A String Of Murder
Author
SJ Wilke
Reads
387K
Chapters
55
Laura sees strings—traces of memories people leave behind in moments of intense emotion. It’s a quirky talent that makes her great at appraising antiques, but it also pulls her into a terrifying discovery. One touch of a knife, and she sees twenty-three blood-soaked strings clinging to it. The owner? A man her best friend is dating. The police dismiss her as delusional, but Laura knows what she saw. Now she’s racing against time, trying to turn her strange gift into the only weapon that might stop a killer. But how do you prove a danger no one else can see—before it’s too late?
Chapter 1
“I don’t see dead people,” Laura said to Carol.
They had been best friends since middle school. Today, they were sitting across from each other in a downtown café.
“Okay, okay. You see strings. But at the end of those strings are dead people. So, you see my logic?” Carol fiddled with the straw in her soda.
“But I don’t see dead people. Attached to those strings are memories, not dead people.”
Laura wanted to laugh, but she didn’t. Anybody who knew about her ability didn’t understand. She didn’t think of her psychic ability as a gift.
In fact, it wasn’t until her high school years—gossiping with friends about boys, love, sex, and life—that she even realized she was different. Until then, she thought everyone saw strings.
Carol shifted in her chair, thinking. She was a brunette with hazel eyes and a curvy build. Laura liked her because she didn’t take things too seriously and loved to laugh and be happy.
The strings that Laura saw didn’t always lead to happy endings, so she preferred cheerful company.
Carol laughed, showing she wasn’t going to go any further with the discussion. “I got a good chance at that promotion at work.” She squirmed in her chair with excitement.
“Excellent,” Laura said with a smile before sipping her soda.
Her eyes drifted to the door behind Carol—to a man who had just come into the café. He wore khaki dress pants and a pale-blue collared shirt with no tie.
He was tall and fairly good-looking with sandy-colored hair. However, because he sat with his back to her, she couldn’t make out the color of his eyes.
“You seem distracted,” Carol said.
“Cute guy just came in,” Laura murmured, nodding toward the door.
Carol laughed. “Focus! I told a friend you’d tell her future.” She turned to look toward the door as if that person would appear at any moment.
Laura shook her head. “I don’t tell futures.”
Only in the last year had Carol learned about strings. She still found it a hard concept to grasp, and Laura struggled to explain it.
When people grew attached to or experienced a traumatic event with an object, they left a string attached to it. Laura could see and read those strings.
She tried hard not to stand out. Most people were skeptical of such abilities. Therefore, she disguised her gift with her interest in antiques and a love for history.
Since most antiques had strings attached, what better occupation could she have than antique appraiser?
Table number two by the window in the Bordeau Café was her office. The place was new—new building, new décor, new everything. That meant few to no strings.
It was like being in a room with no TVs instead of a room with a hundred TVs, all on different channels.
“Well, just tell her something, like you always do,” Carol said casually.
“So, I take it we’re having a guest,” Laura said with resignation. “I should start charging you, you know.”
She pushed back her blonde hair. It had grown past her shoulders this summer, and she liked it that way.
She enjoyed looking as ordinary as possible. At her height, she already stood out more than she wanted to, which is why she’d always had a preference for tall guys. Slender but not skinny, she had the kind of build that made her melt into a crowd.
Carol smiled in a shy, oops-like manner.
“What if there isn’t anything to say?” Laura asked with a shrug.
“Oh, here she is. Marcie! Over here!” Carol beckoned to a woman who stood at the edge of the café, looking it over.
Laura didn’t need a string to understand this woman.
Her posture reeked of insecurity. Her shoulders drooped inward as she huddled herself within her jacket, even though the late summer heat beat down warmly around them.
She wore neutral colors as if trying to be invisible, but she had beautiful, large eyes that stood out against clear olive skin.
There was one string, but Laura couldn’t read it just yet.
“Hi, Carol,” Marcie said in a meek, quiet voice.
“Marcie. Sit. Can I order you something?” Carol asked, being way too animated for Marcie, who looked embarrassed.
“No, thanks,” she said, sitting hunched in her chair.
