Only he knew why she had to die an hour later.
St Hilda Avenue, shaded with heavy oaks that had been mere saplings on August 5th 1893, when eighteen-year-old Lelita Gregg, had failed to return home, brought other visions. Unlike Madeline, who had fought for her life, Lelita begged for mercy.The last one of the trio had been Ellen Swan, small and quiet, but far too inquisitive about the last hours of Lelita’s life. And because of her curiosity, on March 31st 1896, she had followed her friend to the grave. He knew every detail, every nuance of what had happened to her and the others.
He had found the diary during a cold, rainy day in his fourteenth summer. Bored, he’d wandered into the old carriage house, which served as a garage. He climbed the rickety steps to the dusty loft and began rummaging through the boxes he found there. He came across a rotted leather binder that had been hidden in what looked like a photo album. He opened it and found it stuffed with pages, each one of the covered with writing. The first entry was dated September 7th 1891. It began with the words-Madeline is dead by my hand. He had taken the diary, and told no one about it. Over the years he’d read it almost vigorously, until it became an integral part of his own memory. Along the way, he realised he had become one with the author, sharing his sense of supremacy over his victims, chuckling at his play-acting as he grieved with the grieving. What began as a fascination gradually grew into an absolute obsession, a need to relieve that diary’ writer’s journey of death on his own.
Four and half years ago he had taken the first life. It was twenty one year old Martha’s fate that she had been present at the annual end of summer party at her grandparents’ grave. The Lawrence’s were a prominent Spring Lake family. He was at the festive gathering and had met her there. The next day, September 7th, she left for a morning jog on the boardwork. She never returned home. Over four years later, the investigation into her disappearance was still ongoing. At a recent gathering, the Monmouth county prosecutor had vowed there would be no diminution in the effort to learn the truth about what happened to Martha.
I could tell you all about it, every detail, he said to himself. And I could tell you about Carla Harper too. Two and a half years ago he had been strolling past The Warren Hotel and noticed her coming down the steps. Like Madeline, as described in the diary, she had been wearing a white dress, her brown curly hair bouncing against her back. He began following her. When she disappeared three days later, everyone believed Carla had been accosted on her trip home. Not even the prosecutor, so determined to solve the mystery of Martha’s disappearance, suspected that Carla never really left Spring Lake.
Now he could feel the need stirring within him- the need to complete his trio of present day victims. The final anniversary was calling up, and he had yet to choose her. The word in town was that Kate Grahm, the purchaser of the Shapely house, as it was still known, was a descendant of the original owners. He had looked her up on the Internet.
Thirty-two years old, divorced, a criminal defence attorney, she had come into money after she was given stock by a very successful company whom she’d previously, successfully defended. When the stock went public, and she was able to sell it, she had made her fortune. He learned that Grahm had been stalked by the son of a murder victim after she had won an acquittal for the accused killer. The son, protesting his innocence, was now in a Psychiatric facility. Interesting. More interesting still, Kate bore striking resemblance to the picture he’d seen of her great-great-great aunt Madeline Shapely. She had the same wide, brown eyes and long full eyelashes. The same midnight-brown hair with hints of auburn. The same tall, slender body. Maybe she was the one destined to complete his special trio. There was an orderliness, a rightness to the prospect that sent a shiver of pleasure through him…
