There isn't going to be a 'soon', at least not according to her. 

The untouched cup of coffee has long stopped steaming and dawn has begun to seep through the colourless curtains inside the station.

"Just to be clear, Miss. You believe the Key Killer visited you to... paint?"

Involuntary, her jaw tenses for the hundredth time that night. With every condescending question, she wishes to have stayed home, planning her escape to the other side of the world instead. Iceland, or something. Far away from the Key Killer. And far away from this joke of a policeman.

"As I stated previously, Officer, he has left a message in one of my paintings. I have a picture of it on my-"

He interrupts her, as so many times before, "Couldn't it have just been someone posing as the Key Killer, Miss? You know, he's quite popular these days."

She takes a deep breath, begging herself for more patience. 

"It could have been anyone for all I know, but as I explained before - the Key Killer might have a special interest in me and my work." 

No matter what she says, the slightly amused officer before here has already made up his mind. Doesn't stop her from trying, though.

A few half-hearted questions later, the man in blue puts down his notebook and thanks her for bringing it to the attention of the police, followed by a lie through his teeth to take her statement serious and forward it to the relevant authorities.

When her sleep-deprived body finally drags itself through the front door of the old farmhouse it is already late morning. The realization hits as she views the calendar in the kitchen and rushes to the bathroom in order to make it to work on time. Two days a week she goes into the office a few towns away in order to provide herself with enough money to survive. Writing for the nearest newspaper for almost nine months now, she is able to support her bills and spend the remainder of her time living her art out freely.

'The Morning Herald' isn't the biggest paper in the country, but neither is it the smallest. Up until a few weeks ago, she has been able to write whatever her heart has desired. A dream come true. But everything has changed with the appearance of the Key Killer.

The police have tried to keep the first two murders quiet, but the third they couldn't have brushed under the carpet as easily. The victim has been a child care worker at a kindergarten in the neighbouring state, named Jim Huffrey. A co-worker has found his dead body inside the playroom when opening up for the impatient and aggravated mothers outside.

According to police records, the body of the twenty-nine-year-old kindergartener has been strung to a child-sized chair. Lower legs and arms have been carefully removed to resemble the size of a child's body. A video camera on legs has been placed right in front of the remaining corpse, but no recordings of the murder have ever been recovered. As if it has just been for show.

The autopsy claims that the killer has cut off his victim's genitalia before death occurred which has been found deeply lodged inside the man's throat, suffocating him in the process. His limps have been professionally and clinically removed after the time of death. All this must have happened around 3.30 am.

Yet, the one reoccurring theme, which media and police have mainly focused on, has been the silver keys placed on the Key Killer's victims. Therefore, the murderer has been given an appropriate name by nobody other than Zoe Stromgard, resident journalist for 'The Morning Herald' on page two with her funny, yet accusingly explosive column. Zoe could bite herself today for having gone along with her editor's demands and the following abandonment of her own values as soon as he has threatened to kick her off the team.

The elevator announces the seventh floor and the doors open to the ever-chaotic rush inside her workplace. Human forms run past her with piles of paper stacked in hands and the never-ending ringing of the telephones already promises her a headache.

She has made it to work on autopilot, entranced by her own thoughts and mental exhaustion. There is only one thing she can think of, and that is the reality of having been visited by the key killer. Even if nobody ends up believing her. She knows it has been him.

Once her bottom touches the seat inside her office, Zoe's spirits are reawakened to her usual obsessively-curious self and she buries her head in more research for the rest of the morning.

A week after the third murder, the police chief has announced possible ties between the kindergarten victim, Mr Huffrey, and a pornography ring but has not wanted to go further into the details. She has done her own vigilant research on the cases and it hasn't taken her long to find juicy bits of information. Even today, the authorities are keeping a closed lid about the fact, the victim has produced child pornography in the playroom of the kindergarten to sell it on the dark web for extraordinary amounts of money.

Back then, Zoe has spent all night inside her home office, typing her fingers raw to submit her findings in time for next day's deadline. But to her shock, her editor Steve has the story pulled before it could have made it to print with the vaguest of excuses, that nobody would have cared about the fine details and to allow Jim Huffrey his well deserved rest.

Only a handful of small and brave media agencies have released stories about it. However, they've suffered shortly after, by having their funding cut or people losing their jobs entirely. She is painfully aware that Steve O'Donnell has some secrets of his own, and she wishes nothing more than to have the balls to write about it.

Where has the Zoe gone who doesn't wish, but does?

_______

Its late afternoon already and Zoe closes the file in front of her with a yawn. By now, she can really do with some sleep. Normally, she looks forward to the end of the day when she gets to return to the countryside and the isolation of her home. But not today. Today, the mingling voices and the lively chaos in the hallway comforts her and she wishes it to never end.

"ZOE!" The yell of her name travels down the corridor and drills itself into her sensitive ears.

Fuck.

One hour till deadline. And she has nothing. Her hands fly to her keyboard in pretend, typing unexplainable gibberish onto the screen just as Steve pops his dishevelled head through her door-less entrance.

"Are you done yet??" Her editor barks with stress pearls already forming on his reddened forehead. What a stupid question and yet, he asks it every single time.

"Almost! I promise, you will have it by-." The grey-haired man is gone before she has the chance to finish her sentence. All she can hear is the descend of curses coated with her name.

Her mood swings dangerously fast and she has to calm herself in order to not throw the files across the room and after her idiotic editor. She has done so much for this paper. Sacrificed her own dignity for the favour of her superiors and what is she left with? Nothing.

Her thoughts wander back to last night and suddenly, she understands, there is nothing left to do besides what she believes to be right. With that, her swift fingers erase the earlier ramblings of nonsense from the document and begin to hammer away with a newly found passion and conviction.

At four o'clock, on the dot, Zoe hands Steve her final draft for tomorrow's issue. The grumpy man doesn't even look up as he tries to snatch it from her hands, but Zoe pulls the paper against her chest before he can grab a hold of it. His bushy eyebrows rise in surprise and milky eyes scold her from above the rim of his reading glasses.

"I appreciate my place here, Steve, but if this article doesn't make it to print tomorrow you can expect my resignation." 

The paper flies on top of his desk and the young woman out of his office before Steve even has the chance to react to her final words.