By the next morning, you'd think the body in the alley was just a bad dream we all accidentally shared.
The sun finally decided to show up, bright and annoying, warming the sidewalks like it wanted to burn away yesterday's horror. People were out mowing their lawns, washing their cars, sipping coffee in front yards like some brochure about peaceful small-town living.
Blue Ridge looked normal again. That made it worse.
If fear had a shape, it was the polite smiles people wore as if they weren't thinking about the woman who died just a street away. They didn't want to see the dark stain creeping under our front doors. So everyone looked the other way.
Pretend long enough, and maybe it becomes true. That's what they seemed to think.
I tried to join the act — brushed my teeth, put on fresh clothes, even made scrambled eggs that tasted like foam. But my mind kept drifting back to the alley. The way the detectives' faces tightened. The pale hand. The strange figure I noticed before anyone else arrived.
I told myself not to go near that area again. So naturally, ten minutes later, I found my feet leading me back there.
I stayed on the opposite sidewalk this time, keeping distance like a coward pretending to be brave. The police had removed the tape. The alley looked empty, unbothered, like it hadn't hosted death yesterday.
A couple walked by holding hands, laughing about something irrelevant. They didn't even glance toward the shadows in that narrow space.
This town wanted amnesia.
I shoved my hands deeper into my hoodie pockets and kept walking. Maybe I needed a distraction — something happy, something stupid. So I went to The Bean House café, where the baristas wore matching aprons covered in cartoon coffee cups. Normally the place smelled like safety — warm pastries and cinnamon.
Today, it smelled like denial.
I slid into a corner booth, trying not to think. That lasted about six seconds.
Two men sat at a nearby table, speaking in low voices that were still easy to hear.
"Probably some drifter," one said.
"Has to be," the other replied. "No one local would do something like that."
The first man laughed lightly. "Yeah, we're all too friendly."
I almost snorted. Friendly doesn't mean harmless. Some of the worst monsters probably know how to smile the nicest.
The waitress came over — Samantha — a girl from my high school class who always tapped her nails when she got nervous. She didn't look nervous now though. She looked… normal. Fake normal.
"Coffee?" she asked with her usual small grin.
"Thanks," I said. "Um… you heard anything new? About the woman?"
Her grin stiffened. "Nothing official. And I don't want to think about it too much. It's creepy." She tapped her nails in a quick staccato now. There it was — the fear.
"But," she continued, lowering her voice, "I heard it was really bad. Like, really bad."
My chest tightened. "How bad?"
She shook her head. "They won't say. Too much gossip already. Pretending it's fine helps keep people calm, right?" She forced a smile again and walked away before I could respond.
Pretending. There it was again.
Everyone wanted to believe our town couldn't be dangerous. That the killer must've already left. That the alley was just an unfortunate accident scene now.
But accidents don't stab people. Accidents don't leave quiet corpses behind dumpsters.
The coffee steamed up my glasses a little as I took the first sip. I stared into the mug like it might hold answers. No luck. Just bitterness and caffeine.
My phone buzzed. A news update:
Police urge residents to remain calm.
No suspects currently identified.
Investigation ongoing.
Remaining calm was easy for those who didn't see what I saw. Who didn't feel their heart stop when the sheet slipped and revealed a frozen hand. Who didn't notice a motionless figure lurking just before.
I placed my phone screen-down on the table.
Deep breath in. Slow breath out.
Why did I keep thinking about this? Why couldn't I let it go like everyone else?
Understanding.
That word echoed in my skull.
I just wanted to understand why someone would do this.
Why kill a stranger? Why here? Why now?
There had to be logic behind it. A motive. A reason.
But what if there wasn't?
What if the killer just wanted to?
That thought made my skin crawl.
After finishing the coffee, I went outside again, letting the cold air slap my face awake. I wandered through Main Street, counting the lies pretending this town was still untouched by darkness.
The library still opened its doors, a new "Book of the Month" poster taped to the glass.
The barber shop hosted its usual group of old men joking loudly.
Kids zoomed on bikes, ignoring parents calling them home early "just in case."
Everything was functioning. Like we had to hurry back to normal before the truth stained us permanently.
Near the community notice board, I spotted a piece of yellow tape half-stuck to a post — probably left over from the alley. I pulled it off and rolled it into a tiny ball before tossing it into a trash bin.
I paused.
My heart drummed faster.
A memory flickered:
Me walking past the alley.
The body not yet discovered.
A shadow standing just out of sight.
A voice inside whispered:
You should tell Detective Rowan.
Another voice whispered louder:
No. Keep it to yourself.
Because speaking up means explaining why I was there so early.
Explaining why I noticed before anyone else did.
Explaining how close I was.
The voices argued quietly as I headed home, trying to ignore them both.
Inside my apartment, I closed the door gently but locked it quickly — just habit now. My place was small but comforting. A couch, a TV, two mismatched lamps, and a stack of blankets I pretended were for guests I never had.
I sat on the couch and opened my laptop, searching the internet for anything — similar cases, past crimes, killers with patterns. I fell into a rabbit hole I didn't even try to climb out of.
Psychology articles. Crime forums. Interviews with detectives solving cases just like this one.
I scanned everything hungrily like answers might leap off the screen.
Why does a killer pick their victim?
Is it random? Is it personal?
Is murder a message we just don't understand yet?
Hours slipped by. The room grew darker without me noticing.
When my stomach finally growled, I realized I hadn't moved in a long time. I made a sandwich, ate half of it without tasting, and stared at the screen again.
Maybe I want to understand this because fear feels smaller when you can explain it. Maybe human behavior just interests me — the dark parts especially.
Or maybe I'm just trying to feel like I have control over something so terrifying.
When midnight approached, my eyes refused to stay open any longer. I closed the laptop, rubbed my face, and headed to bed.
But before climbing in, I paused at the window. Looked out again. Streetlights flickering softly. Houses sitting peacefully like nothing evil ever happened here.
But it did.
And someone did it on purpose.
I pressed my forehead lightly against the glass.
This town was pretending everything was fine.
But I couldn't.
Not until I understood why that woman died.
I whispered into the empty room, "Who are you? What do you want?"
No answer, of course.
But somewhere out there?
The killer probably slept better than I did.