Chapter 2: The Killer’s Return

It took a long time for me to recover from the shock and lingering fear.

I sat on the edge of the bed, running my hands over my knees, feeling the fabric bunch under my fingers. My stomach churned. It was hours before I stopped shaking.

The young officer’s name was Officer Collins, a newcomer to the force, responsible for taking my statement.

He sounded young, but not inexperienced—his voice carried that careful calm you only hear from people trained to deal with disaster.

"Let’s find somewhere quieter." Officer Collins patted my shoulder and handed me my cane.

His hand was warm and steady, and the simple gesture made me feel a little less alone. I nodded, grateful.

Listening to the gossiping residents outside the police line, I agreed—it was far too noisy here.

Their voices rose and fell like waves at a high school football game, curiosity trumping fear.

"Wow, so scary." An old lady exaggeratedly patted her chest.

Her perfume was overpowering—something floral and powdery, the kind my grandma used to wear. I tried not to sneeze.

If it’s so scary, why are you still hanging around?

People can’t help themselves—everyone loves a good crime story, as long as they’re not in it.

"Who died? Who died?" That was a troublemaking kid with bleached blond hair.

I recognized his voice; he lived upstairs and always skateboarded in the hallway despite the posted rules.

Not me, sorry.

I bit back a sarcastic comment, not in the mood to be friendly.

"I heard the killer is some kind of psycho."

A trembling old man’s voice, aged but oddly energetic when talking about perverts.

He’s the type who reads all the tabloids at the corner store and loves to scare the neighborhood kids.

"Huh? How do you know?"

The lady sounded surprised.

The kid jumped in:

"Didn’t you hear? The murderer actually wrote something on the wall in blood."

"Come on, don’t make stuff up."

"It’s true, I heard it from the DoorDash guy who called the cops."

"What did he write?"

Both scared and curious.

The old man lowered his voice. After a few seconds, the crowd let out a gasp.

I pictured them huddled together, eyes wide, trading wild theories about serial killers and satanic cults. Toledo wasn’t exactly the center of the universe, but we had our share of drama.

As I followed Officer Collins through the police line, another round of exclamations erupted from the crowd.

Someone in a Toledo Mud Hens cap muttered, “This is crazier than that meth lab bust last year.”

A woman hissed my name under her breath, and someone else snapped a photo—I could hear the fake shutter sound from their phone.

I heard them whispering:

"Is that him…?"

"Of course, where else is there a second blind guy around here."

"Wow, so exciting."

Excitement buzzed through the onlookers like static electricity.

For them, it was entertainment, something to gossip about in the laundry room or at the bus stop for weeks.

Suddenly someone grabbed my arm.

Their grip was sweaty and overfamiliar. I tensed, pulling my arm back instinctively.

"Let’s interview you! How does it feel to share a room with a murderer? Is it thrilling?"

With one person taking the lead, the others crowded around.

Their voices pressed in, hot breath and cheap perfume making my head spin. I clenched my cane so tight my knuckles ached.

"What did you feel at the time?"

"Are you scared to death now, haha?"

"Aren’t you in cahoots with the killer? Didn’t you notice someone coming in?"

"I think you’re the murderer, stop pretending."

"Be careful, you might get silenced~"

The last one sounded like a joke, but the undertone was sharp and mean. My hands curled into fists.

Finally, with Officer Collins’s help, I escaped the whirlpool of gossip.

He cut through the crowd like a linebacker, his presence enough to scatter the worst of them. I breathed a little easier once we were a block away.

Even though I couldn’t see, I could feel their stares clinging to my back.

It’s a sensation I’ve gotten used to—pity, suspicion, curiosity. It never gets any easier.

After a morning of shocks, once I got away from the crowd, I felt even more parched and weak.

My mouth was so dry I could barely swallow. My hands shook as I fumbled for my wallet.

Officer Collins led me to a nearby coffee shop.

