knew it was wrong to hide in room 718 of the Pittsburgh International. But tucking herself away inside the slatted beech closet was hardly the stuff of empowered life choices. 

So there she was, watching a stocky black guy in a beige suit make out with a raven-haired girl in a short red dress. They ground against the opposite side of the door. Alice's unease in tight spaces was bad enough. The man's pungent cologne made it worse.

Daylight broke in sideways through the slats, framing Alice's brown eyes, dark brown hair and lightly freckled skin in a pale glow. She withdrew deeper into the closet, wincing at every sloppy grunt and moan.

She watched on as they moved to the freshly-made bed. Crisp white sheets pulled tight enough to bounce a quarter on. As they undressed, Alice slid the closet door open an inch on its rollers and noticed a mirror angled toward the bed. She slid the door open another two inches and aimed her palmcorder at the mirror. She pressed record and zoomed in to get a better view. All she needed was a few seconds of footage. Visual confirmation. Facial recognition. And penetration. Penetration paid.

The man stepped out of his pants, climbed onto the bed on his knees and entered the woman from behind. She pressed her hands flat on the bed sheets, her long hair draped over one shoulder. Her lips a red mess.

As the pair faced the mirror, Alice zoomed in on the man's face, then both faces together in one shot. Up close, she recognized him. He was ex-Steelers running back Chandler Dwayne. 

If she bypassed the client and went direct to the news networks, Alice could have earned a small fortune. She entertained the thought for all of a second. No, she had morals. Scruples. Standards. They weren't particularly high, but they were hers.

As Alice shifted her position to bring more naked flesh into shot, she knocked into a wooden hanger on the closet rail. It swung wildly, crashing into the others. Alice jumped at the sound. Her hand slipped on the edge of the closet door. It rolled all the way open and she fell onto the soft, nickel-gray carpet. 

Dwayne stopped mid-thrust, eyeballs ready to pop out of their sockets. What the fuck?

"What the fuck?" the young woman screamed.

Alice crawled out of the closet and jumped to her feet, palmcorder still in hand. She shrugged and smiled meekly, before flying out of the hotel room door into a long, empty corridor. Dwayne burst out of the door in pursuit. He pulled up a pair of bleached-white boxers as he ran, his feet thumping heavily on the carpet.

Alice reached a set of elevator doors and rattled a button. She was in luck. A set of steel doors opened and she jumped in, hitting G.

Chandler Dwayne charged at the elevator, but the doors closed before he could even wedge in a hand. The elevator was backed with glass, so she had a clear view of the spiraling white balconies of each floor of the hotel and the limestone lobby below.

The elevator stopped a few floors down, the doors pinging open. Alice cursed her luck under her breath, gripping the palmcorder tighter. She saw the next elevator along dropping into view on her right. It was only a level further up, with Chandler Dwayne standing inside, raging at her through the glass. It was a race all the way to the bottom. The slowest race on record, as each elevator filled up with guests.

Alice pushed to the front of the elevator. As the green digital display above the doors slipped from 1 to G, she looked across and saw Chandler Dwayne raring to go.

Alice's elevator won the race. The doors pinged open and she bolted across the limestone lobby floor. Dwayne yelled at her to stop in a deep, Texan accent. He powered after her as if she were the ten-yard line. Like his kids, sponsorship deals and financial future depended on it.

Alice flew out of the automatic doors at the front of the hotel and hit the busy downtown street. She took a right, dodging sidewalk traffic.

Dwayne was hot on her tail. He'd lost some of his running back speed but none of his aggression.

Alice started to think she might make it. That is, until the toe of her right sneaker caught the edge of a wayward paving stone and sent her sprawling. The palmcorder spun out of her hand and smashed into pieces on the sidewalk. Yet, there was hope. 

The SD card lay intact on the side of the road. Alice reached out, only for the tire of a squad car to screech to a halt and crunch the card under its tread.

Alice dropped her head to the pavement.

As Dwayne caught up to her, a pair of city cops jumped out of the squad car and attempted to bring him down. Alice leapt to her feet and scurried across the street. Dwayne was dragged to the concrete as a pair of beat cops joined in the struggle.

It took four cops in total to drag Dwayne to the ground. He pointed and shouted in Alice’s direction as he was restrained. She slipped around the nearest street corner and dumped the broken palmcorder in a trashcan.

