Chapter 2: Reckoning

The silence in the house was wrong—too heavy, too final. I paused at the basement door, heart rattling like a loose window in a storm.

The air was thick with the sharp, metallic stench of blood, the nauseating smell hitting me like a punch in the gut.

In that basement, with the single bulb buzzing overhead, it clung to my clothes, crept into my hair, turned my stomach until I thought I’d puke. It was nothing like the antiseptic scenes in movies—it was real, raw, suffocating. My palms were sticky, my breath shallow. I tried not to look at the faces, but I couldn’t help it.

When the cops arrived, I was standing over the last body.

Their boots thundered on the floorboards upstairs. Sirens wailed outside, neighbors pressed against yellow tape, cellphones raised like torches. I stood still, heart pounding, eyes locked on the warped wood grain under Uncle Ben’s hand.

It was Uncle Ben, who used to give me candy when I was a kid.

He’d show up at the Fourth of July cookout with a bag of Tootsie Rolls, his crooked grin making everyone laugh. Even when his own pantry was bare, he’d sneak me an extra treat, calling me his “lucky star.”

He hardly ever drank water, so the poison took longer to work. His leathery face was frozen in agony.

He always joked that water was for cattle and coffee was for heroes. Maybe that’s why it took him so long to go. His eyes were wide, mouth twisted in a silent scream I’d never seen on his gentle face. The sight made my hands tremble, just for a moment.

"Stop! Put it down!"

A flash of blue uniforms in the doorway. The officers’ voices rang out, cutting through the sticky silence.

Click—

By the time the police shouted, I’d already snapped Uncle Ben’s neck with practiced ease.

The sound was quick, final—a sickening snap that reverberated in my bones. I barely flinched, my mind numb, as the world around me collapsed into sirens and shouts.

Of the ninety-eight people in Maple Heights—besides me—not a single one survived.

Their faces flickered through my mind in a dizzying reel—Mrs. Parsons from the post office, Old Man Jenkins from the bait shop, even the Peterson twins who once egged my house on Halloween. Every soul that ever whispered my name was gone, and I was the only one left standing in the wreckage.

"Hands up! Put your hands on your head! No sudden moves!"

The officers stormed in, surrounding me, guns drawn.

Red and blue lights flashed through the shattered windows, shadows dancing across the walls. Their voices were hoarse, on edge, as they closed the gap, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on.

I raised my hands, admiring my handiwork with a satisfied smile, and let them cuff me without the slightest resistance.

The steel bit into my wrists, cold and unforgiving. I didn’t fight, didn’t flinch. Instead, I allowed myself a fleeting grin, half mad, half triumphant—like the punchline of a joke only I understood.

Before leaving, I even gave my parents’ bodies at my feet a casual kick.

Their faces were turned away, eyes closed as if still dreaming of better days. I nudged them with my boot, half daring anyone to call me out, half needing to prove I felt nothing at all.

"Emily, why did you do it?"

In the interrogation room, the veteran detective asked me for the fifty-eighth time.

He sat behind a battered desk, Styrofoam coffee cup in hand, tie loosened and eyes rimmed with exhaustion. The room hummed with old fluorescent lights and the stale scent of too many late nights. He leaned in, searching for something he’d never find.

Looking at his stern face, I shrugged, unfazed:

"I told you already, didn’t I? Somebody had to clean up this mess. I just pulled the trigger."

My words came out flat, practiced. I watched his jaw twitch, waited for the disgust to surface in his tired eyes.

"Those old folks were useless, just wasting social resources. By taking care of them, didn’t I do a good deed?"

I said it like I was reciting the weather, not a list of crimes. My voice echoed against the cinderblock walls, cold as winter wind.

"Watch your mouth!"

The young officer taking notes couldn’t stand my attitude and barked at me, his face tight with anger.

He was probably fresh out of the academy, notebook shaking in his grip. He glared at me like I was something unclean stuck to his shoe.

