A String Of Murder
Author
SJ Wilke
Reads
404K
Chapters
55
Laura sees stringsâtraces of memories people leave behind in moments of intense emotion. Itâs 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 sheâs 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 seeâbefore itâs too late?
Chapter 1
âI donât see dead people,â Laura said to Carol.
They had been best friends since middle school. Today, they were sitting across from each other in a downtown café.
âOkay, okay. You see strings. But at the end of those strings are dead people. So, you see my logic?â Carol fiddled with the straw in her soda.
âBut I donât see dead people. Attached to those strings are memories, not dead people.â
Laura wanted to laugh, but she didnât. Anybody who knew about her ability didnât understand. She didnât think of her psychic ability as a gift.
In fact, it wasnât until her high school yearsâgossiping with friends about boys, love, sex, and lifeâthat 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 didnât take things too seriously and loved to laugh and be happy.
The strings that Laura saw didnât always lead to happy endings, so she preferred cheerful company.
Carol laughed, showing she wasnât going to go any further with the discussion. âI got a good chance at that promotion at work.â She squirmed in her chair with excitement.
âExcellent,â Laura said with a smile before sipping her soda.
Her eyes drifted to the door behind Carolâto a man who had just come into the cafĂ©. 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 couldnât make out the color of his eyes.
âYou seem distracted,â Carol said.
âCute guy just came in,â Laura murmured, nodding toward the door.
Carol laughed. âFocus! I told a friend youâd tell her future.â She turned to look toward the door as if that person would appear at any moment.
Laura shook her head. âI donât tell futures.â
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 CafĂ© was her office. The place was newânew building, new dĂ©cor, 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.
âWell, just tell her something, like you always do,â Carol said casually.
âSo, I take it weâre having a guest,â Laura said with resignation. âI should start charging you, you know.â
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 sheâd 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.
âWhat if there isnât anything to say?â Laura asked with a shrug.
âOh, here she is. Marcie! Over here!â Carol beckoned to a woman who stood at the edge of the cafĂ©, looking it over.
Laura didnât 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 couldnât read it just yet.
âHi, Carol,â Marcie said in a meek, quiet voice.
âMarcie. Sit. Can I order you something?â Carol asked, being way too animated for Marcie, who looked embarrassed.
âNo, thanks,â she said, sitting hunched in her chair.
âHi, Marcie. Iâm Laura. What do you have in your pocket?â Laura asked, still unable to read the stringâit wasnât very strong.
âOh, come on, Laura. Youâre supposed to tell her whatâs in her pocket,â 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.
âItâs aââ
âToken,â Laura said, cutting off Carol.
She touched the token without taking it from Marcieâs 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 dadâs 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 deadâhe died only a few months after he had given Marcie the emblem.
Marcie didnât seem to know or didnât remember much about him, which was probably a good thing.
âYour dad gave it to you,â Laura said.
Marcie didnât 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 âfortune-tellerâ on, aiding them in seeming to be accurate.
This was mostly true, but Laura didnât need these cues.
Carol, looking smug, sat back in her chair as if willing herself to be silent, at least until Laura had finished.
âItâs a token. The value is in the giver, not the object itself,â Laura said, thinking carefully.
She hated weak women. The news was always full of female victims. Marcie might as well have the word âvictimâ 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 thingsâtrue or not.
âHe gave the token to you because of your eyes. Marcie is short for Marcella. Youâre part Italian,â Laura said, happy that Marcie finally revealed a surprised reaction to her words.
âMarcella means warlike and strong,â she continued. âHe gave you the token to tone you down. Cool the fire. ButâŠbut youâre carrying the token with you, and because of that, youâre too toned down. Weak.â
Carol nodded, enjoying the story.
Marcie seemed frozen, not even breathing.
A waiter approached, and Carol shook her head to let him know they didnât need him.
Laura was glad he responded to Carolâs gesture and turned away.
âYour eyes have the power to knock men down to their knees, but the token prevents you from doing that,â 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 didnât.
Laura liked to think she was more successful than notâher own attempt at the power of suggestion for herself.
âIf you shine a flashlight in a dark room, itâs bright,â Laura said, putting her soda down.
âIf 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.â
That comment made Marcie nervous. She looked around.
âItâs your eyes. You need to tone them down by brightening yourself around them,â Laura said.
Both Marcie and Carol looked confused.
âYou 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.â
Laura chose her words carefully, since the strings didnât tell her if Marcieâs dad had married her mom or not. Information derived from a string could sometimes be hazy.
âMy mom was a model? But she was only sixteen,â Marcie said.
âShoot. All models start out as preteens,â Carol blurted out, then stuck her hand over her mouth, remembering she shouldnât have talked until Laura had finished.
This time, however, the comment was helpful, and Laura sent her friend a smile.
âSo, whatâs my future?â Marcie asked.
âYou have two,â Laura said.
âTwo?â
âYou 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,â 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 cafĂ©, drawing everyoneâs attention.