3

Alice plopped herself down in a maroon velvet chair at a round table in the business lounge of the Plaza Hotel. It was early afternoon, with only the faintest of tinkles from cups and saucers. Phil Reardon sat opposite alongside his client, Mrs. Chandler Dwayne. She was a forty-something woman wound tighter than a cymbal monkey.

Reardon was a shark of a lawyer in permanent pinstripe. He took a sip of coffee. So what have you got for us?

Proof, Alice said.

Mrs. Dwayne wore a cream pantsuit with matching shoes that would have paid Alice's rent for a year.

Alice picked up the menu, took one look at the prices, and immediately put it down.

Reardon wiped his hands on a napkin, as if he couldn't quite get the dirt off. What proof? he asked.

Didn't you get the photos I sent you? Alice asked.

Yeah, we got them, said Reardon. 

Of Chandler and that slut walking and talking on the street, said Mrs. Dwayne.

A warm embrace at most, said Reardon. Nothing that will stand up in court. We need to see them, you know--

Fucking, said Mrs. Dwayne, her face contorting. If I'm going to get more than half, the court needs to see them fucking.

Photo or video, said Reardon. And not just two bodies screwing— Reardon censored himself, glancing over at Mrs. Dwayne. What I mean is, we need the faces, too. Clear. Close-up.

Listen, Mr. Reardon, Mrs. Dwayne. I had it. Bodies. Faces. Everything. Not more than an hour ago.

So where is it? Reardon asked.

There was an incident with the camcorder, Alice said. I lost it. And Mr. Dwayne knows you're onto him.

Mrs. Dwayne pursed her lips, her right fist squeezing tight, fighting to keep it together. Like most of Alice's clients, there was always some part of them that didn't want to believe their partner would cheat. That it was all in their imagination. Of the few jobs Alice had picked up over her first year in the P.I. business, at least half the spouses wanted their fears disproved, only to have their worst nightmares come true.

Alice never enjoyed delivering the bad news, of which there was plenty. But good or bad, the news meant she'd at least come back with something. And that meant a bonus. It was a strange dichotomy. Sitting in the five-star Plaza, Reardon's client had that look in her eye. The crumbling-world look.

Well, I'm sorry, Mrs. Dwayne said, snapping out of her chair. That just isn't good enough.

Reardon glared at Alice and buttoned his blazer. Mrs. Dwayne hooked her handbag over one shoulder.

So, check in the mail? Alice asked.

I'm not paying for photos my intern could have gotten, Reardon said, ushering Mrs. Dwayne out of the lounge.

But you have to pay, Alice yelled after him. You signed a contract—

So sue us! Reardon yelled back over his shoulder.

Alice slumped in her chair. Yeah, sue the biggest law firm in the city. That'll end well.

Alice cursed herself. She should have insisted on half upfront. It was the only decent job in months, with two weeks of work down the tubes. Not to mention her palmcorder. 

She lingered in her chair, a hand over her face. 

A suited maître' d' with a clipped black goatee appeared out of thin air. He manufactured a quiet cough. The disdainful look was genuine.

Alice stood, grabbed a leftover slice of lemon sponge and crammed it into her mouth. She gave the maître' d' a look that said "Screw you, buddy." 

On the way out of the room, she removed the cake from her mouth and left it on a table. Snooty waiters weren't the only thing she couldn't tolerate.

4

Apartment 17 sat on the fourth floor of the old Smithfield Printers' building. A small, shabby affair with white walls that hadn't sniffed a new coat of paint in a decade. It was a controlled explosion of mess. A small red sofa with a threadbare gray throw over the back. An adjoining kitchenette and a tiny bathroom with a shelf cluttered with pill bottles.

Inside the bathroom was a clear two-liter jug for a shower and a half-broken toilet seat. And through the next door along, a cramped bedroom with a large, white IKEA chest of drawers stuffed with clothes. Boxes were stacked at the foot of a double bed topped with a messy, faded red and white-striped duvet. And throughout the apartment, case files and books sat in random stacks. The living area was lit by a thin. single-pane window overlooking a noisy street full of honking traffic. In front of the window sat a desk, overflowing with overdue demand letters. Amid the chaos, a gray tabby with a white bib rubbed up against Alice's stretch-denim shins. 

Hey, Axl, Alice said, as she walked with the cat at her heels, a fresh batch of demand letters in hand.