We ducked into a Tim Hortons—every table sticky with syrup and old gossip. The bell over the door jingled as we entered. The place smelled like burnt espresso beans and lemon muffins. The barista’s American accent was cheery, masking an undercurrent of gossip.

"An espresso, please. What about you?"

"Just plain water," I answered weakly.

I didn’t trust myself to hold a coffee cup steady, and I didn’t want caffeine making my nerves any worse.

"Most people get excited about a murder case—as long as it has nothing to do with themselves."

Officer Collins’s tone was wry, like he’d seen it all before. I nodded, still pale.

I pressed the cool glass of water to my lips, letting the condensation slick my fingers.

Officer Collins tried to comfort me, then officially started the questioning.

He cleared his throat, switching to business mode. I braced myself.

"How did you know the deceased, Derek?"

"We work at the same company."

"Which company?"

I told him the name and added:

"A game company."

He looked at me doubtfully. I knew what he was thinking: a blind man at a game company?

I explained that I helped test accessibility features for visually impaired players—sound cues, tactile feedback, and so on.

It’s mostly grunt work, but I take pride in making games more playable for everyone. Sometimes I even get to give feedback on storylines or dialogue.

But I knew that was just a pretext. Companies get tax breaks for hiring disabled people; that’s probably why they took me on.

There’s a special line in the HR manual about diversity hires. I never let it get to me—work is work.

At work, my real job was more like a mascot—mostly chatting and gossiping with different people every day.

I’m the friendly face (or voice) they trot out for PR events. I’ve gotten used to it.

Officer Collins seemed only half convinced.

He tapped his pen on the table, as if weighing how much of my story to believe.

"What did Derek do?"

"Programming."

He shifted topics and asked me to recall what happened last night.

His questions were precise, but not hostile. I told him the truth: after work, Derek told me he’d invited some close coworkers over for drinks, asked if I wanted to join. I declined, deciding to walk in the park and come back when they’d nearly finished.

"Do you know who came over?"

"Big Mike, Skinny Pete, Buzz, and… Smoke and Beard."

"Their real names?"

I gave Officer Collins their names one by one.

I could sense him scribbling in his notebook, the pages rustling with each new detail.

"Go on."

"I wandered outside for a while. When I got home, it was about 11:20—definitely not later than 11:30."

"Are you sure?"

I nodded and explained about my phone alarm and the walking time from the park. Officer Collins was thorough, having me describe exactly which part of the park I’d walked from; I guessed they’d check my timeline later.

I traced my route in my head—counting steps, recalling the turns at each corner. It all checked out.

"When I got home, was…"

I hesitated.

Officer Collins guessed what I meant and nodded, "Most likely Derek had already been killed, and the murderer hadn’t left yet."

The medical examiner put the time of death between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m.; now it looked like it was closer to 11:20, narrowing the window.

"Could the killer be one of those five?"

I found it hard to believe. We were all coworkers who saw each other every day.

We played softball together, complained about deadlines over greasy lunches. The idea that one of them could be a murderer was surreal.

"Neighbors said the five left around 10:30. We can’t rule out that one of them came back later."

"But when I got home, the door wasn’t locked. Anyone could have come in, right?"

The realization made my skin prickle. Had I crossed paths with a stranger, or was it someone I knew?

"There were no signs of struggle, and nothing was stolen. We suspect it was a revenge killing by someone familiar, but we’ll look into every possibility."

I thought it over. Officer Collins’s reasoning made sense.

I replayed every conversation I’d had with Derek in the last month, searching for clues I might’ve missed.

Just then, the barista brought our drinks. Officer Collins dropped two sugar cubes into his cup, then pushed my water toward me.

The clink of his spoon was oddly soothing. I took a long drink, letting the coldness calm my nerves.

"Who knows about the spare key under the doormat?"

"Derek’s close friends probably do, but I’m not sure who exactly. Our old apartment is close to the company, so his close coworkers often come over after work to drink. If Derek works late, they use the spare key to let themselves in, then put it back."

