Chapter Text
Blurry pictures of gore, copies of police reports, and snippets of news articles are all connected by red string and held in place by thumbtacks on your cluttered cork board. You stare at it, eyes sore from the intense focus and lack of blinking. Your hands are cramped from gripping your empty mug for so long, leaving your fingers feeling like they’re molded to the ceramic, and your feet ache from standing for hours in one spot, but you can’t tear yourself away from the spiraling set of barely connected images and information.
If the others in the building cared at all about your health, they would have torn you away from your obsession hours ago. Hell, they would have never tossed the case on your desk to begin with, but they seemed to want to break you before your first year on the force was over. A punishment for being outspoken about corruption within the ranks of officers maybe, or for your youthful bravado. Shit, they could just be doing this because you’re a woman- the only woman in the homicide division.
Sighing deeply, you cinch your eyes close and pinch the bridge of your nose. A headache that had been brewing all morning is starting to turn into one hell of a migraine and as of yet, the two aspirins, three Tylenols, and the bag of goody’s excedrin, had yet to even touch the pain.
You could give up. It was easy, just go to the chief with your tail between your legs and admit defeat, but that wasn’t your style. No, you’d finish this even if it killed you. Which it probably would with the amount of bitter caffeine you were swallowing down since you got this case.
Speaking of caffeine, you absently go to take a sip from your mug, only to realize it’s empty. Scowling down at the ring of brown inside the white ceramic, you sigh again. You didn’t want to face whoever was in the break room, not right now, so you decide the best course of action is to go down to Starbucks. At least there you could get something palpable and not just heated up black tar in a coffee maker that hadn’t been cleaned since it was bought.
It’s hard to tear yourself away from your messy cork-board that looks like a mad man’s inspiration spread. You let your eyes linger on the latest photo of the Ghostface, one boot on his victim’s back while he seemingly waves at the home security camera with the bloodied murder weapon still in his hand- the glint of blood and silver sends a shiver down your spine and you finally turn your back to it.
Like always, the Starbucks is annoyingly busy and normally, you wouldn’t care too much, but with your migraine mounting into nauseating territory, you find yourself wildly overstimulated (and of course, you forgot to grab the Walkman out of your car before you walked over here, just your luck). At least the barista at the register is quick and efficient. She smiles at you fondly and you can remember her name despite the missing plate on her apron, just like she undoubtedly knows yours.
“Hey, Amber,” you greet her as warmly as you can manage. “Can I get the usual?”
“For you?” She says with a laugh that makes your heart melt. “Always, lovely.”
You hand her a wad of ones which she takes her time to count out, as if savoring your brief interaction. “So,” she drawls, looking up from your wrinkled money in her hands to meet your gaze, “how’s that big case going?”
You frown and, sagging, stuff your hands in your pockets. “Piss poor. No witnesses or living victims means no leads, unfortunately. All I have are blurry photos and rumors to go off of. A lot is riding on me catching this freak.”
“I’m sorry.” Amber frowns with you as she drops the change into your extended hand. “Hey, next time you come in, the drink is on me, okay? For my favorite customer.”
A small but genuine smile breaks your tension. “Thanks, Amber. I really appreciate it.” You square up your shoulders and glance behind you, wincing at the forming line glaring at you. “Uh, I should probably get out of the way. You better make good on that promise fo yours!”
The bubbling laugh she does gives you a pep in your step as you move to the side and stand against the wall. To distract yourself, you pull our your phone, flip it open, and scroll through old messages.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the junior detective!” A familiar voice calls out in amusement; before you can turn to face the voice, an arm is slung around your shoulder, drawing you into a firm body. “Hello, doll! Haven’t seen you in a while.”
Glancing upwards in surprise, you are met with the sight of the one and only Jed Olsen. Both your worst enemy and a good friend and while you haven’t know him long, only a few months, he’s made quite the impression. It helped that he was in your office almost every day seeking new information on the Ghostface murders for his articles, sometimes bringing his own dug up dirt and details. But as charming and persuasive as he could be, he was equally as annoying.