“Hi, Marcie. I’m Laura. What do you have in your pocket?” Laura asked, still unable to read the string—it wasn’t very strong.
“Oh, come on, Laura. You’re supposed to tell her what’s in her pocket,” Carol said with a laugh.
Marcie pulled her hand out of her pocket like an obedient puppy to reveal what she had been fiddling with since she sat down.
“It’s a—”
“Token,” Laura said, cutting off Carol.
She touched the token without taking it from Marcie’s hand. There were two strings: one from Marcie and a very weak one from her father.
The strings attached to the token told the story of why Marcie valued the round emblem from a 1980 Buick. The metal looked faded, but the red, white, and blue colors of the emblem were still visible.
Her father had given it to her when she was six. Laura could see him telling her it was his most precious belonging, that she needed to keep it safe, and that it would always protect her.
Laura figured this was a big responsibility for a six-year-old, given that her dad’s string showed he was a no-good laggard, a petty thief with a rap sheet longer than the six-year-old was tall.
The string told her that the father was dead—he died only a few months after he had given Marcie the emblem.
Marcie didn’t seem to know or didn’t remember much about him, which was probably a good thing.
“Your dad gave it to you,” Laura said.
Marcie didn’t show any emotion as she nodded.
Most people tended to suppress any emotion that might let her know if she was right or wrong. People had the idea that it led the “fortune-teller” on, aiding them in seeming to be accurate.
This was mostly true, but Laura didn’t need these cues.
Carol, looking smug, sat back in her chair as if willing herself to be silent, at least until Laura had finished.
“It’s a token. The value is in the giver, not the object itself,” Laura said, thinking carefully.
She hated weak women. The news was always full of female victims. Marcie might as well have the word “victim” stamped on her forehead, since her meekness made her look vulnerable.
Laura wanted to change that. Knowledge was empowering, and Marcie needed to learn a few things—true or not.
“He gave the token to you because of your eyes. Marcie is short for Marcella. You’re part Italian,” Laura said, happy that Marcie finally revealed a surprised reaction to her words.
“Marcella means warlike and strong,” she continued. “He gave you the token to tone you down. Cool the fire. But…but you’re carrying the token with you, and because of that, you’re too toned down. Weak.”
Carol nodded, enjoying the story.
Marcie seemed frozen, not even breathing.
A waiter approached, and Carol shook her head to let him know they didn’t need him.
Laura was glad he responded to Carol’s gesture and turned away.
“Your eyes have the power to knock men down to their knees, but the token prevents you from doing that,” Laura said.
She paused to take a sip of her soda. Marcie needed some time to digest the information. Sometimes, trying to help someone with the power of suggestion worked, and sometimes it didn’t.
Laura liked to think she was more successful than not—her own attempt at the power of suggestion for herself.
“If you shine a flashlight in a dark room, it’s bright,” Laura said, putting her soda down.
“If you shine a flashlight out here in broad daylight, no one will even see it. Right now, you are a flashlight in a dark room. Everyone notices you.”
That comment made Marcie nervous. She looked around.
“It’s your eyes. You need to tone them down by brightening yourself around them,” Laura said.
Both Marcie and Carol looked confused.
“You need to wear bright colors to tone down the brightness of your eyes. Red. Go find a fashion magazine and dress like a model. You could be a model like your mom was before your dad came along.”
Laura chose her words carefully, since the strings didn’t tell her if Marcie’s dad had married her mom or not. Information derived from a string could sometimes be hazy.
“My mom was a model? But she was only sixteen,” Marcie said.
“Shoot. All models start out as preteens,” Carol blurted out, then stuck her hand over her mouth, remembering she shouldn’t have talked until Laura had finished.
This time, however, the comment was helpful, and Laura sent her friend a smile.
“So, what’s my future?” Marcie asked.
“You have two,” Laura said.
“Two?”
“You can carry the token and be a flashlight lost in a dark world. Or you can tuck the token in a jewelry box and command the world with your light,” Laura said.
She winced inwardly, suddenly aware of how melodramatic she sounded. Her fingers twiddled with her hair, giving her some time to think.
Before she could backtrack, two police officers walked through the café, drawing everyone’s attention.