The key’s been there so long it’s practically a community secret. I made a mental note to tell the landlord to change the locks.

"Did any of those five have a grudge with Derek?"

"Beard—that’s Carl. He always thought Derek stole his promotion. That was two months ago."

Carl had complained to me a few times in private.

He cornered me at the water cooler once, venting about the boss playing favorites. He never sounded violent, just bitter.

"Still drinking together if there’s bad blood?"

"I don’t know, maybe they get along. It’s just…"

"What is it?" Officer Collins stopped taking notes and looked at me.

His attention felt sharp, like a spotlight turning in my direction.

"Why don’t you suspect me? I mean, I don’t want to be suspected, but it’s a little odd."

"Of course we considered the possibility that you killed him, then wrote those words on the wall to make it look like a third person was there when you came home."

The killer had used a towel from Derek’s room to wrap their fingers, deliberately scrawling the words to disguise their handwriting.

Even though I can’t see, as long as I know the room’s layout, I could have done it.

I pictured myself moving around the room, counting steps and memorizing furniture positions—just like always. The idea that someone could fake innocence so well made me shiver.

"So why not?"

"Because the scene was too tidy."

Officer Collins straightened, his tone turning serious, making me tense up.

He sounded like a teacher explaining a hard lesson to a nervous student.

"There were no signs of struggle. Derek was killed in his sleep with a single stab. The killer needed to aim before striking. He took the weapon away and cleaned up carefully—no usable fingerprints anywhere. That takes someone calm, rational, and able to see. Similarly, Mike—Big Mike—is also ruled out."

"Why?"

"According to others, Mike drank the most last night—dead drunk, barely conscious when put in an Uber. If he’d come back to kill Derek, the scene wouldn’t have been so clean. The driver confirmed it."

"So it’s among the other four…"

"Three. Pete—your ‘Smoke’—has a solid alibi. After leaving Derek’s, he ordered barbecue at a roadside stand. The owner remembers him. He stayed until nearly midnight, with no time to commit the crime."

Three people came to mind.

In my imagination: Skinny Pete with sharp eyes, Buzz with a fierce face, Carl with a sly smile.

I pictured their faces, their voices echoing in my memory. Which one had stood so close to me last night, knife in hand?

Which of them had stood in the apartment last night, knife in hand, silently watching me?

The thought made my skin crawl, my mouth go dry.

Two red dots in the darkness. A blurry figure. Suppressed breathing.

I suddenly remembered something.

It was just a moment, barely noticeable—but now it felt like the key to everything.

I swallowed, wanting to moisten my lips, but my throat was still bone-dry.

"Officer… was there any liquid dripping onto the floor at the scene, or any other marks?"

"You mean blood drops? Yes, right at the door to the victim’s bedroom. The forensic tech suspects the killer stood there for a few seconds with the weapon, blood dripping from it."

Officer Collins sounded surprised.

His chair scraped the floor as he leaned in. I could almost feel his curiosity sparking.

"How did you know?"

I gave a bitter smile.

How did I know?

Because that sound—soft, irregular—had been haunting me since last night.

"Because I heard it last night."

Drip.

Drip.

The sound of blood hitting the floor.

---

Officer Collins asked me a few more questions, and I answered honestly.

He wrote quickly, barely pausing between questions. When he finally snapped his notebook shut, I exhaled, feeling wrung out.

Later that afternoon, after they finished collecting evidence, Derek’s bedroom and part of the living room were sealed off.

Yellow tape stretched across the hallway, and the smell of bleach replaced everything else. The place felt less like home, more like a crime scene from TV.

I was allowed to return and grab some clothes; I planned to stay at a hotel for a while.

The idea of sleeping another night in that apartment made my skin crawl. I called a Lyft and scrolled through cheap hotel listings on my phone.

"Need my help?"

Before leaving, Officer Collins asked.

