“I made spaghetti,” I say, gesturing to where two pots are sitting on the stove with flickering blue flames underneath. It gave me something to focus on other than the grizzly news from earlier. Not even the orchids she brought home from the grocery store for me could hold my attention.
“Thank you. I’m starving.” My guardian dishes herself some food, exclaiming over how delicious it looks. I’m flattered even though it came out of a jar ready-made. It’s probably not that good.
We eat in quiet, the old house settling around us as the temperature slowly falls with the sun.
Aunt Karen thinks she’s being covert by sneaking glances at me whenever she takes a drink from her water glass, but I see her. And ignore her. I don’t have anything to say. Noah’s map surges to the front of my mind, zeroed in on the newest pin.
Actually, maybe I do want to talk.
“The Mayday Killer struck again.”
“I know.” My guardian’s tone is measured, as if she’s afraid to give her voice free rein.
“Hanfield is less than an hour away from here.”
Aunt Karen’s fork stills over her plate. She sighs. “The police are doing everything they can to apprehend him. They’re building blockades and checkpoints. All public transit is being checked. That… man can’t hide forever. He’ll be caught. Soon.”
“It’s been six months since his first.” And he’s been able to evade capture the whole time.
Aunt Karen starts to reach across the table to where my free hand is lying, but straightens the napkin in her lap instead. “I promise you I won’t let anything happen to you while you’re living under my roof. I probably shouldn’t do this, but I could teach you how to handle my firearm. I’ll show you where the safe is, if that would make you feel safer. What do you think?”
I bite my lip, curious. “No, I don’t think I’d like that.”
“If you ever change your mind.”
We go back to eating in the silence. Aunt Karen’s gun is never far from my thoughts. Before any of this, I had never fired a gun. My parents were staunchly anti-firearms and hadn’t kept any in the house. But now? I’m afraid of what I would do. What might happen if I had access to a life-ending weapon.
“You know, if you ever need anything and I’m not here, you can ask our neighbor across the street, Justin.”
She says it so lightly, like there’s nothing behind it. Sometimes her cool manner of speaking scares me just a little. Even if I was freaking out and Aunt Karen wasn’t here, I don’t think I’d have the guts to go across the street and ask Justin for help.
“He gives me the creeps. And I think he’s been following me. What if he’s dangerous?”
“Who? Justin?” Her incredulous tone slides right under my skin.
My voice rises. “He brought me my history book after I left it at school. At Noah’s. How did he know where I was? And how did he know I needed my book?”
Aunt Karen finishes chewing her bite. “He’s not dangerous. I asked him to grab the book for you.”
My eyes swim as the spaghetti on my plate morphs into blood and grit smeared across the floor. I push my plate away, squeezing my eyes shut. She asked him. That actually makes some sense. Maybe I’m making more of Justin than is really there. My tense muscles relax just a bit.
Aunt Karen eats a couple more tiny bites. I don’t blame her for her reticence. The noodles are still a little crunchy.
“There’s something I have to ask you,” she says finally, putting her silverware down and pushing her plate back. “Did you know an Anderson family? Maybe from that summer camp you used to go to?”
I go completely still. Suddenly Aunt Karen’s hesitance to eat and her somber manner make sense. She was trying to figure out how to deliver the death blow to my day. Because the Andersons? They were friends of mine from camp. We spent long hours swimming in the lake, paddling around in plastic kayaks, and hiking through the woods. They were friends of mine.
My throat clenches. The only reason she’d be asking me about them right now, this moment, is if something catastrophic happened to them. When I look up at Aunt Karen, the sympathetic curve of her eyes tells me everything.
I know which family was ripped apart this morning. The Anderson kids’ lives are damaged beyond repair, just like mine. Water wells in my eyes, making my guardian’s sad smile blurry.
“I got a call a couple of hours ago. They thought you should know, but you can’t tell anyone. Do you understand?”