She tossed them on the pile, dumped her bag on the kitchen countertop and dished out a pouch of cat food. She took a Greek yogurt from a small, yellowing fridge, rinsed off a spoon, and wandered over to her desk. She fell into a faux-leather chair she'd rescued from a street skip and plonked both feet on the desk. She scooped a spoon of yogurt into her mouth. Her eyes wandered to her growing collection of unpaid bills. The cat leaped on the desk and watched her, tail flicking, licking its lips. 

Yeah, I know, Alice said to Axl. We've both got to eat.

Alice put down her yogurt container. She reached over to a folded-up newspaper, spoon hanging from her mouth. She leafed through to the employment section, folded the paper out and wrestled open a half-stuck drawer. She grabbed a red pen and scanned the page, checking salary, skills, and experience.

Alice frowned. All the closing dates had expired, like the date on her yogurt. She checked the front page of the paper. Two months old. She folded it up and hurled it across the room, before dialing up the voicemail on her cellphone.

You have three new messages.

Hi, Alice, it's Aaron, um, just seeing how you are. I enjoyed our second date, but, um, you didn't call me back.

Alice rolled her eyes and rubbed her brow with a thumb.

Was it something I said? Aaron continued. I know we've not been dating long, but I feel we've got something. So, I dunno. Give me a call when you get this.

Message deleted.

Second new message.

Hi, Alice. Aaron again. Is this ghosting? If it is, could you just let me know? A call or a text. That'd be great. Thanks. It's Aaron.

Message deleted.

Listen, bitch, I know you're ghosting me. Well screw you, you frigid fuck. I'm dumping you. Remember that. I dumped you, okay? Yeah, that's right. Aaron's gone, baby!

Message deleted.

You have no more messages.

Thank god for that, Alice said.

---

Dressed in black sportswear, with a matching fanny pack strapped around her waist, Alice took her usual route. It took her over one of several yellow-painted bridges that connected the city. Over to Point State Park, a beautiful, green expanse shaped like a fat slice of pizza, where the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers flowed into each other at the outermost tip. Downtown Pittsburgh rose high into view, glass skyscrapers glinting in the September sun. It was a world away from Alice's rundown street, but only a short walk..

Alice liked to run along the waterfront and around a large circular fountain. She’d always follow the footpaths through the park, before re-joining the streets.

As long as she was running, nothing and no one could touch her.

The city had a habit of grinding the edges off a soul like a pepper mill. Yet she had an acute aversion to open, rural spaces too. It was better to be anonymous. To melt into the crowd. Which meant if it had to be anywhere, it had to be the city.

So it was Point State Park, once a day. A hard and fast run to blow away the red-letter cobwebs.

Halfway through her return leg, Alice sensed another runner shadowing her route. It bugged her, so she deviated off the footpath and across a stretch of grass. 

Still the mystery jogger followed. A wiry, sandy-haired man fitted out in a pale-blue running vest and shorts, only a short burst of speed away from grabbing her and forcing her into a bush. 

Alice stepped on the gas and put some distance between her self and the man behind. She ran over a grass hump and stopped behind the trunk of a large oak tree. She unzipped her fanny pack and felt inside with both hands. One on a can of mace. The other on a switchblade. The man closed in. Alice tensed up.

The man passed her by, re-joining a stone path that ran around a small, picturesque lake. He stopped in front of an old fashioned stall, where a teenage girl sold ice cold refreshments. The runner opened a pocket on his shorts and pulled out a dollar bill. He paid for a bottle of water and downed a third of it. He held a hand to his ribs and continued his run. 

Alice shook her head and let go of the weapons inside her fanny pack. She zipped it closed and breathed out the tension under the shade of the tree. Talk about paranoid.

5

Alice ran up the bare wooden stairs to her apartment building, preferring not to linger in the dim communal areas. She hurried into the narrow corridor that led to her apartment, three doors along. A rangy figure in a long raincoat and hat waited outside her door. She stopped in her tracks and considered back-pedaling. 

Instead, she unzipped her fanny pack. She took out her keys, leaving her other hand inside on the can of mace. She hesitated as the figure in the raincoat turned to face her, his features broad and square.

What do you want? she asked, stopping short of her apartment door.

Alice Parks? he asked in a deep, educated voice.

Who wants to know?

The man took both hands out of his coat pockets and held them in the air, as if Alice had a gun on him. I come in peace.

The man's silvering eyebrows arched under the same shade of hair. He had a jowly, suntanned face with forgiving eyes of a deep brown.

You with the IRS or the cops? Alice asked.