His tone was softer this time. I appreciated the offer, but I shook my head, thanked him, and said I didn’t want to delay their work. I just hoped they’d catch the killer soon.

Returning to the apartment, it felt even gloomier than that morning.

Every sound echoed. My shoes squeaked on the floor, and I caught a whiff of bleach and something sour. I kept telling myself it was just cleaning products, not anything else.

In the draft from the balcony, I seemed to smell Derek’s blood, the scent of a corpse, and his lingering resentment, all blowing in at my collar and raising goosebumps.

It was like the air had thickened with secrets. I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone—or something—was watching from the shadows.

The room faced away from the sun and got little light in the afternoon. I pulled my thin hoodie tighter around me.

I could almost feel the cold seeping through the windows, biting into my skin. I missed the sunlight, missed the familiar hum of Derek’s terrible Spotify playlists.

It was early spring and still chilly. Maybe it was psychological, but I felt freezing.

I just wanted to leave as quickly as possible.

I opened my bedroom door, pulled my suitcase from under the bed, and grabbed a few clothes, tossing them onto the bed.

I worked fast, not caring if the clothes matched. All I wanted was to get out and breathe fresh air again.

Halfway through, I went to the bathroom.

I closed the door, letting out a shaky sigh. The bathroom was tiny, with cracked linoleum and a leaky faucet. I splashed cold water on my face, trying to steady my nerves.

Whoosh—

Amid the sound of flushing, I heard something off.

My ears perked up, heart starting to thump a little harder.

Click.

I knew that sound all too well.

It was the sound of the door lock turning.

My heart skipped a beat. My muscles tensed, my fingers froze midair as I fastened my belt.

I always lock the door out of habit, but I couldn’t remember if I’d done it just now.

A dozen questions raced through my head—had I locked it, or left it open in my rush?

Did I lock it, or not?

The more I tried to remember, the blanker my mind became.

It felt like my thoughts were spinning out, the edges of my vision (if I had any) going fuzzy.

I didn’t dare make a sound. I held my breath, listening for any movement outside the bathroom.

Every muscle in my body tensed, waiting. My palms were slick with sweat.

Several seconds passed. Nothing.

Just as I thought I’d imagined it and was about to breathe a sigh of relief—

A faint, sharp sound sliced through the stillness.

Creak—

My heart pounded wildly.

The door was opening.

Someone had come in.

Every hair on my body stood up.

I tried to picture the apartment—my bedroom door wide open, suitcase half-packed, phone lying on the bed. My mind whirred with possibilities.

Whoever it was, they were carefully controlling the door, trying not to make a sound. I could almost picture them gripping the handle tightly, easing it open inch by inch.

It definitely wasn’t the cops.

The police would’ve knocked or called out, not slipped in like a thief in the night.

Who was it?

A nosy neighbor—or the killer?

Every worst-case scenario played through my mind. I squeezed my hands into fists, trying to keep steady.

Standing in the cramped bathroom, I felt short of breath. My fingers were numb.

Why were they here—to retrieve evidence? Or to silence me?

But I really don’t know anything.

Call the police!

Yes, call the police.

I frantically searched my pockets, only to realize with despair that I’d left my phone outside.

My heart sank. I cursed myself under my breath.

What now?

Pretending no one was home was pointless—the suitcase on the bed, the scattered clothes, the phone in the bedroom all showed someone was inside.

It was like leaving a trail of breadcrumbs straight to myself. I tried to breathe quietly, straining for any hint of the intruder’s next move.

At that moment, I heard a faint rustling.

The sound of sand and grit falling from shoe soles onto the wooden floor, grinding softly as the person shifted their weight.

It stopped right outside the bathroom door.

My heart nearly stopped.

He was waiting for me to come out.

I forced myself to calm down. My only chance was to act like I knew nothing. If I panicked, it might be the end of me.

The doorknob turned—slow, deliberate. I held my breath, every instinct screaming: Don’t make a sound.