He served eight of those years before fate changed everything. I sometimes wonder if there is a god. There are thousands of criminals transported across the country daily, yet it was his bus that crashed. Him who survived. Him who escaped.
I swipe to the next article—the one that would bring a monster to our door.
Still at large, Willis Langford proves his ability to stay under the radar as the search for the missing Portland boy continues with little to no leads. Jack Peters, dubbed Portland’s Lost Boy, is hoped to be alive. Vigils have been held, and the police ask the public to keep praying for his safe return.
Any information or sightings can be reported here.
0800-090-Info
They found the other two escapees within a day. Willis was much more calculated than those men. He’s eluded capture for fourteen years, suspected to have killed four more girls while on the run.
Jessica Herbert.
Anne Rivers.
Hannah May.
The last supposed victim linked to him was over a decade ago.
Sarah Gilbert.
All his victims had a gruesome marker. They were all missing their little finger on their right hand, which became known as Langford’s signature back in the nineties.
Thinking about him, what he did to them, is relentless in my chaotic mind, but the question that haunts me most: where was Jack while he was out killing these women? Where is Jack now?
This can’t be Willis Langford. No deaths have been linked to him in over a decade. But that doesn’t stop my mind from racing with what-ifs. It’s too much of a coincidence.
“Do you think Jack’s still alive?” I ask, my heart stopping mid thud as I watch his body language for a lie.
“I do.” He nods, conviction in his gaze when he holds mine. “Would you tell me if he made contact with you?” he asks.
“What? You think he would—will?” Hope blooms in my chest.
“I’m not sure. After the trauma of his abduction and captivity, he may not remember you, but if he does, he’s a man now, your age.”
“His birthday is before mine. He’s almost a year older than me.” I place a hand over my chest to stop the skin from tearing from the wild beating of my heart.
“You remember him well?” He studies me, surprise in his tone. I almost laugh at that question. Jack lives inside me. “Of course. We were best friends.”
“You were so young, Lizzy, it would be natural for you to have a patchy memory of that time.” The remark grates on my nerves.
“I have perfect clarity of ‘that time,’ Detective,” I grunt, throwing myself backward in my chair. I relive it over and over.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.” He shakes his head in regret.
“My memories are all I have.” I close my eyes briefly, the heavy weight in my chest compressing.
“Can you tell me how you knew the victim in your apartment tonight?”
No. Jerking a shoulder, I say, “I didn’t know him. He was from the neighboring building.”
His gaze drills into me, probing. “I see. So, he didn’t live in your building? Do you know why he was there?”
Sighing, I shake my head. “He was coming to help us. We saw someone in our apartment from the building opposite.”
This gives him pause. He looks over his file. “What were you doing over there?”
Exhaling, I hold in the rant I want to let free and answer his question. “We were checking on our neighbor across the block. We hadn’t seen her in a few days, and we were worried.”
Picking up a pen, he twists it through his fingers. “Did you report your concerns?”
“I spoke to your partner about it…or Charlotte did. Anyway, it turns out she’s just out of town.” I place both palms on the table.
“You don’t seem too sure?” He picks away at me like he knows me.
“There was a rose,” I swallow past the stone in my throat. “On the anniversary of my mother’s death, I received a black rose with no sender information.”
Sympathy overcomes his face. “Did it have any information on where it came from? What shop? Was it hand delivered?”
I think back to the night I opened the rose. It had nothing. “It was left at my work.” I shrug. “I placed a black rose on my mother’s coffee—and Jack’s mother’s. Only someone at the funeral would know that.”
“What does this have to do with your neighbor?” he sounds interested now, the detective in him piqued.
Licking my dry lips, I lean toward him. “I saw it in her window.”
“The same one as yours?”
“I don’t know. Hers seemed fresh, but it looked like it had blood on a petal.” He jots all this down on his notepad.
“Why now? Why would Willis even bother with me?” I ask, desperate for answers. It has to be him. Who else is there?
“We’re not sure this is even him. Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet.”
He’s not the one with bodies dropping at his feet. “Humor me.”
Gathering the news clippings, he doesn’t look at me as he says, “He’s a psychotic serial killer. They don’t have logical reasons. It could be that he sees you as a loose end. Psychopaths who fixate on someone or something usually become obsessed with it. It’s what makes them so dangerous. If this is Willis, we will know soon enough.”
A cold river of fear snakes up my spine. When I’m dead?
“You have no clue where he is, do you?” I snort, amusement drumming through me at the absurdity of it all. “If you’re not sure it’s him, who else could it be?”
“Honestly? I’m hoping forensics is going to help me with that. We believe this may be linked to another case.”
“Really? Another murder?”
“One that didn’t receive as much attention but had similar markers.”
“Here in town?”
“No, just outside of town. A sex worker.”
“Oh god, so serial killer?”
“Lizzy, we’re not jumping to any conclusions. Let me do my job,” he states, matter-of-factly.
“And what about Charlotte and me? Do we just wait
