“My life was a shitshow. Oh, sure, you can chalk that up to teenage exaggeration. I was nineteen — so, a late bloomer into teenage angst, but the term still applied. I had finally got my head out of my ass enough to see the world I was actually in. It sucked.
Like any decent angry and depressive teen, I wished my family dead many times. Like a phoenix — or most any heroic protagonist — I could then rise from their ashes and become something mighty: my own person, for one.
So when I went out walking in the woods, that’s usually what I was thinking of. A life without them. And then of course, it came true.
I came home to find the door slightly ajar. You know the details almost as well as I do — or perhaps better, as in retrospect, I might have been in shock. Regardless, I’ll assume you can fill in what I found there. Eventually, as I stood there, an idea popped into my head. I think I laughed. I’d wanted to kill them how many times? What a good joke it would be, I thought. I’d watched enough crime shows, I figured I could do it. And I did.
I wiped down all the doors, the… weapon. I made sure my fingerprints were in damning places — but not so obvious ones that I could be considered a stupid criminal. I hated the thought of being considered a stupid criminal. I dumped the murder weapon in a neighbor’s trash can, I burned my clothes, I took a shower, and then I called 911.
I can’t remember half of what I said to the officers who came, or to anyone after. I barely remember you, and that because you were frustrating. I do remember being very proud of my performance though. I sowed doubt without being painfully obvious, and it wasn’t too long before most people were convinced that I was secretly a monster. Even the shrink they sent me to thought I was insane. Though I suppose that didn’t require much acting.
Then I was here. I was very pleased with myself for a while, and the attention certainly helped. But the high didn’t last. Eventually it sank in that it was just me alone. My family was gone. As for the real killer, any trepidation I might have had about him disappeared when even months after my sentence, he failed to show.”
“Until now,” the detective finally spoke.
“Yeah, until now.” Abigail shrugged, looking away.
“Why did he come? Why now? He stole a police badge just to get in here; it’s not as if he was afraid of the trouble.”
“I don’t know why he waited so long, but he said he wanted to play a game with me. That when the time came, I’d know what he meant, and that I should ‘stay tuned.’ I was thinking of watching Silence of the Lambs, or maybe a nice Ted Bundy documentary.”
The detective gave a stern look. “I don’t think I need to tell you that this is a serious matter, or to keep an eye on the news.”
“And yet you’re doing so anyway,” she smiled with feigned innocence.
He sighed and stood up. “I’ll be back the moment we learn more,” he set his card on the table, “don’t hesitate to call if you can think of anything further.”
“Yes sir,” she said, saluting and glancing at the card for the name she couldn’t remember, “Detective North.”