I ran down the spiral staircase, coming to a halt near the phone in the hallway. I nervously dialed Jayson’s number, looking into the study to see if Eric was still there. He wasn’t, and I impatiently waited for Jayson to pick up the phone.

“Hey! You’ve reached the cell phone of Jayson Cook. I obviously could not make it to the phone right now; however, if you leave your name, number, and a message, I’ll call you back as soon as possible. Have a great day! Bye!”

Needless to say, my heart sank when the all-too familiar voice mail came on, and I slowly set down the receiver as a beep followed by silence met my ear. I trudged upstairs, shutting my door behind me.

I sat down on my bed and heard the front door open and shut, indicating my uncle and aunt were home. I began walking downstairs when I heard them talking to my cousin in the hall below. I stopped and squatted down by the banister, and gripping the wooden spindles with my hands, I listened.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“She was up in the attic again, father. She shouldn’t be up there.”

“Deal with it yourself Eric! You’re the one who screwed up the whole accursed thing in the first place!”

“She’s not working.”

“I know that Eric! You don’t need to state the obvious!”

“But the obvious has been quite obvious all along to me, at least.”

“Todd, Todd I can’t take this.”

“Bethany shut up!”

“Todd please I’m tired of this I cannot sleep at night I have spells with my migraines all the time, the guilt, every time I look at her-“

“ENOUGH BETHANY!”

At that exact moment, I let out a loud sneeze, all three pairs of eyes instantly locking on to me, crouched behind the banister.

My Uncle’s face became frighteningly stern, and he marched up the steps and grabbed my shoulder.

“Enough is enough, young lady; eavesdropping is quite unacceptable. Go to your room and stay there till I say you can come out. NOW.”

I ran into my room and slammed the door behind me, standing for a few moments with my back up against the door.

I wasn’t working? Aunt Bethany couldn’t take what guilt?
I lay down on my bed and stared at the ceiling. What was I to make of all this? Is it possible my relatives know something I don’t? Do they know if Jayson was really murdered? DO they know something about my family’s deaths they aren’t telling me?

My stomach churned and my mind raced. I’d had sneaking suspicions in the back of my mind for awhile, suspicions I couldn’t quite sort out. It was a giant and irrational leap of logic to up and say that my aunt or uncle or cousin committed the murders, and it’s not exactly what I suspected. After all, they all three had air tight alibis: my cousin had been at medical school hundreds of miles away, and my aunt and uncle were both confirmed home by each other that night. So it’s not a suspicion that they were directly responsibly, necessarily . More of a suspicion that they knew something.

But what would they know? The murders were personal, so perhaps they knew who might have done it. Maybe they knew who had done it.

I closed my eyes and reviewed everything I knew in my head.

The murder had known the house. He’d come in through the back door, knocking out a pane then sticking his hand through to unlock the door from inside. He killed my sister first. She didn’t scream. This was because she knew him. Then he killed my parents. He evidentially murdered my mother first, and then my father. This broke the general rule when it comes to killing a man and woman: the killer gets the biggest threat, the male, out of the way first, and then kills the female. All three murders had been done neatly and quickly, no overkill or anger appearing to be involved, and yet it was still personal.

He went into the bathroom after that to wash off his knife. That is when I arrived home. I almost immediately went to the master bedroom to check on my parents. There was blood on the doorknob, confirming he had made a previous kill before entering my parents’ room. After realizing my sister was murdered, I’d ran back to my mom and dad’s bedroom where the killer came out of the bathroom and saw me. He was six feet tall, smelled faintly of a rich cologne, and had an engraved knife.

Then the chase ensued through the house, finally ending when Jayson got home and managed to come inside and save me. For some reason, the killer didn’t attempt to murder Jayson, he instead fled the scene.

I sat up in bed and continued my mental review. I next reluctantly went over the supposed murder of my brother, still however unable to completely give way to the thought that he was killed.

Assuming it was real and was not a dream; I wasn’t sure when he’d been killed. The blood on him appeared relatively dry from what I remembered, but that wasn’t much help. The way Jayson was murdered would of prompted him to make some sort of noise, whether a cry for help or a cry of pain. Even though he was in the attic, I would of still heard him. But I didn’t. Therefore he had to of been murdered sometime when I was out of the house. He would have had to drive to the house though. Unless he wasn’t actually killed in the house. Maybe whoever had done it had dragged the body up to the attic.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts. That part wasn’t sufficiently clear enough to be of any help. Back to the other details.

He was stabbed an apparent seven times. Overkill. It was personal. The person did it in rage however. Most unlike the person who’d murdered my family. But it was still connected. I’d found an engraved knife with my uncle’s initials under the chaise. My brother’s killer had cooled down enough after the murder to realize what he’d done and that he must erase all evidence. So he tries to clean the floor. That explains the smell of lemon scented cleaner.

I snapped my fingers.

That ALSO explains the strange noise above my ceiling! The killer was cleaning up his mess and scrubbing the floor! That also means the murderer is the one who caught me in the attic and knocked me out. But he didn’t kill me. He knew I’d seen it but he didn’t kill me. Why?

“That’s the second time I’ve been spared from a murder,” I muttered under my breath. “How often does that happen…”

I let my voice trail off and my eyes began widening. I was spared. Twice. Maybe… maybe the first time the murderer hadn’t intended on killing me… maybe I was just a sudden interference with his plans. Maybe the second time that was the case as well. The killer, or killers, didn’t want me dead, even though both times I incontinently got in the way of their schemes!

“How could I as a killer deal with the guilt though every time I thought of who I left alive? Especially if I ever saw her?”

I almost gagged as a sudden rush of recollections came to me.

The cologne.

The engraved knife.

The two different killers.

I felt my throat closing up on me as words clouded my mind.

“He’s only getting in the way.”

“I feel bad enough already.”

“You just did a very, very bad thing Cora.”

“The guilt, every time I look at her.”

I fell out of my bed, heart racing. Was it all a coincidence? No, no it wasn’t. But they had alibis. What do you do with the airtight alibis?
I flung open my door. I had to talk to Luke. I didn’t know what to think but he would. I stepped into the hall and was immediately stopped by my cousin.

“You’re to stay in your room Cora.”

He roughly shoved me back through the door, and right before he shut it, I caught a look through my aunt and uncle’s bedroom door. My aunt was on the bed weeping hysterically and my uncle was pacing the floor.

I found myself again alone in my bedroom. I sat down on the bed, my heart beating fearfully fast, but soon found myself pacing my own floor, waiting impatiently for Luke to come back as he said he would after lunch.

Sure enough, after a couple more minutes of painful waiting, Luke made his appearance at my window. He climbed through and a look of concern immediately passed over his face.

“Cora, what’s wrong?”

I opened my mouth to answer him when an abrupt rap on my door cut me short.

“Who is it?” I shakily called. I heard my aunt’s voice.

“Me, Cora; open the door.”

I frantically looked at Luke, who was already in the process of hiding behind my study door. I tried to control my breathing, and opened the door with a fake smile.

“Hello Aunt Be-“

“Come with me Cora Lynn.”

“Come with you? Where-“

“Now, Cora.”