The old detective flipped through the thick case file, his expression growing darker by the second:

"Do you know your parents had cancer? To save money for your education, they never went to the hospital even once."

He spoke the words with a shaky gravitas, as if hoping to crack the shell around me. His eyes begged for some flicker of remorse.

"Oh?"

I tilted my head, feigning innocence:

"I really didn’t know that. But it doesn’t matter. People with that kind of disease die anyway. Isn’t that an even bigger waste of resources? Rather than waiting for them to die slowly, I just sent them off sooner. Saved them the suffering."

A chill swept the room, the young officer’s pen frozen mid-air. I met their eyes, daring them to judge me.

"And your grandmother—even used her funeral savings to help you go to college."

The words hung there, heavy and raw, like a wound that wouldn’t close.

"Ugh, don’t mention her."

My face darkened, a hint of annoyance showing:

"That old bat pinched and scraped for years, and all she gave me was thirty bucks. What was that—tossing a coin to a beggar?"

Bitterness slipped into my tone, sharper than I intended. I pictured her wrinkled hands, the envelope trembling in her grip. Thirty bucks—barely enough for a week’s groceries, let alone dreams.

The old detective choked on my callous words, his face like he’d just swallowed a bug.

He looked ready to spit fire, mouth working soundlessly. For a second, it almost made me smile.

I yawned and helpfully supplied the next question for him.

"I know what you want to ask. The mayor, Uncle Ben, Aunt Linda—the whole town did me favors. So to keep them from being lonely, I killed them all too. This way, they’ll have company in the afterlife, right?"

I tossed the words out like confetti, knowing exactly how they’d sting. The look on his face was almost worth it.

"Officer, don’t you think I’m considerate?"

A smirk curled my lips as I leaned back, acting as if this was all some twisted logic puzzle.

"Enough!"

The young note-taker slammed the table, snapping his pen in two.

His voice cracked with fury. The plastic clatter echoed in the tense silence, the room suddenly feeling much smaller.

"Emily, did you feed your education to the dogs? They were your greatest benefactors, like second parents, and you can still laugh after doing this? You’re lower than an animal!"

He shot to his feet and spat at me.

A fleck landed on the table, the rage in his eyes almost animal. I just blinked, unmoved, letting the venom wash over me.

If he hadn’t been clinging to his last thread of professionalism, he probably would have hit me already.

But seeing him so furious, I wasn’t the least bit afraid:

"Officer, what are you so mad about? If you’re so upset, you can go keep them company yourself."

I watched the vein throbbing in his temple, half hoping he’d take the bait.

"You…!"

The young officer’s face flushed, his chest heaving, then he stormed out, unable to stand it:

"I can’t interrogate her. Someone else do it. This person is more beast than beast!"

The door slammed behind him, rattling in its frame. For a second, I almost pitied him—almost.

I pursed my lips, my stubborn silence grinding the interrogation to a halt once more.

I stared at the old detective, counting the seconds until he’d crack too. The tick of the wall clock was the only sound.

The old detective beside me still refused to give up.

He tapped the table with a finger, his hawk-like eyes boring into me:

"There must be a reason. Where there’s a cause, there’s a result. Emily, if you confess honestly, maybe you’ll get a lighter sentence."

His voice was low, coaxing—almost kind, if you ignored the weariness behind it.

"A lighter sentence?"

Looking at his solemn face, I sneered, as if he were an idiot:

"Hey, officer, don’t the police have to pass IQ tests? I killed almost a hundred people, and you’re talking about a lighter sentence? How dumb can you get?"

I let the words hang, my lips curling in derision. The silence between us stretched taut as a wire.

"Hopeless!"

The old detective finally lost it, storming out with a sickly look on his face.

His footsteps faded down the hallway. Another one bites the dust, I thought, feeling oddly triumphant.

Another one driven off in anger.

Tch. Boring.

I slouched in the metal chair, fiddling with the edge of my sleeve. The walls felt closer now, the air stale with disappointment.