Neither, the man said; a polite breeding about him. I was wondering if you could spare me a few minutes of your time. That is, if you're still in the investigation business.

Depends. Are you in the paying business? Alice asked, slipping her key in the door.

I am.

Then I guess you'd better come in, Alice said, opening the door and letting the man enter.

As she locked the door from the inside and slid on a safety chain, she watched the man's eyes walk around the apartment. 

Are you locking me in? he said.

I'm locking everyone else out, Alice said, leading the man over to her desk. You'll have to excuse the, well, everything.

I'm sorry if this is a bad time, the man said. 

If you're waiting for a good time, get comfortable, Alice said. She removed a pile of papers from a flimsy wooden chair. Take a seat, she said, dropping into her own, with her back to the window. 

She pulled the chair up close to the desk and took her hand off the mace can inside her fanny pack. She wrapped the same hand around the but of a small, black revolver taped to the underside of the desk. The cheapest money could buy.

Axl sprung onto the table and paced left to right, sizing the man up, in his pressed white shirt and crimson red tie. His shoes shone dark like his eyes, yet he had a kind face and a relaxed way about him. From across the desk, Alice could smell the soap used to wash his hands. It suggested he was thorough.

Casework? the man said about the mess of papers on Alice's desk.

Online courses, Alice said. Criminal psychology.

You're a profiler?

It's more of a hobby.

The course going well?

It was, until they wanted paying. But anyway, how can I help?

The man looked over to the raft of unpaid bills weighted down under a rock on the far corner of the desk. Actually, it might be more a case of how I can help you.

Please do, Alice said.

I've got a case. An investigation.

Let me guess, the wife?

No, the man said.

Mistress? Daughter?

Niece, actually, he said.

You want her followed?

Oh, I'm afraid it's more of a missing person, the man said, eyes dropping. It's, well, it's quite urgent.

Alice shifted up in her seat and took her hand off the revolver. She could see he was struggling to get the words out. You want a drink Mr—

Kilbride, he said. Porter Kilbride.

Alice was up out of her chair. A two-second walk to the kitchenette. She put the kettle on and clattered around for her cleanest dirty cups. Can I get you a tea or coffee? she asked.

Coffee, he said. Thank you.

Um, I've only got green tea, Alice said, rinsing out a pair of mugs. One that said Penn State. The other, Hogan's Alley. 

Green tea is fine, Kilbride said.

Alice brought the drinks into the living room and handed one to Kilbride. He took it in a large, weathered hand that suggested he'd once worked in fields or factories.

Okay, where were we? Alice said, returning to her seat and resting a free hand back on the butt of her revolver.

Kilbride steeled himself, warming his hands on the mug. Well, about three weeks ago, my niece, Brooke, went missing. He trailed off and sipped on his tea, eyes closed, a shake of the head.

I'm sorry, Alice said. I can only imagine—

Yes, it's been a traumatic few weeks for the whole family.

Are you sure she's not just a runaway? Alice asked, holding her nose over the steam from the cup. It happens more than you might think.

Oh, it's not like that, Kilbride said, looking Alice in the eye. The police are quite certain she was abducted, but there are no new leads. We get no clear answers. And you know how these police departments are nowadays. They're understaffed, overworked, you know?

I understand, said Alice. You want to get things moving.

I live in a small town. I moved closer to my family, shortly before my father passed, but I'm a businessman from Kansas City. I suppose you could say an entrepreneur. So I'm not one to sit by, Miss Parks.

Alice, please.

If I see a problem, Alice, I'll call on all available resources to put it right. When it's my own flesh and blood, you can multiply that by whatever number you want.

If the police are all over it, why do you need me?

I don't know, I guess I'd like a second opinion, Kilbride said. A fresh pair of eyes on the case.

What? Mine?

Yes, said Kilbride, resting his mug on the desk. If you're not too busy.

Alice put her mug down and took a journal out of her sticky drawer. She leafed through to a blank centerfold. Let's see. I think I can squeeze it in. If you don't mind me asking, what makes you so sure it's an abduction?

Kilbride looked Alice in the eye. I come from a little town called Mayflower, he said. I know, I know, you've probably never heard of it. Unless you're familiar with the Homecoming Killer.

Alice froze. She snapped the journal shut and slipped it back in the drawer. Sounds familiar, taking a gulp of green tea. It's tempting. And sure would like to help, she said. But I'm just not sure I'm the kind of investigator you're looking for. I mean, I take pictures of people screwing from my car. Pardon my French.