I nod, struck silent by the heavy weight on my sternum. Nate and Kate, I’m so, so incredibly sorry.
“You okay?”
It’s a stupid question, so I don’t answer.
“I’ll clean up here. Why don’t you take your new flowers up to your room?”
“I don’t want them anymore.”
“You texted me asking me to buy them not two hours ago.”
“That was two hours ago.”
Why should I even bother trying to move on with my life, having any hobbies or passions when they could all be torn away from me at a moment’s notice? And flowers, of all things? They’re beautiful, but so fleeting. So mortal.
“I’ll leave them in the window behind the sink, in case you change your mind.”
Once, I left one of my orchids in the back window of my mom’s car by accident, and by the time I remembered it, it was completely singed. The leaves had bubbled up in shades of yellow and black. The whole thing crumbled the next day, no matter how much water I gave it to drink. It had already been marked for death.
I stare down at the orchids’ petals, wondering if the healthy parts of me have been burned too, until they’re so destroyed by the searing pain that they’re not salvageable. Maybe I’ll live the rest of my life like a leafless orchid. Unable to thrive and grow and flower, even under ideal conditions. My eyes fall to Aunt Karen’s hand, still outstretched over the table. If I was even in the ideal conditions.
“I think there are some grow lights in the garage if you’d rather.”
“No thanks. Why would there be grow lights in the garage?” I ask over my shoulder.
“I’m pretty sure one of my cousins was growing weed in there at some point.” Aunt Karen winks. “It’s worth a look.”
“Maybe later.” I scoop up a few of the plants and carry them gingerly to the living room where I’ve left the rough-cut lightbox I made this afternoon. I may be a burned-out shell of what I used to be, but I can still fulfill my part of the project I’m doing with Noah. All I need is a few more photos in specific colors.
As I position the plants and take photo after photo with my phone, I can’t keep my mind from wandering back to the Mayday Killer. What motivates him to keep killing? Take more lives? Why not find a cabin in the woods and hide out where he’ll never be found? He could read a thousand books, grow a garden, live out his days in peace. It would be an act of compassion, one I’m not sure he’s capable of.
Instead, he continues to hunt and kill. This time striking a family I knew. It’s unfathomable. My chest tightens painfully as I imagine what it was like for Nate and Kate to walk into the house sweaty from a soccer game in the park, laughing and talking trash. I imagine them halting in the hallway as a strong, salty scent hits their noses. The questioning glances they give each other as they move deeper into the house. The way grief engulfs them like flies in a Venus fly trap when they discover the killer’s handiwork.
Sucking in a few quick breaths to expel the evil images, I try to focus on my project. It’s innocuous enough to keep my thoughts shallow, where it’s safer. Sitting back on my heels, I scroll through my photos. I’ve got some good ones that I think Mr. Baugh will like. And there are a couple that will look great on my social feed.
Chapter 16
Day 123, Thursday
Gingerly, I pull the poster board out of the back of Aunt Karen’s car, frowning at the bend in one corner. It was perfectly straight when I loaded it. The imperfection will have to do. An audible sigh escapes me as
I slide my backpack onto my shoulders. Aunt Karen eyes the pink and orange dress I’m wearing—it’s a louder print than most of the clothes she bought for me—but doesn’t say anything. The tightness around her mouth is enough of an indication of her displeasure at my clothing choices.
I don’t know if she expected me to change once I picked up on her displeasure, but I wasn’t about to do that. I’m tired of all the drab, neutral colors that make up most of my new wardrobe. A little splash of color was warranted. Welcome to parenting teenage girls, Aunt Karen. Maybe someday we’ll even get into a fight about my post high-school goals, just like my mom and I used to do.
Because apparently taking a gap year to pursue my dream is not a valuable use of my time. So few people make it in the industry, she’d said. As if I didn’t already know.
