Wheels

The last pin slid into the wall with a thud. Linda stepped back, surveying the map that covered one entire side of her study. Nineteen red numbers protruded from it, marking the order in which the killer had struck. Each one a tiny reminder of her own failure to stop him.

She shook her head, clenching her jaw. That son-of-a-bitch wouldn't beat her.

"Babe, dinner's getting cold and eaten!" called Dan from the kitchen.

"Be there soon!" she lied. She loved her husband, but she'd stay here all night if she had to.

She studied the map. The pins were arranged in a curiously neat ring, all within a five minute drive of her own neighborhood. It was almost too perfect. Was the killer trying to send a message? Was this a game to him?

Her gaze drifted to the photos of the victims, all killed with a single thrust from below the ribcage, each inside their own home. Next to them she'd pinned pictures of the crime scenes, 19 blood-splattered front porches. The door was never forced, as if they felt - what? Familiar with the killer? Safe..?

There must be something she’d missed, some connection or clue…

Her eyes narrowed. The houses, they were all oddly familiar, somehow.

Steps! That was it. None of them had steps leading to the front door. Just like her house, they were all... wheelchair accessible.

The air left her lungs.

Behind her, the door creaked open. Linda shot a glance at the drawer that held her revolver. Locked, she remembered. Dammit!

She turned.

Dan wheeled himself into the room, grinning. Her dinner steamed in his lap.

"You work too hard babe," he said, with a glint in one eye.

"You're not going to catch him tonight!"