You grunt and push him off you. “Don’t do that to me! Almost gave me a fucking heart attack! Asshole-“
Gasping dramatically, Jed puts the back of his hand to his forehead like a Victorian woman about to faint, and leans theatrically against the brick wall. “I’m wounded, doll! Really, I am!”
Your knuckles meet his arm in a bruising punch, but you can’t help the laugh that builds in your chest. “You’re gonna be wounded when I put my foot up your ass! I’m armed and you sneak up on me like this?”
Jed fixes himself to stand taller, looming over you as he rubs his arm. “Well, when you put it that way… maybe I ought to be more careful around you.” He wiggles his fingers in your face and laughs when you wave them away dismissively. “You could snap under the pressure at any moment, doll. I’ve seen it a hundred times in rookies like you.”
“I’ll make sure to take you out with me then,” you hum.
Jed opens his mouth, only to be cut off by a short cry of your name from the pick-up bar. You jaunt over, swipe up your drink, and move for the door. Jed seems keen on keeping up with you, sliding his way through the crowd like a snake and matching your pace.
“I have nothing to give you,” you say as you sip your drink. “No more details since last time you trespassed into my office so you can’t milk me for your next piece.”
“Whoa, whoa!” Jed puts up his hands in mock defense, though while holding his cup he can only manage a a single hand. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about. Well, actually, kind of. Partially. I got this left in my mailbox last night.” He’s pulling a black envelop from his jacket pocket and holding it out to you, so you take it gingerly; the top is already torn neatly. “I thought you’d want to take a look at it.”
Brow raised in suspicion, you pull the card stock from out of the envelop and open it. Against the silver of the thick paper is bright red print, smeared like the writer hadn’t let the ink dry before folding it and stuffing it into the envelop. All that’s sprawled on the page is ‘TELL YOUR DETECTIVE FRIEND SHE’S NEXT’.
A laugh leaves you before you can stop it. “That’s cheesy.” You fold the card stock and slip it back into the envelop. “And why did he have to tell me through you?”
Jed shrugs and searches your face for any spike of emotion. “I’m not all that sure, but you don’t seem upset by this.”
“Upset? Why would I be?” Your eyes narrow and you try your best not to clench the envelop, instead tucking it safely away into your jacket with a scowl. “I invite him to fucking try me.”
When you get home, it’s well after dark. As soon as the door is locked and dead bolted behind you, you shrug off your shoes and jacket, letting them bundle into a heap on the floor. A distant meow and dainty footsteps echoes in the small entry way and you smile at the sight of your cat pawing up to you. He weaves in and around your feet as if to purposely try and trip you as you walk, so you scoop him up into your arms and snuggle your face into his soft fur.
“I missed you, Baby Boy,” you mumble into his pelt.
He meows musically at that, his deep, raspy purr melting the stress of the day off your shoulders. Putting him down gently, you watch as he takes up residence on your jacket, curling into a tight ball and immediately snoring away. With a roll of your eyes, you make your way to your bedroom.
That Ghostface case was getting fucking serious, it seemed. And at first, you weren’t so put off by it, but now that you were home, you were having second thoughts. Sure, you owned weapons, but you were dealing with a very experienced stalker. If his first known victims, a former marine and his roommate who was a soldier, couldn’t save themselves, what could you do?
Christ sake, you lived far outside Chicago’s dense ring of apartments and inner suburbs. Your neighbor might be able to hear your screaming if Ghostface did attack, but it would still take the police awhile to get here.
Pushing that out of your mind, you strip off the rest of your clothes and throw them into the laundry basket before heading to your dresser. Funny, you don’t remember leaving the drawers open, but it was only just a crack. Probably Baby Boy getting in a nap on top of your bras and shirts again. It was weird that you couldn’t find your favorite underwear, a pair of soft, silky briefs though.
“Third pair this month,” you mumble as you fish out something else. “Baby Boy, if you’re stealing my undies, knock it off!”
