Antioch
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BESS JACKSON LIVED in a small two-bedroom home with an open floorplan and an attached garage, which she’d originally purchased with a man. But that man wasn’t around anymore. Which is, in more ways than one, how she found herself arriving home at night in a car belonging to someone entirely different. This new man was named Greg, and while he wasn’t the first person she’d dated since she’d found herself the sole owner of her home, it still, years later, felt odd to be in this place with someone else.
“Should I walk you in?” Greg asked.
“You don’t need to do that,” Bess replied. The neighborhood was well-lit with houses that were a little too close to each other.
“Yeah, but maybe I should. I mean, you never know in Antioch. Vlad could be hiding in your coat closet. I’d better come in. Just to make sure you’re safe.”
Bess rolled her eyes and laughed; it was all a fun joke. But there was enough truth behind the joke to make her accept the offer. The Impaler Murders began in Antioch nearly two years ago, and as brave as Bess liked to think she was, it made living alone a little more ominous sometimes. Two years was a long time to be afraid. It made a person weary.