Killer Crush

You may think you know yourself. Truly know yourself. But we all have a stirring inside that can cause us to make choices we wouldn’t think we could.

     You’ve seen the true crime episodes. Someone gets angry and impulsively murders their spouse in a crime of passion. The people that knew them are stunned by this person’s actions. They’ll tell the reporter their friend was kind, patient, and never got angry. How could they have done such a thing? Or a mom who loves her kids more than life but leaves them to marry a man she fell in love with. A brilliant college student who is always responsible walks home with a boy she doesn’t know and ends up murdered.

     Each decision we make can forever change the course of our lives. The decision to drive to the store can lead to a tragic car accident. Too many happy hour drinks can lead to a flirty kiss with someone who is not your partner. The decision to go to the mall on the same day a gunman shows up.

     Each decision we make can have slight or dire consequences. It is easy to evaluate others from your comfortable microfiber couch, curled up with your Target throw blanket, as you watch the worst decision of their life play out on the true crime episodes you love so much. But be careful passing judgment because you never know what decisions you might make one day that could cause you not to recognize yourself.

 

 

 

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Chapter 2

 

 

My eyes are tired. I rub them, trying to focus as I pour over the file of papers again. Spending the evening with this file and a bottle of wine has become a yearly ritual since my best friend died. Life hasn’t been the same without her, and I will not stop researching her case until her stepdad is finally held accountable. Something is missing. Something is needed to connect him to her murder, so the police have enough evidence to arrest him. I am determined to find that missing piece and ensure the police do not stop doing their job.

     Usually, it is the mom that relentlessly calls the police to keep their daughter’s name in front of the police. It’s the parents who visit the scene of the crime to interview witnesses they think the police missed. They dig deep into their bank to put up a reward for information leading to the killer. But for Macy, that person is me.

     I stand up to stretch and pour myself another glass of wine. More wine will only make me sleepier, but I need the alcohol to get me through this file. Case notes, police reports, and crime scene photos are all stuffed into a manila folder with Macy Pennington on the tab. My friend is reduced to a file—a tragic story.

     This is why I am obsessed with solving her murder and watching true crime to help me do so. Sure, I enjoy a good mystery like most people, but when I watch the shows, I study the crimes, noting the killer's actions and the pieces of evidence ultimately needed to solve the case. The more I know, the more I hope to help get Macy justice.

     “You still up reading notes?” Jared asks, walking into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. He pauses to look at a picture of Macy, a headshot of her when she was featured in the school newspaper when we were seniors. Her long blonde waves cascade around her face, framing her straight teeth and gorgeous blue eyes. The gold necklace I gave her as a birthday gift was around her neck. “She was beautiful,” Jared says affectionately, sliding the picture to face him. “So much life ahead of her.”

“Yeah, she was stunning. I’m going to be up for a bit longer,” I tell him. He knows my monthly ritual. Macy was murdered on March 15, 2016, which was the spring semester of our junior year at the University of Oklahoma. So, every year on March 15th, I pull out her file and read through every piece of paper. I look for things I’ve missed, think about her case with fresh eyes, and think of new angles to investigate. The rest of the year, I manage her website, research online, and make new notes in my online file. I also call the police with new ideas or just to remind them that my sweet, gorgeous friend who was full of life is still missing, and they have a fucking job to do.

     “You’re a good friend,” Jared says, pulling me in for a hug and kissing me on the forehead. This catches me off guard. Jared and I kiss hello and goodbye, hug occasionally, and have mandatory weekly sex. But the passion that once was a tornado has spun itself out to a light wind. I miss the connection we had and often feel lonely.

     “Thanks,” I say, looking up at him. His dark brown eyes remind me of the man still somewhere inside him that I married, but it feels like it’s buried too deep to find. Standing on my tippy toes, I reach up and kiss him softly on the lips. “You heading to bed?” I ask him as he swigs his water in one gulp.

     “Yeah, long day tomorrow. I will probably be home late.”

Figures. I say, only inside my head. He is often working late. “I’ll make sure there are leftovers in the fridge for you to heat up,” I say, trying not to focus on how annoyed I feel, but instead the task at hand for this important day.

     “Thanks, honey,” Jared says as he walks out of the kitchen. I sit back down with a fresh glass of wine to refocus. This is the only time of year I smoke too. The alcohol and nicotine help soothe the terrible details of my poor friend. I grab my pack of cigarettes and slide one out to light. I take a deep inhale and can feel the smoke fill my lungs, sending the nicotine coursing through my bloodstream.            The cigarette makes me feel light-headed, which I embrace and take another sip of wine. Damn, I miss smoking.

     I inhale deeply on my cigarette and pull out the interview transcript of Steve, Macy’s stepfather. Macy grew up in Oklahoma and was raised by her dad, Tim. Macy’s mom, Patty, and her stepdad, Steve, moved to Reno when Macy was eight years old for Steve’s job. Macy would visit them each summer for a few weeks and occasionally at Christmas.

     The year she died, she went for spring break to visit because she had been so busy in college she hadn’t seen them in a couple of years. I went to Padre Island Beach in Texas with some friends for spring break, so we didn’t get to talk while she was gone. On the day I was driving back home, I got a text from Macy’s dad, Tim, who asked me to call him when I could. That was the worst day of my life. The worst phone call of my life.

      I barely passed school that semester. Thankfully, my teachers gave me grace, considering the circumstances. I spent the summer at home in bed most days. When I started back in the fall, I met Jared. He truly helped distract me enough to keep me living. We’ve been together ever since.

 I put my cigarette out in the sink and toss it in the trash. I can feel the smoke tightening my lungs, the torture something of their past. I light another cigarette anyway and step outside onto the back porch. The night is cool, but the temperature has been unseasonably warm. The houses in my neighborhood are huge, with adequate space between them, providing privacy. I take a seat in the wooden Adirondack chair and take a long inhale of my cigarette as I look out over the yard toward the tree line.  

     I can feel tears collecting and a lump forming in my throat. I swallow hard, trying to force the emotion down, but it wins, and I begin to sob. The dark backyard and quiet feel extra lonely as I quietly cry by myself, remembering my sweet friend. Thoughts about her last moments play like a movie reel in my mind no matter how much I try to stop them.

Police are unsure of the exact events, but we know that Macy went to a house party that night with her friend Page, whom she knew from the summers she spent with her mom. Several of Page’s friends were there, along with others the two girls didn’t know, and everyone was having a good time. Macy got too drunk and wanted to leave, so one of Page’s friends took her home because she didn’t feel safe taking Uber alone.

     When Macy’s mom woke up the following day, Macy’s cold, unresponsive body was lying on top of her white comforter with pink flowers. The pink satin throw pillows were strewn on her floor as though they were kicked off in a struggle. She was naked from the waist down, and her shirt and bra were pushed up, exposing her breasts. She had been sexually assaulted and strangled to death.

So, the movie reel I see is Macy staring at her stepfather as he rapes her and squeezes the last breath from her lungs. These images of Steve play over and over in my mind. Her mom is in the house, so close, but unable to hear to help her. It’s as if the best way to honor Macy now is to relive the last moments of her death over and over. It is as if she isn’t alone at that moment because I’m experiencing it too. It’s illogical, I know. She was alone and no matter how many times I relive her death in my mind, she was still alone. It’s some sick way to share in her pain, in my mind.

I wipe my tears and put out my cigarette. I retreat inside, pick up the case papers, and slide them back into her file. I resign myself to the fact that I didn’t uncover anything new this year either.