The following day, I open my eyes and feel like someone has taken a hammer to my head. A migraine, one of several I get every month, has taken up residence, and they’re always brought on by insufficient sleep. This is why I go to bed by 10:30 and up by no later than 6:30, so I can get a solid 8 hours of sleep. My side of the bed is still empty. Brock must have slept on the couch the whole night.
I put on a robe and walk down the stairs to find him still there. It’s a little past 7:00, so I quietly walk into the kitchen, start the coffee pot, and take two Excedrin from the cupboard. I hate the meds, but they’re the only thing that helps my migraines. Couple that with the caffeine from the coffee and it usually knocks it out after an hour or so. This is a doozy, though, so who knows? If they’re bad, I need an ice pack on my forehead and no lights or any stimulation. Thankfully, I don’t have any meetings today, so I can rest somewhat as the meds take effect.
I need some food, even though I'm nauseous, so I get the cereal out of the pantry and milk out of the fridge. I want to close the blinds and just sit in the dark too. Maybe I’ll go back to bed and do just that.
A few hours later, I can feel the meds kick in as I open up my eyes, realizing that after I ate, I laid down and crashed. The time is nearly 9:00, but I didn’t hear Brock come up, so I wonder if he’s still asleep. If he is, he’s late to court.
I rush down the stairs, and he’s still asleep.
“Brock.” No answer. “Brock,” I say louder and nudge him with my hand. He groggily wakes up and stares at me. I still have the ice pack on my head. “Yes, had a migraine earlier, but you’re late for court.”
Brock looks down at his watch, and his eyes grow big. “Oh damn. I was supposed to be there at 8:30. Where’s my phone,” he gets up, searching for it. He throws open his briefcase, and it’s sitting on top of his papers. He picks it up and then mumbles, “Great, it’s dead; no wonder I didn’t get up.”
“Sorry, I would have woken you, but I took my meds and then fell back asleep.” Wait, it’s not my fault he missed the alarm. His phone was dead.
“I’ll have to charge it in the car.” He runs up the stairs, and five minutes later, he’s back down again in a new shirt, slacks, and tie, his hair combed.
“I can’t believe you can get ready that quickly,” I say, shaking my head.
“See you,” he says and then kisses me.
“Have a good day,” I wave him off.
Now that my headache is just a dull throb, I puff up the pillows on the couch, lay back, and flip open the laptop to start my search. Okay, Troy had to have had social media, so the first place I check is Facebook. Sorry, but I refuse to call it Meta. And why is there Threads now? It makes no sense. No matter; I’m only on Facebook and Instagram to see the grandkids. I put in his name and search through all the Troy Carmichaels. There’s a bunch of them, and then I see his photo and click on it. His last post was in August 2022, a year ago, and it’s pinned.
It reads: Loving life with this lovely woman next to me. I’m forever yours, T. There’s a photo of them kissing at sunset on a cliff, it looks like. She’s pretty, medium height, with long, flaming red hair, and wears, I think, a bikini or tankini, can't really tell. She looks to be about 30 if that. Troy has short, sandy-curled brown hair and wears Bermuda shorts and a black t-shirt. They look like a striking couple. I see the ocean behind them.
There were five comments, and hers is the first one. It says: Awww … you are my one and only. You have my heart and soul forever, M.
He took her to Hawaii, the bastard. He had promised to take Deanna on their 20th anniversary, which would have been in five years. I scroll down and see memorial tributes, and then see one that reads:
The love of my life is gone. Troy, I will cherish every moment we spent together. Whoever did this to you will pay.
I will make sure of it – M.
That last sentence … was that a threat? I screenshot the page to give to Gray.
I click on her photo; Melinda Patterson is her name. There’s not much on her, except her birthday is September 14, 1995, so 28 years old. Her last post was also in August 2022, with a similar photo of her and Troy in Hawaii, with the post: Fun in the sun with my hun – love you, T. It’s almost sickeningly sweet but also odd. She didn’t delete her Facebook, but nothing for a year?
I click on her friends, and a name–Jeff Patterson–pops out. I immediately click on his photo and wonder if it’s a brother, in-law, or maybe an uncle. I scroll down his feed. There are a few photos from six months ago, but then on June 22nd, 2023, a post with the words: She got what she deserved. That was it. A chill runs up my spine. What does that mean? There were no comments or likes, but nothing after that.
June 2023?
OMG, the same month Troy died. Did Jeff kill him? I mean, it would seem strange and even stupid to put up a post like that. Maybe he posted this as a warning to her. I have to know more about him, so I open another tab and search for his name. I scroll down and see a LinkedIn post with his name, so I click on it. I find his profile and see that he’s a civil engineer, and his hobbies are mountain biking, hiking, snowboarding, and horticulture, the study of plants.
What?? This cannot be a coincidence that Troy is first poisoned with a natural substance, then his body is scarred from a plant, and this guy’s hobby is horticulture. My phone buzzes, and I almost jump off the couch. I search for it and realize it’s right under my hip. I grab it.
IF YOU WANT THE KEY TO FINDING THE KILLER
YOU’RE LOOKING IN THE WRONG PLACE
How does this person always know what I’m doing? Did they bug my home and car or my laptop? Was the person I saw last week in the backyard able to get inside my home and plant a bug? How else do they know everything?
WHERE ARE YOU?
Silence
PLEASE, YOU’RE SCARING ME. YOU KNOW EVERYTHING I’M DOING
I wait …
I CAN’T TELL YOU WHERE I AM - I JUST KNOW YOU AND THIS IS WHAT YOU DO
This person knows me? I wrack my brain on who it could be, family, friends, someone in the neighborhood, on the street? Still, how do they know I’m looking for Troy’s mistress? Wait, if they have Facebook and they’re friends with me, they would see I’m active right now. I rarely go on there, so it makes sense that if they saw me on there, I could very well be looking for Melinda.
Okay, you’re smart, I’ll give you that.
Now, I know they’re not the killer; they are trying to help me, but they know things I would never know, so it begs the question, do they know the killer?
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