Having lost my job at the paper, I've had to resort to picking up extra shifts down at The Hot Corner – the sports bar and grill I work at. The only thing I hate more than the uniform – shorts that leave half my ass hanging out, and a shirt so tight, I can barely breathe – isn't the constant ogling and innuendo-laced comments from a bunch of drunk, horny men. I couldn't care less about that, actually. It's coming home smelling like the rancid wings and decadent fried foods on the menu.

But, the tips are okay, and the extra shifts I've been picking up are definitely helping offset the lost wages from my job at the paper. It's not glamorous, but at least it's paying work. It keeps the lights on at home, and food in the refrigerator. That's about all I can ask for at the moment.

After taking a shower and washing the smell of cheap vegetable oil off my skin and out of my hair, I throw on a pair of pajama shorts and a loose-fitting t-shirt. I open all the windows and turn on the two pathetic box fans I have, hoping to create something of a breeze in my tiny apartment. Summer – even though it's getting late in the season – is brutal in Southern California.

I grew up in Morro Bay, which sits on the central coast of the state where the climate is a lot more temperate. I'm still adjusting to the difference in temperatures between home and here. After finishing the journalism program at Morro Bay State, I moved down here, thinking that the opportunities would be abundant.

They are not.

It took me almost a year to land the internship at the Times Daily – one of the only paid internships I could find after finishing out my college program. And now, I've gone and royally screwed that up – something of a common theme in my life.

I walk into my bedroom and glance at the stack of boxes against the far wall. Even though I've lived here for several years now, I still have some things packed up in boxes.

In my defense, it's a stupid paranoia thing. There's a small, irrational part of my mind that believes I'm going to get kicked out at any time. My budget is so tight and unforgiving that I've been late with rent more times than I can count, which only fuels that paranoia. Any day now, I'm expecting my landlord to show up, eviction notice in hand. The really stupid part is that, somehow, I've convinced myself it's more likely to happen if I unpack everything and really settle in.

Hence, the packed boxes.

The one I'm looking for isn't filled with odds and ends, though. It's filled with all the notes and research materials I've collected on the possible serial killer I was tracking before Helen killed my story. I carry it out to the dining room table and set it down next to my decrepit laptop.

Already feeling damp and sticky again, and like I could use another shower, I force myself to sit down at the table. I take a long drink from my water bottle as my laptop slowly boots up, and start to sift through the box of materials I've collected.

I lay out my notebooks, news clippings, and photographs of various locations. I don't have the pull to get actual crime scene photos or police reports, so I have to rely on the words of others to paint the scene for me.

Fortunately for me, I've become pretty damn good at the whole online sleuthing thing. Some might call it stalking, but I think of it as going above and beyond to provide in-depth research.

I sift through the notebooks and other files I've collected about the case. Ever since Marina first put the bug in my ear about publishing my own blog, I've been giving it a lot of thought, and honestly, it appeals to me a lot.

I know it's going to take some time to monetize it. Building a following of devoted readers who come back day after day isn't easy, and it won't happen overnight. But, after doing the numbers, I know it's going to be really tight. There won't be room for a lot of extras. But, if I can keep picking up extra shifts at the bar, and worst-case scenario – pick up a second part-time job – I might be able to make enough money to make ends meet.

It's not going to be easy, but in the end, it might be worth it. If I put out quality work, rather than the substandard online tabloid clickbait garbage that's popular these days, who knows what could happen?

Marina is right. I'm a talented writer and dedicated researcher. And I can make my way in this world on my own. I can make my own mark.

“Keep thinking it, and maybe you'll believe it one day,” I mutter to myself.

There are usually a few minutes a day when I feel completely fearless and empowered. Like I can take on the world and win. But, if there's one thing life has taught me, it's that the universe can always find a way to knock you off that high horse.

What matters though, is whether you continue to lay there, or pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and continue pursuing your dreams.

This is one of those defining moments. Life knocked me down hard this time. It knocked the wind out of me, leaving me bloodied and bruised. The question is, am I going to stand up and keep moving forward? Or am I going to just lay back in the grass and let life pass me by?

I already know the answer to that question.

Grabbing the first notebook, I stand up and position myself in front of the fan. I start to flip through the first couple of pages, reading my notes, and re-familiarizing myself with the details of the case.

“Okay, so what do I have?” I mutter.

I walk away from the fan, realizing it's doing nothing but blowing hot air on me – only making me more uncomfortable and irritable. And right now, I need to focus. Concentrate.

This all started shortly after I started working for the Times Daily. I was just doing some digging around in their database of old stories, clips from other papers, and open unsolved murders listed in the police directory. Initially, it was just for fun – or, what passes for fun in my life, anyway.

