The Serial Killer Beside Me (Lainey Quilholt Mysteries Book 3) - Lorelei Bell

The Serial Killer Beside Me (Lainey Quilholt Mysteries Book 3) by Lorelei Bell

Book excerpt

A car drove slowly behind me. I ignored it as I ran along the cracked sidewalk. Today I went a little further, trying to push myself. I'd gained five pounds in the past five weeks. No more candy bars, or the occasional ice cream treat. I had begun jogging only this week and it was a tell since I got winded within the first two blocks. The crisp air filled my lungs, and my calves began to hurt midway as I chugged several blocks west and then turned north. I planned to go one block further, turn back south, and head home—probably walk a good deal of it, the way I was feeling. This was my fifth day in a row of running. I had chosen safe streets to run, and in broad daylight, acquiescing to my uncle's and aunt's wishes.

The car, or whatever it was, hadn't sped up to go the normal speed of 25 through town—not even 20. Or ten. But it did turn along with me onto Ringback Street.

It's following me. Shit. Who was it? My Uncle John? Or someone else? They would have honked by now, I reasoned.

Ponytail bobbing, I turned my head slightly and tried to check out the vehicle. A small truck, maybe. It was boxy at any rate. Dark red, maybe maroon. Possibly a Ford, but I wasn't sure. It sounded a little rough in the tailpipe area. I had no idea who was driving this truck, following me. I hadn't gotten a good look at the driver, as they had paused, allowing me to get further ahead. I thought they might have been waiting for me to go past so they could turn into a drive.

Nope.

It continued following me at a snail's pace, almost as if playing a cat and mouse game with me. But this game was no fun. Especially in the wake of the recent news.

There had been a woman's body found on the Illinois side of the Mississippi River, left partially nude. It was found by fishermen returning to their boat one morning about a week ago. She'd been raped and murdered. This had us all, here in Montclair, Iowa, more than just a little nervous. Especially the female population, because Illinois is situated across the river from Montclair, a mere 3,484 feet—the bridge length which spanned from Rapids City, Illinois, to our small town across the mighty Mississippi. The woman's body was barely half a mile from the bridge just south of it, in fact, which might have been a mile from town limits. Thus the reason I didn't jog in the early mornings (not that I could force myself out of bed at an ungodly hour of five AM), nor did I jog after the sun set. I just wasn't going to take a chance on getting abducted by whoever had done this.

Meanwhile, with my present situation, I was getting nervous because the vehicle would not move on. My red flag warning had gone off long ago, and I now mentally reviewed everything I'd been taught when very small. “Run to a neighbor's house” was one. I now carried pepper spray in my fanny pack, along with my phone. Getting either one out at the moment would cause me to have to slow down. The other side of my brain—not sure if it's the left or the right one—didn't want to believe someone would be so bold as to snatch a person (namely me), in broad daylight, but I'd been warned by Weeks—who was now my Uncle John—that abductions happen like that all the time. He also managed to throw in the fact that a rape happens every five minutes in the United States, making me even more nervous than I already was about jogging by myself. “Possibly more often, because some are never reported.” He'd then added to the information dump in my head which now spun around in a loop.

I made up my mind and jogged up the sidewalk of the nearest house, preparing my speech once I roused anyone inside. Hi, someone's following me. Please let me in and call the police. I had no idea whose house this was, or if anyone was at home. But getting away from the vehicle was the most important part of running up to the house. For all I knew it could be a little old lady with cataracts with a dozen cats and couldn't hear well. Or I could be walking into a dangerous person's house.

My swift footsteps took me to the cement steps of the front door, wooden with six glass panels arranged at an angle. A fall wreath hung midway, and the doorway was swept of leaves. Three un-carved pumpkins stood as sentinels. This looked promising. My only problem is if they weren't home, then what?

My hand rose and I prepared to knock when I heard a familiar woman's voice yell “Hey, Lainey!” from behind.

I turned, finding the maroon truck—which wasn't a truck at all, but a Jeep—had stopped at the curb, and a woman I knew was leaning out the passenger window, waving at me. Now that I looked at it properly, it wasn't maroon at all, but an orangy-rust, reminding me of a color in a box of 48 crayons. This was as close to bittersweet as I've ever seen in a car color.

“Maureen?” I said, more to myself as I turned completely around, away from the door I was about to knock on. My tripping heart throbbed now and began to slow while my brain went through a bunch of ridiculous explanations for my running up to this house.

I darted down the walk toward her Jeep. It looked new.

“Hey, this is my new wheels. Thought I'd stop over and show it off, but your aunt said you'd gone jogging.” Maureen wore her dark brown hair back off her heart-shaped face in a short tail. Today she was dressed in jeans and a navy sweatshirt that boasted FBI in white. I'd learned she had taken training at the FBI Academy's Profiling Unit in Quantico, Virginia, a few years ago. She was second in command in the Sheriff's Department, under my uncle. Thus my relief came quickly as I leaned into her new car.

“Cool wheels, but sounds like you'll need a new muffler soon.” I'd been dating Nate Blackstone, who was taking automotive classes at Whitney College where I attended, and was picking up lots of automotive knowledge from him. Not that I would remember it all, but sometimes a little nugget found its way to the forefront.

“I know. I've gotta take it back this afternoon before I go to work, but I wanted to see if I could find you.”

“Yeah. About that, you stalker, you!” I admonished.

“Oh. That. Sorry. I had a call, and I sort of pulled over, and then I saw you and didn't want to lose you and so…” She shook her head. “Hey. Better me than some unwanted. Right?”

“Yeah, but you gave me a scare. You should have honked. I didn't know your vehicle. I almost knocked on that person's door to get away.” I pointed back at the house.

“Sorry. But good job. You didn't take for granted I was safe. So, you get ten points.”

I laughed. “So you're off this morning?”

“Until five.” She glanced up in her rearview mirror as a car drove around her. “Hey, I don't want to interrupt your run—”

“Nah. I've had enough. I think I went too far today,” I said, still out of breath.

“Want a ride back?”

“Thought you'd never ask.” I grasped the door handle and hopped in. The interior was tan. She grabbed the stick between the two front seats as soon as I buckled myself in.

“You have classes tonight?”

I glanced at her. Unlike me, Maureen had a steel trap for a memory.

“That's right.”

She turned the next corner, and the loud muffler was unmistakable. “Yeah. I'll have to get this into Terry, see if he can get it fixed. He sold it to me, so, I'm thinking he needs to fix it for free.”

“You sign a contract?”

“You bet I did. I don't go into anything this expensive without one.” She smiled as she drove back toward my street. Our conversation about her new ride seemed to be exhausted and my thoughts went back to my concerns about the murderer/rapist.

“Why do they do it?” I asked.

At the stop sign, Maureen paused and looked at me. “Why do who do what?”

“You know. These guys who rape and kill.”

“Oh.” Maureen pulled forward across the quiet intersection. Our town was quiet, most of the time. We'd had only one murder in town a few months back, which I helped solve.