Still Beating Jennifer Hartmann

Chapter Sixteen

Earl Timothy Hubbard.

I finally find the strength to research the case.

My case.

Our case.

It's made international headlines, branding Earl with the nickname of The Matchmaker. He'll be going down in history as a renowned serial killer after eleven bodies were discovered buried beneath his vast acreage. His victims were taken in pairs—male and female, with no blood relation or romantic connection. Earl had boxes and boxes of trophies, trinkets, and evidence stored in his attic, including Cora's wallet and my leather jacket and car keys. He had journal entries devoted to each "couple", though, none of the detailed contents have been released to the media. It's been alleged that, based on the diaries discovered, Earl groomed his victims into developing feelings for one another—and when he felt like they had successfully fallen in love, he would murder them in cold blood. He got off on watching his victims mourn over their lover being tortured to death.

Sick fucking shit.

I think back to that fateful night, dwelling on every little thing I did wrong. Each wrong turn and fatal slip of the tongue.

"She your girl?"

Earl's question seemed harmless at the time. I had no idea I'd be sealing our fate when I replied with a firm, "Hell, no." I should have fucking lied, but getting under Cora's skin was more important. Pissing her off was more fun.

I had no idea I put the nails in our goddamn coffins.

Turns out the guy was a run-of-the-mill sales clerk for a company that makes power tools. I had thought at first he was a dirty cop, but the flashing lights on his vehicle were only there to trick his victims into pulling over. You hear about this shit in crime show documentaries—you never even dream about it happening in real life.

I close out of the news articles as my skin heats up with prickling anxiety. I feel physically ill. I'm cursing myself for reading this crap—I'm clearly not ready, and the wounds are still too fresh. Too raw. And I sure as fuck hope that Cora isn't reading any of it.

I lean back against my couch cushions, closing my eyes as I try to get a handle on my breathing. Two dogs were confiscated off the premises and are being held at animal control. One was a German Shepherd and the other was a Yorkie mix. Neither dogs looked threatening from the photographs. In fact, they looked terrified and malnourished—a far cry from the rabid beasts I'd pictured gnawing on our skeletons. I wonder what kind of horrors Earl subjected those poor animals to.

At least they had each other.

I grab my cell phone off the side table when it starts to vibrate, not overly excited to see Mandy's name staring back at me. And that makes me feel even shittier than I already do.

Mandy:Can't wait to see u later babe! Pick u up at 7  :) :)

Mandy is hosting her annual New Year's Eve bash tonight. Usually, we host it at my townhouse because it's bigger than her modest two-bedroom apartment, but given my current state of harrowing misery, we both agreed it would be better if she took care of the festivities this year. I honestly had no intention of going—ringing in the new year with a handle of vodka and my progressive rock playlist sounded far more appealing.

But Cora will be there.

I haven't seen her since that confusing, hangover-infused post-Christmas morning, but we've talked on the phone every night since.

We don't talk about how we woke up in each other's arms, spooning, our legs impossibly entwined and my hand up her tank top.

The timeline of those early morning hours is hazy at best. I vaguely recall an Uber ride with a driver I was convinced was Kurt Cobain, and I kept asking for his autograph, followed by the smell of Cora's daffodil hair quieting my demons and her warm breath against my neck lulling me to sleep. I remember a nightmare forcing me awake. And I remember eventually falling into the most comfortable sleep I've had in almost two months... despite the raging migraine I woke up to at almost noon the next day.