It was after poking around in the databases for a few hours, I noticed three open unsolved cases that caught my eye because they were so similar. Same cause of death – strangulation with an unknown object, perhaps a belt or scarf. The three girls looked virtually identical to one another – all of them Caucasian or light-skinned Hispanic, dark-haired, with blue eyes, and slight builds. Beautiful young women, all college-aged.

Even with my pretty limited background in criminology, it seemed obvious to me that the three were connected and that the offender obviously had a type. The more I dug into those three cases though, the more I found – nothing. No stories made the connection. There was no indication that the police were even looking at it as the work of a potential serial killer.

When I increased the search parameters, I found something even more troubling – similar unsolved murders dating back at least five years. Five years and eighteen girls in the Long Beach, Bellflower, Paramount, Lakewood, Torrance, and Seal Beach areas had been murdered by – as far as I could tell – the same man.

And nobody had connected the dots. Nobody had done a damn thing about it.

Before Helen officially ended my investigation, I saw that the latest murder had taken place only four months prior. Once she pulled the plug on my story, I stopped looking into it. For all I know, another five girls have been killed since then.

What I did find when I really started getting into it, was that the victims – at least, the three recent ones in Long Beach – had several things in common with each other. They belonged to the same gym, all attended Cal State Long Beach, and lived in the same general area – there were a lot of different ways these women could have all met the same man. Their killer.

I pick up one of two photographs in a file folder on the table and look at it closely. Billy Woods. Personal trainer down at the gym the three local girls belonged to. He's tall, fit, and has the typical California surfer-dude look about him.

I started to look at him a little closer because he had a few assault charges on his record. Several of his ex-girlfriends also filed restraining orders against him, claiming that he's choked them – which, to me, is a giant red flag.

There is one hitch to it though. If I'm right, and these murders do, in fact, stretch back five years, he would have started young. He was nineteen or so around the time of the earliest murder in Bellflower. It's possible. I've read cases where serial killers start young. It's rare though.

It's even rarer that someone as young as Billy was at the time of the murders would be so sophisticated in their methodology. It usually takes someone a few years and some experience to get their craft and their killing technique down pat.

As far as I can tell, this guy – whoever killed these women – was a professional with their methodology down cold. I'm not ruling Billy out though, just because of his age.

I walk over to the wall across from my table and tape Billy's picture up on the whiteboard I have hung up there. Next to it, I tape the second picture I have – a photo of Carlyle Hawkins. Carl, as he's most commonly called, is fifty-four, and known as a pillar of the Long Beach community.

Carl is a longtime businessman in the city and even sat on the City Council for a while. He's wealthy beyond measure, has friends in high places, and a sterling reputation in the community. I couldn’t find one person with a single negative thing to say about him, and best of all, he's incredibly charitable. People really love this guy.

It makes him the unlikeliest of perps, which ironically, makes him one of the top suspects to me.

Granted, I need more to go on than just him being an unlikely killer. I need actual proof. Hard evidence. Which is something I currently lack. If I'm being fair and honest, I can see why Helen spiked my story. You don't take a shot at a guy like Carlyle Hawkins without actual evidence to back yourself up. If Helen had let me run off all willy-nilly, chasing this story with my characteristic zeal, Hawkins could have sued the Times Daily into oblivion.

So, as much as it pains me to admit, Helen did the right thing by the paper. Now, however, I'm a woman free of the constraints of corporate America. Yeah, I need to be careful and not open myself up to a libel suit, of course. Not that they'd actually get much if they sued me.

The point is, I can go anywhere and dig as deep as I want and there's nothing they can do to stop me.

It's a feeling that's both exhilarating and terrifying.

I'm walking around my place, flipping through all my old notes, and finally feeling good about myself, when my cell rings. Dropping the notebook down on the desk, I turn and face my whiteboard, looking at the pictures of my two suspects on top, and pictures of the three victims below, when I answer the call.

“Hello,” I answer, pressing the phone to my ear.

“Emma, it's Jeannie.”

“Hey, Aunt Jeannie,” I say. “How are you doing?”

I hear her sniffle and can tell she's crying, which immediately sets off a rush of emotion inside of me. My Aunt Jeannie is one of the most positive, optimistic people on the planet. Nothing ever gets her down. She's the living embodiment of positive thinking and perseverance. So, hearing her as upset as she is, worries me immensely.

“What is it, Jeannie?” I ask, almost afraid to hear her response.

She sniffles again. “You need to come home.”

“What's going on, Jeannie?”

“I – it's your father,” she says. “He had a heart attack. He didn’t make it.”

And just like that, my entire world turns upside down. I nearly drop the phone as I fall to my knees, tears spilling down my cheeks, nausea rising in my throat. I don't hear another word my aunt says as I try to process the bombshell of shock, disbelief – and grief – that just exploded inside of me.

Suddenly, nothing else matters – nothing but getting home.