Zeke, a reporter with schizo-affective paranoia, gets caught up in a vamp-motivated murder.
Zeke's best work is drafted during "medicinal vacations," where he uses his condition to aid his writing process, short term memory be damned. However, the l...
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A/N: This is dedicated to the wonderful SoullessDaydream . She's a badass horror writer who also gives great feedback. Thanks for nominating me for a Cryptic Award, love :-D
Martinez called a few more times, but Zeke slept through most of them.
He had found an empty bank parking lot, and had dozed in his car for couple hours.
At one point, he got sick of the vibrating tech, and listened to the voicemails:
"Hey, call me. Shit's not sounding good."
Delete.
"Petrov, I've heard enough to make me worry. Pick up your damn phone."
Delete.
"My department contacts assure me you're out and about. Call me back if you'd like to keep your job."
That one made him pause, but in the end, he hit delete.
"Thank you for your concerns about the victim's vehicle, and I've spoken with Officer Campbell. Let's keep in touch so as to discuss the continual status of your case."
His case? He wasn't the victim. The last message from Detective Anderson pissed him off, but as a POI, his rights were limited. His complaint had been registered, but effectively, Anderson didn't give two fucks about it, and his message indicated as much.
Lexa had probably gotten a slap on the wrist, tops. Meanwhile, Zeke was suspecto numero uno.
Driving past his apartment building had proved sobering. Two officers were parked on the side street, searching his place no doubt. Instead of confronting them, he had soldiered on, intent on crashing with whoever would have him.
Only, no one wanted him. His friends weren't answering their phones, and all his past loves had blocked him on social media, and that was before he had been named a POI.
In the wee hours of the morning, he had swallowed his pride and called dear ol' ma. Yet, she too had seen his picture on the news, and was not impressed. The whole damn town was aware of his possible involvement, and if the television says it, means you're guilty. While berating him, she set up a place for him on the couch, since his old room had been rented out. The dude was on vacation, otherwise, as ma had assured him, he would not be allowed in the house at all.
"Thank god for vacations," he said, patting her on the back, and flopping on to the couch.
~*~
When the afternoon sun peeked through the blinds, he stumbled to find his meds. No time for misplaced memories or dark possibilities.
