The Holiday Killer by Holly Hunt Page B

now." He leaned back in his seat, hands behind his head. "What are you doing back here, Liz? Bill and I had a talk. If this place has gone to shit for you, why don't you quit and find something else to do?"
    She sat, thinking. He was right; she could retire, go back to school, do something completely different with her life. But that would mean putting the Holiday Killer and his victims—Jamie—behind her, to forget about them—him—like the hundreds of other closed cases in the archives. Could she really do that? Should she abandon Jamie like that?
    The man nodded, scribbling something on a bit of paper. "You don't really want to be here, Liz. You don't need the memories. You'll have to face Lisa every day, face the whispers of the other officers every time you turn your back. You don't really want to have to do that."
    Liz sat back in her seat, watching the man closely. What he said made sense—she would have to look Lisa in the eye every day. Better to go off and do something else, to be somewhere else. Settle her mind, and if she wanted to come back to the force, then she could—later.
    "You know what," she said, standing up. "You're right. I'm only going to be miserable here. I might as well go out and do something different. Expand my horizons, so to speak."
    The man smiled again, offering his hand to shake from where he stood across the desk. "Keep Bill informed of what you're doing. The man still likes you, and you do still have friends on the force."
    "I will, George. You take care."
    The man gave her a mocking salute as she grabbed her jacket off the back of the chair and left, her head high. She walked through the rows of desks, stopped at hers, looked at the photos and other paraphernalia littering the desk. She swept most of it into the garbage, keeping only a small painting Jamie did of her when he was younger. She folded it neatly and tucked it into her pocket before heading for the door.
    "Liz? What—?"
    "Call you tonight, Bill!" she said, waving goodbye to the confused man.
    Time for a change, she thought, smiling to herself. First stop, a new job!
    *
    Two years later
     
    Liz stumbled over the threshold, her arms weighed down with shopping bags, and kicked the heavy, wooden door closed behind her before fumbling for the lights. They blinked into existence and she carried half of the bags into the kitchen, returning for the others before flicking on the news. It was a few days after Thanksgiving, and she was inundated with work until 10 o'clock most nights, which made getting home late a common occurrence.
    She'd spent the day at work, manning a desk at a small legal firm downtown, filing papers, ignoring the outrageous flirts that crossed the threshold, and answering phones—easy work that didn't involve shooting anyone. Now she was looking forward to a long soak in the bathtub, with a glass of wine and a good book—the same thing she'd been doing every Friday night for the year and a half she'd been working at Tyson & Partners.
    She flicked on the news as she began putting the groceries away, and the sounds of the news reporter's high, false voice echoed around the small kitchen.
    "Chaos today as police were called out to a murder on Sheffield Lane. The victim is described as a young boy between the ages of six and eight, with long brown hair and a scar over his left cheek."
    Liz's attention was immediately captured by the reporter, and she stopped what she was doing in an attempt to catch the last of the news story.
    The fuck?
    "No details regarding the condition of the body are being released, but police are appealing to the public for any information that could lead them to the killer. In the meantime, police are warning people to keep their doors locked at night and their children fully supervised at all times. Sheryl Brothway reporting."
    No fuckin way! Liz grabbed the remote and began flicking through television channels, but they were all saying the same thing: A young boy had been killed in