He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not

podium’s bank of microphones. His usual jovial personality and rotund appearance had given him the nickname of Santa. He wasn’t jovial today. After giving one of his briefest speeches since the start of election season, he introduced Police Chief Logan Richards and motioned toward someone off-camera.
    A man with short, dark hair strode into view and stood next to the mayor, towering over him. Impeccably dressed in a navy blue suit—in spite of the stifling heat—Richards radiated confidence and authority.
    The previous police chief had retired about six months ago and moved to California. Amanda knew Richards was his replacement and that he was from New York, but she hadn’t paid much attention to the news reports about him when he was hired. That part of her life was over and she wanted nothing to do with any more policemen.
    He looked younger than she’d expected—maybe mid-thirties—although the tiny shots of silver in his blue-black hair might mean he was older. His skin was smooth and tanned, with a slightly darker shadow along his jaw. He was probably one of those men who always looked like he needed to shave. She bet it drove him crazy; it contrasted starkly with the rest of his crisp, polished appearance.
    When he spoke, his rich, deep baritone cut across the chatter of the reporters and demanded everyone’s attention. His speech was short and concise, confirming what Tiffany Adams had reported earlier but adding little else.
    He nodded at a reporter from the Shadow Falls Journal , the same reporter who’d badgered Amanda with relentless, personal questions when she was released from the hospital four years ago. After suffering through his crass, intimate questions about her abduction, she’d never agreed to another interview—not with the press, anyway. The detectives had interviewed her so many times she’d sarcastically threatened to move into the police station to save them time.
    “Chief, can you confirm the body in the park is missing college student Carolyn O’Donnell?” the reporter asked.
    “Until the next of kin are notified, I can’t speak to the identity of the—”
    “Do you actually expect us to believe the dead woman isn’t O’Donnell?” the same reporter shouted.
    Richards pointed to another reporter, effectively dismissing the Journal reporter, leaving him red-faced and sputtering.
    Amanda couldn’t help but grin.
    “Yes, the body was discovered just off the main jogging trail in a remote section of the park,” Richards said in response to a question.
    “No, the jogger who found the victim isn’t a suspect in the slaying.”
    “I can’t confirm or deny sexual assault until the autopsy is completed.”
    “No, I can’t speak to the cause of death at this time.”
    For several minutes, the questions continued. When another reporter repeated the question about the victim’s identity, Chief Richards thanked everyone for their time and walked away, abruptly ending the press conference. Amanda smiled at his audacity.
    The angle of the camera shifted, focusing again on Tiffany Adams. Quoting unnamed sources, she callously confirmed that the nude body found in the park was the Florida State University sophomore who’d gone missing while home on summer break. She quoted an unnamed source and didn’t express a twinge of remorse that O’Donnell’s family might be watching the broadcast.
    The anchorwoman seemed to delight in going into more detail, telling the audience about the multiple stab wounds and speculating that the victim was strangled. Then she mentioned something Richards hadn’t: the victim was found clutching a long-stemmed, red rose.
    Amanda shivered and clasped her arms around her middle, barely feeling her fingernails biting into her skin through her thin, cotton tank.
    Was the stem smooth? Had the killer removed all of the thorns? All but one?
    The TV screen faded away and she was back in the cabin four years ago, lying on the hardwood floor in a puddle of her own blood, listening to the sound of Dana’s terrified sobs behind her.
    Amanda’s attacker straddled her stomach and held a red rose above her, its sweet perfume wafting down and mingling with the metallic scent of blood. He plucked one thorn from the stem. “He kills me.” He broke off another. “He kills me not.”
    His sickening version of the childhood chant continued as he snapped off each thorn to drop one by one onto her blood-smeared stomach. When only one thorn remained, his