Oh, I think you're being too modest, Alice. You're former FBI, aren't you?

Alice couldn't help but laugh. Yeah, the Academy. I dropped out of Quantico.

Kilbride reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He unfolded a piece of white copy paper and squinted. Yes, it says here you were first in your class for crime analysis. Second for marksmanship. In the top percentile for almost everything else.

Alice pulled a face. How do you know?

I find it pays to do your homework before you hire someone, said Kilbride, folding the paper away. And lack of experience aside, you're just the kind of person who could cast some new light on the case.

Alice shifted in her seat. I'm not sure—

Mayflower folks are easily ruffled, said Kilbride. A young woman in jeans and sneakers might just get more answers than big city cops knocking on doors and dragging the PTA in for questioning.

There are plenty of snoops out there, Alice said. Far more experienced than me.

Yes, and set in their ways, Kilbride said.

And what if it doesn't work? Alice asked.

Then at least I can say I tried.

Alice chewed on one corner of her top lip. I'm sorry, Mr. Kilbride, but I think you've been reading too much Raymond Chandler. This is better handled by the police.

Kilbride grabbed a loose pen from Alice's desk and ripped a yellow sticky note off a pad. He scribbled out a figure and handed it over. 

Alice took the paper. She couldn't stop her eyebrows from jumping.

An advance for taking the case, said Kilbride. And the rest for giving the family a full week of your time. If you don't find anything new, you'll still get paid.

Where have I heard that before?

"I'm a man of my word, Alice. And if you unearth anything that leads to us finding Brooke, I'll triple it. Quadruple it, if we find the killer.

Alice looked again at the figure on the sticky note. 

Expenses paid, Kilbride said. Of course.

Alice took her hand off the revolver and pushed her chair away from the desk. I'm sorry about your niece, Mr. Kilbride. I wish you the best of luck.

Please, if you know anything about the man who's taken Brooke, you know she doesn't have long.

You don't know for sure he's got her, Alice said. And I'm not the candidate you think.

Kilbride's entire body slumped a brief moment. Well. that's disappointing, he said, straightening him self up. "We felt you were the ideal candidate. But I understand. We'll just have to make alternative arrangements. He took a business card from a trouser pocket and handed it over. On the off-chance you change your mind."

Alice held the door open once more as Kilbride loped out with a long, easy stride. He stopped outside the door and reached inside his pocket one more time. He took out another folded piece of white paper and placed it in Alice's hand.

Time's running out. We're three weeks in and he kills them after a month.

Kilbride placed his hat on his head and buttoned his suit jacket beneath his raincoat.

Wait, Alice said. How did you find me in the first place?

Kilbride turned in the hallway. A lawyer friend passed on your details—Phil Reardon. For a moment, I thought the stars were aligning, but perhaps not. Kilbride forced a sad half-smile. Goodbye, Alice. Thank you for your time.

---

Alice closed the door behind him and applied all the locks. She stared at the note, stuck to the end of her thumb. Enough to take the heat off for a good six months, maybe more. She sighed, screwed up the note and tossed it on top of an overflowing wastebasket.

She unfolded the piece of paper given to her by Porter Kilbride. It was a photocopy of a missing persons flyer. A grainy color print of his niece, Brooke Tanner. Young, blonde, and beautiful. A big, beaming smile and innocent blue eyes.

Alice shook her head. The flyer made it harder. She folded it over and tucked it away in the stationery drawer of her desk.

She stared at the drawer for a moment, before rooting under a pile of papers and pulling out a small, silver laptop. Alice opened it up and hit the power button. After a few minutes of clicks and whirrs, the laptop screen blinked into life. She opened a browser and scrolled through her bookmarked pages. There were a hundred or so, most relating to the Homecoming Killer and the town of Mayflower. 

She hovered her cursor over a saved link, only to jump at a heavy knock on the door. A thin, brown envelope slid beneath the door and into the apartment. 

Alice walked over and picked up the envelope. 

She tore it open. 

An eviction notice. 

Twenty-four hours.

Alice looked to the ceiling and screamed, scaring the cat. She plodded to her tiny red sofa as if walking through tar and fell face-first across the cushions. She opened an eye in the direction of Kilbride's business card, left on the corner of her desk. She ran a hand through the thick fur on Axl's back as he came and sat at the foot of the sofa. 

Alice foraged between cushions and grabbed the TV remote. She hit the power button, only to realize the standby light was off. She raised her head and