I sniff, remembering the way Mom’s eyes would crease as she tried to convince me that taking a gap year would put me behind. The conviction in her voice when she insisted I at least consider going straight to a four-year school. Sharp pain cuts through my chest and I shove the memories away.
Time to put my game face on.
Reaching up, I pretend to swipe paint along my cheekbones. Face paint was a normal part of my school attire once. School spirit, yay! But now? I barely even wear makeup except for concealer. The scar shows right through it, so why bother?
Hoisting the poster board so I can maneuver without ramming into anything, I march up the steps.
Noah is at the top, kicked back on one of the concrete walls and reading a graphic novel I’m familiar with. “Hey,” he says when he sees me, hopping up and pocketing the book. “Whatcha got there?”
I turn it around so he can see the aesthetic I spent a ton of time on last night in an attempt to keep my mind off everything else. Pops of neon color contrast with dark, shadowy images of gritty urban streets and rain-soaked pavement. It’s a physical representation of the lighting idea I’ve worked up for The Mousetrap, printed out in cerebral color. Hopefully Esau will go for it. Sure, the first five times I tried to show him on my phone he blew me off, but it’ll be much harder to ignore the poster board in my hands. At some point he’s got to see that my ideas are good ones. He has to.
The corridor is buzzing with activity as people arrive for school. Lockers slam and backpack zippers open and close, but the thing that gets my attention is the whispering. Down the hallway, a group of boys are watching a video on their phone. Justin is mopping what looks like a pool of jello salad but which I know from the smell is vomit. I still think he’s a little weird, but maybe that’s because I see the devil everywhere these days.
As Noah and I draw closer to the group of boys, I hear snatches of a reporter’s voice. She’s talking about the homicidal maniac who’s rampaging through our state without a care in the world. He’s slipped through the police perimeter again.
My chest constricts.
“Everyone’s pretty freaked about the Mayday Killer.” Noah says just above a whisper.
“They should be,” I murmur.
“Pardon?”
“I said, it looks that way.”
“Right.” Noah’s dark hair bobs as he nods, his eyes narrowed just slightly. “You gonna carry that all day?”
I shake my head. “I’m gonna run it to the drama room before first period.”
One of the guys in the huddle spots us and gestures to his friends. “Hey Noah,” he calls. “I bet you’re pretty upset by all this, yeah?”
Noah stops, his entire body going stiff. He doesn’t look back at the guys, all of whom are now focused on us. On him. One of them flicks a glance at my scar before returning his attention to the boy beside me.
Noah clears his throat, but his words still come out unsteady. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know, how your brother was murdered, and they never caught the guy? What if it’s the same guy?”
This dude’s words ring in my brain. The man who killed Noah’s brother couldn’t be the Mayday Killer. That was ten years ago. The MO was different. It couldn’t be. Could it?
“Aren’t you scared?” I ask, as much to shut up my brain as to shut up these jerks.
The group of dudes look at me in surprise, a huddle of poser shirts and slack jaws. Finally, after what seems like forever, the guy who started it says, “Sure, I’m scared. Big, bad killer man is on a rampage, and the police haven’t managed to catch him yet.” His liberal use of air quotes tempts me to glare, but I manage to contain it.
“The police are doing everything they can to apprehend him, and they will.” Great, I’m parroting Aunt Karen now.
“Some job they’re doing. He’s killed what, fourteen people by now?”
“Fifteen,” Noah says. He seems to come back to himself, his body unclenching. The pulse in his neck is going at break-neck speed, though. Something about this conversation has him rattled, but what? “Did you know that criminals sometimes stay on the FBI most wanted list for years? It’s harder to catch fugitives than it looks on TV. There’s a lot of work and research that goes into it.”
“Don’t they have witnesses, though?” another guy asks.
“Witnesses are unreliable,” Noah explains. “You could have ten people recount the same event, and they’d each tell you they heard a different number of gunshots. It’s not an exact science. Memory can be faulty, or it can be manipulated.”
