Stinging Pains

Abigail spent most of our drive over wincing while I read the text logs to her one last time. Well into the groove, I recited his final message with plenty of zest, like I was a true thespian.

“Can’t wait to see you soon, my pet. I’m looking forward to finally meeting you in the flesh.”

“Ewww!” Abi burst out laughing. “What a creep. What’s his name again? Scott? Doesn’t he have a wife?”

“He did. The wife left. He has a girlfriend now though. Some real estate agent.”

A sly smile flickered across Abigail’s face. “So she knows exactly how much his house is worth.”

“I wonder if she knows how he spends his time online.”

We shared a few uneasy chuckles, embarrassed to share a city with this kind of man. The laughter faded as the car slowed, the GPS voice announcing our arrival in its flat, cheerful tone. The house sat back from the road, tasteful and forgettable—white siding, trimmed hedges, the sort of place you’d expect to see on a holiday card.

Abi checked her reflection in the visor mirror, smoothing her hair, then glanced at me. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” I said, though my hands had already gone cold. I tucked my phone away, the screen still glowing with the conversation that had brought us here.

The porch light snapped on before we reached the door. He must have been watching. When it opened, he filled the doorway—tall, svelte, deliberately put together. The kind of man who still believed he’d aged well, who lived for mirrors and first impressions. His smile arrived easily, practiced, then stalled when his eyes flicked past Abi and settled on me.

We flashed our badges.

He stiffened, blinking once in surprise before irritation crept in, replacing the charm. There was no panic, no remorse—just the look of someone who felt wronged, inconvenienced.

“Let’s be civil,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “It’s not like the girl was seven.”

BIO: Natalie McCloud is a central Florida–based writer studying criminal justice. Her work draws on an academic interest in crime and punishment, as well as the unsettling tensions that simmer beneath ordinary lives. She writes crime fiction that leans toward the psychological and quietly unsettling.