You hear him give a loud, disgruntled meow back and smile to yourself. Without thought, you pull on sweatpants and a long shirt full of holes before shuffling your way to the kitchen. At least you didn’t work tomorrow- you could pour yourself a glass of wine, grab that last slice of chocolate cake in your fridge, and watch a movie. You had just bought Black Christmas after all and it was time you gave it another watch.
After pouring yourself a generous glass of cheap wine, you pop the cake from the fridge and slide it onto a paper plate. And even though it was a few days old, the triple chocolate slice of heavenly goodness was still spongy and moist. Your mouth waters just at the thought and before you could even scoop up your meal, you took a chunk of cake with a fork and popped it into your mouth. You hum in delight. That chick on the corner store bakery sure knew how to make a bomb fucking cake-
The phone on the kitchen receiver rings so loudly you almost startle. You stare at it for a long few moments. It’s probably a telemarketer or kids pulling a prank or another fucking journalist. Either one makes your blood boil with annoyance.
Swallowing the giant bite, you quickly pop the thing off the wall and hold it to your ear with a shoulder. “If you’re calling about an interview for the Ghostface murders, I kindly ask you please fuck off,” you say with a hint of animosity in your tone.
“Oh, well that’s not a nice way to answer the phone,” a deep, smooth voice says on the other end. “I just wanted to talk to my new friend.”
Immediately the hair on your neck stands. A chill runs through your veins all the way to your heart, making it skip a beat. Another swallow, though this time it feels like you’re forcing down sand paper. Steadying your breathing, you spit, “You.”
“Me.” You can hear the smile through the phone, the upwards curling of his lips as he swears out the word. “I thought you’d be happy to hear my voice,” he coos in mock sadness. “After all, aren’t you my biggest fan?”
“You are so full of yourself, buddy,” you snap and slam your palm on your counter top. “Why don’t you turn yourself in now and save me the trouble, huh?”
He laughs; it’s short and sharp, cutting deep into your brain like a knife, but something about it… thrills you. “I would but that would ruin the fun you and I are going to have.”
This situation should scare you more, and it does, you’re shaking and sweating and your heart is pounding, but an equal part of you finds this oddly- No. No, you’re not going to think like that. That’s just… wrong, so very, verywrong.
Shaking your head, you force out your words, “You’re insane.”
“Maybe I am, but I thought girls like bad boys. That’s why you got all those scary movies in your collection, isn’t it? The big, bad slashers turn you on?”
Your heart drops into your stomach. “You’ve been in my house?”
There’s a noncommittal noise from him. “A couple of times, yes. You’ve got quite the selection of horror movies. And a lot of cute panties too. Thanks for those. They still smell like you.”
Heat raises to your face so fast and so hot that it feels like someone threw boiling grease on you. All you can do is open and close your mouth like a suffocating fish.
Ghostface laughs, but this time it sounds more genuine. Loud and raspy. “The look on your face! Too cute.”
He can see you. Right now, he can see you and he’s looking at you and that thought is both terrifying and thrilling. You twist on your heels, phone still pressed to your ear, and look at the only window in the room. Above the sink, the curtains are open, but the window is thankfully shut and locked. In two long, panicked strides, your free hand is clenched around the curtain and yanking it closed.
“Fucking freak,” you hiss into the phone but don’t dare hang it up. Not yet.
“I’ll take that as compliment,” he hums absently. “Listen, I have to go. Fortunately you’re not at the top of my kill list-“
“What about the letter?” You interrupt; your palms are clammy and your visions swirls with anxiety. “You said I was next.”
“Oh, that? Disappointed you don’t get to see me yet? I just wanted to get yours and that reporter’s attention, but you are next. Just not the next to die. Enjoy your cake, detective.”
The phone goes dead on the other end and you feel bile crawling up your throat. With trembling hands, you punch in the number to the chief who you know is still on duty. He answer roughly with exhaustion heavy in his voice.
“Boss,” you murmur, peaking around your curtains cautiously and trying to see through the pitch blackness outside. “I think we have an issue…”