Claire Green is living her best life. Not only does she have her dream job as a sixth-grade math teacher doing what she loves the most and making a difference in the world, she has also found the man of her dreams. A sign language interpreter for th...
That's right I don't have any money or my car with me.
I should have left when I had the chance. The longer I stay the more Stockholm Syndrome-y this becomes.
"Lets go!" A muffled voice said.
"What exactly do you do with the police? You're not a officer are you?" Because I think I would lose all faith in humanity if he said he was.
"No, I'm a forensic investigator", very clever. What better way to be a murderer then to know how to get rid of a crime scene and what to look for that could incriminate you?
Stop.
What the hell was that? I'm not impressed by him. He fucking kills people!
"Wait!" I said grabbing his arm,"Promise me, you're going to take me home. And that you're not going to kill me?".
"I promise you, Claire Greene, I will take you home and I would never harm a single hair on your head. I'll be back late. So make yourself at home".
And with that said he was gone.
So what the hell do I do now? I should be way more freaked out than what I was. In the past twenty-four hours I found out my boyfriend was a pedophile, he was murdered in front of me and I've been stalked by a murderer for the majority of my life.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to compose myself.
Tristan Greyson.
Greyson sounds familiar. But, why?
I jumped up and started to search the house. He had to have a computer, tablet, or a fucking burner phone with internet. I searched the place from top to bottom: no bookshelf was left unsearched, no couch cushion was unturned and every cabinet was searched.
Nothing.
After a few hours of intense searching I found nothing. No phone, no laptop that worked and no tablet. Which meant there was definitely one of those three in this house somewhere. In 2018 for you not to have some way to connect to the Internet is weird.
Downright suspicious.
I sank against the wall frustrated by my shortcomings.
God, wherewould aserial killer keepa computer.
Where, where, where?
I banged my head against the wall shaking a painting that was hanging above.
There!
I started ripping the art off of the walls.
He was hiding it in plain sight!
I checked every canvas until I finally made my way into a guest bedroom. Standing on top of the bed I pulled the large Van Gogh replica of the Vase with Pink Roses off of the wall.
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