Chapter 4: Griffin

4

GRIFFIN

Present Day

E very bone in my body hurts. Sweat soaks my bed, and I shiver, groaning loudly as the barest brush of fabric against my skin aches. Am I coming down with the flu?

Lifting my hand to my forehead, I stare in disbelief at the tattered strip of bed sheet stuck to my hand with dried blood.

Oh, no. Not again.

With a tug, I pull it free and turn my mangled hands over in front of me, examining the myriad of cuts and bruises. I don't remember anything. The blood covering my torn clothes and sheets suggests something happened here that I should know about. Something more than the usual sleepwalking that's been leaving me with unexplained injuries lately.

And a sinking feeling in my gut tells me that's not all my blood. I don't know how I know; I just do.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force any memory forward—nothing but a black hole. As always.

Scrambling out of bed, I spin in circles in my trashed apartment, looking for some clue about what could have happened. In the last few weeks, I've taken to locking myself in my bedroom and barricading the front door at night. Finding knocked-over furniture every day suggests my midnight wandering is getting worse.

This morning, the door is open. I always lock it, making sure the deadbolt is in place so I can't get out. Or that was the plan.

At the sound of hushed voices in the corridor, I throw on a clean hoodie and sweatpants, and creep toward my front door. When I stick my head out into the hall, Ms. Smith, a retired schoolteacher, stands with her cat gripped tightly in her arms. She's with Liz, a college student who just moved in down the hall.

"Everything okay ladies?" I ask, edging out into the hallway, wondering what all the commotion is about.

"The Super. He was attacked last night," Liz says quietly, hands pressed under her armpits, as she glances over the bannister at blood smears on the tiled floor below.

"Oh," is all I can say.

I hate Leonard. I can't say I'm surprised someone attacked that guy. Only last week, I had a run-in with him when I stopped by his office to report a broken tap and caught him watching Liz on the CCTV cameras as she collected her mail. He seemed to be enjoying the show far too much. Neither Ms. Smith nor Liz look cut up about it, either. Leonard is universally disliked, with a reputation for being a creep. The tenants have been trying to get him removed for years.

"Yes, ‘Oh,'" Ms. Smith says, one perfectly drawn eyebrow raised.

Folding my arms across my chest, I ignore her intense scrutiny. "Joel found him when he came home from his shift at the hospital. It looks like someone broke into Leonard's apartment and bashed his face in." With surprising vitriol, she smiles, clearly pleased at the thought. "I heard he let himself into Janet's apartment while she was in the shower the other day. He deserves everything he got."

I heard about that, too. Janet complained to the building owner and was waiting to hear what, if anything, would be done to keep the women here safe in their own homes. I'm a relatively new tenant, but from what I've heard, plenty of people around here will wish they were the one to have done it.

"Did you hear anything? Or see anyone?" I ask, trying to sound calmer than I feel. My heart races, threatening to pound its way out of my chest. I shove down the urge to wipe my sweaty palms on my trousers.

When I challenged Leonard, my temper got the best of me, and I threw him against the wall. Hard. It's a bit foggy in my mind now, but I know he was okay when I left; pissed-off, but physically unharmed.

"Okay, I better get to work. Stay safe." I force out the words, my world spinning, as I fixate on the drops of blood that trail from the smears below, up to the bottom of the steps.

A short burst of sirens sounding outside makes me jump. Through the landing window, I see a police car pull into the lot and then park beside an ambulance. My head pounds, and I feel the walls closing in. Panic surging inside me, I back away from my neighbour.

"I'm sure they'll want to speak to everyone who was home last night," Ms. Smith notes calmly.

Is it my imagination, or is she looking at me rather strangely? Nodding numbly, I hurry inside and slam the door, taking a deep breath before jumping into action.

It's time to go.

Yanking a duffel bag from the wardrobe, I shove everything that I can fit into it, including the bundle of cash I have stashed in my bedside locker. I might not be back.

I'm about to bolt when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Debating whether to answer it, I pull out the phone and hold it beside my ear with my shoulder as I also grab my passport. Just in case.

"Griffin? It's Ranger Thompson. We met briefly on orientation day." He lets out a weary sigh. "It pains me to do this, but we need to replace John. Or, at least, have someone up there to man the station. We still have three missing women, and with John presumed dead at this point, it's already been too long since we had a presence there. Sorry to be so blunt."

A chair creaks in the background and I hear a rustle as he scratches his beard. "I know you weren't supposed to start for another month, but is there any chance you could come sooner? We'll cover any moving expenses."

This feels like the first thing that's gone right for me in a long time, and I let out a shaky breath. Losing John isn't the way I wanted to get this job, but I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Of course. Give me a few days to pack up and bring my stuff to Sutton. I'll start as soon as I can get settled."

"Appreciate it. This is… difficult for everyone. I'll let his family know you'll be moving in, so it's not a shock to them."

I slip out the door and pocket my key, almost crashing into Ms. Smith. She's watching the comings and goings below like it's a soap opera, and not a real crime scene. I'm about to stride past her when heavy boots on the stairs and the jangle of keys tells me the police are coming up. I freeze, hands on my backpack, unsure what to do. If they see me leaving, it'll look like I did something wrong.

Without taking her eyes from the scene below, Ms. Smith jerks her head toward her own apartment door.

"Use my fire escape. It drops straight into the car park. I'll tell them you're on holiday… since yesterday morning, I think." She winks and turns toward the stairs to meet the officer before he makes his way all the way up. "And put your hands in your pockets if you don't want to look guilty."

Without another word, I slip into Ms Smith's apartment and then climb out the window onto the rickety, old metal fire escape. As I slide down the ladder, a sick feeling twists in my gut. John warned me my control would slip eventually. I didn't want to believe it, but I should have. I might have hurt someone because I was too afraid to admit there's something seriously wrong with me.

It's time to figure out what that is.