Chapter 45 Chapter 45 Who Was At The Door
Luke's POV
“It’s me, Diana!” an old woman’s voice shouted from the other side of the door. From the tone and familiarity, I guessed it was the neighbor.
I glanced back at the mess I was desperately trying to clean. If I opened the door, she’d see everything. No, I couldn't afford that to happen.
“She’s not home! Come back later!” I shouted back, keeping my tone sharp.
“No!” she shot back with determination.
“I can just wait for her in the living room, can’t I? It’s not the first time I’ve waited for her,” she added confidently.
Some people truly had a death wish. Don't they?
With no other choice, I opened the door, forcing a fake smile onto my face while blocking the entrance with my body.
The moment she noticed my stance, she took a cautious step back.
“Who are you?” She asked, her wrinkled face twisting into a scowl as though she despised me at first sight.
“You’re not Roy, not Matthew, not Anthony, and definitely not Zack. Who the hell are you? A new boyfriend?” Her tone was sharp and accusing.
Her words caught me off guard, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. “So, Cassandra was cheating too? Not just with one guy, but—how many names did this old hag just rattle off?”
“Yes,” I said flatly. “I’m her new boyfriend, and I’d appreciate it if you left. Now.”
She didn’t budge. Instead, she pushed past me and walked into the house.
The living room was to the right, separate from the corridor that led to the staircase. She made herself at home, heading straight into the sitting area.
I knew this wouldn’t end well. Acting quickly, I shut the door, locked it, and tossed the key toward the staircase.
“Are you stealing Cassandra’s things?” she asked, pointing at the plastic bags piled at the edge of the living room. Her gaze wandered to the wet carpet nearby.
Curiosity got the better of her, and she moved toward the stain. “What is this? Red paint mixed with bleach?” she asked, bending down to inspect it.
From one of the torn plastic bags, Cassandra's severed finger peeked out like it was calling her for help.
Diana froze, her eyes widening in shock as realization hit her.
“Ah!” She screamed, her voice piercing and panicked.
I knew I had to act fast before the entire neighborhood showed up.
“Where’s my phone? I need to call 911! You’re a murderer!” She screamed again, her voice shrill and trembling.
I rolled my eyes. Old women and their dramatics. If you find someone murdering your neighbor, do you really scream about calling 911 right in front of them?
Without hesitation, I grabbed her hair and yanked her backward. She fell with a thud, her head smacking against the hardwood floor. Unfortunately for her, a rusty nail sticking out of the floorboards punctured her skull, spilling blood onto the floor in a grotesque pool.
Well, that shut her up quickly.
Now I had more work to do. Cleaning up one body was bad enough, but two? This was becoming tedious.
To prevent any more interruptions, I switched off all the lights in the house and turned on my flashlight. With the house in darkness, it would look empty to anyone passing by.
I cleaned the entire living room meticulously, leaving nothing untouched. I was confident that if the place were later flagged as a crime scene, they’d find no evidence linking me to it.
But I wasn’t done yet. Before carrying out the bags containing Cassandra and the nosy Diana, I had to ensure no one was outside.
I stepped out, scanning the street. I checked every tall building and every streetlight pole for cameras.
I smirked. No cameras. No pedestrians. My secret was safe like treasure saved in a vault.
I returned to the house, lifted the first bag containing Cassandra’s remains, and dumped it into the trunk of my car. Then I went back for the second bag holding Diana and placed it alongside the first.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I sped toward the woods. My car, with its V8 engine, devoured the distance in record time. What should have taken three hours in a regular car took me just an hour and a half.
Deep in the woods, I dumped their bodies in separate locations and left them there.
Once back in my car, I pulled out my phone and logged into the anonymous blog account I’d been using.
My last post had garnered significant traction—over ten thousand comments, forty thousand likes, and five thousand dislikes.
A grin spread across my face. This was going to be fun.
Without hesitation, I published another post, attaching a photo of Cassandra’s lifeless body—courtesy of Mudery.
Post Title: Cassandra: Victim or Killer?
“Cassandra, a young woman in her early twenties, was found murdered in the same time frame as Roy. Speculation suggests Cassandra, Roy’s ex-girlfriend, may have killed him in a fit of rage after discovering him with another woman.
But seeing her dead body now, do you still think Cassandra was the culprit? Or should we be looking at the other woman—the one Roy was caught cheating with? It’s said she stormed off in anger. Could she be responsible for the deaths of both Cassandra and Roy? Let’s discuss.”
I tagged every major news outlet, publishing agency, and broadcasting house I could think of. This post would go viral in no time.
As I hit “publish,” I smirked and leaned back in my seat.
At 12 a.m., it wasn’t worth bothering with Emmanuella. Tomorrow morning, though? She’d be the first person I’d see. And just then, she'd better be ready for what I waa going to do.
Scoff.