A beat too late, I add, “That’s true.”
The warning bell clangs, making me jump. Whatever spell was cast to create the cohesion of students listening to Noah’s conversation with the bro dudes is broken as people scatter, hurrying to reach their classrooms before the tardy bell rings.
With a quick glance at Noah, whose breathing is slowing to normal, I hurry to first period and slide into the desk beside Dariel. At the front of the classroom, the teacher is fiddling with his laptop to get it connected to the projector. So we’ve probably got ten minutes before class will actually start. Everyone else seems to feel the same way, because chatter breaks out all over the classroom. A box of Twizzlers gets passed around, and I take one. I love these.
“Dude, what is that? You got a presentation today or something?” Dariel picks up my poster board and looks over it, head bobbing in approval. “Looks like someone’s getting an A in art class.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Thanks, D, but this isn’t for Art. It’s for Esau.”
His red brows pull together. “You made this for Esau? Wait, is this a confession of love or something?” He flips it over and looks at the back, which is blank. “You forgot to sign it, Meggie.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, suppressing a smile at the nickname. No one’s ever called me that, but I could get used to it. Taking a corner of the board, I give a light pull. I don’t want to damage it before I can even show it to Esau, but suddenly I don’t want Dariel scrutinizing it anymore either. “I’m hoping if he sees a visual of the lighting scheme I’ve been trying to sell him on, he’ll let me try it.”
Up front, the projector makes a loud beeping noise, drawing my attention. The teacher is hovering around the projector, pressing buttons in a way that does not look good. A few rows over, the class techie gets up and trudges up there, tapping the teacher on the shoulder so he’ll stop his assault on the projector long enough to look at her. Poor techie girl.
Dariel leans closer. “We’re talking about the same Esau, right? Esau Chavez? Control freak? Man bun? Always barking orders?”
I roll my eyes and frown. “He’s going to hate it.”
“I mean, probably. Yeah.” His fingers tap a rhythm on the desktop.
My frown deepens. “My ideas for this show are good. I just have to make him see that somehow.”
“Good luck with that.” Dariel chuffs incredulously.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “I’m going to need it.” I spend the rest of the day going through what I’m going to say to Esau to get him to try my lighting so that by the time the last bell rings I have it memorized.
It’s a welcome break from the conversations all around me. Death, fear, and confusion are the rule of the day. Not for me. Not anymore, if I can help it.
My opportunity to show Esau my vision for the show comes sooner than I expected it would and goes a lot smoother too. Esau isn’t in the drama room when I get there after class. Marisa and one of the other actors are running lines in the middle of the stage area. She’s still using her script, I notice. Fiona and Dariel are upstairs in the booth, and it does not sound like they’re working. In the far corner near the hallway, the whir of Viv’s sewing machine draws me closer.
My eyes land on the fabric and my feet halt abruptly. Blood is pooling around the machine, inching outward toward my sandals. A pair of hands lie cut and bleeding in the middle of the widening puddle. A dinged wedding band glints on a twitching ring finger.
A cry escapes from my throat. If I don’t back away, it’s going to seep into my shoes. But I can’t move. The haze of terror in my brain is blocking all communication with my limbs. I squeeze my eyes shut.
It’s not real. It’s not. I’m not in that place anymore.
I force my eyes to open and refocus.
A puddle of scarlet cloth is lain out in a swath around Viv’s machine, but the whirring has stopped. Viv is staring up at me with wide, attentive eyes. “Megan? You in there?” she asks.
Almost too late, I manage to nod. “Sorry. I zoned out for a second there.”
Viv studies me, her expression not quite believing. Then gestures past me. “Fiona’s calling you.”
“Right.”
Fiona is standing on the stairs leading to the booth, and when she spots me she grins. “Esau’s not coming today.”
“What?”
“There was some problem at the farm, so he had to rush home after last period. You know what this means?”
“Everyone’s leaving?” I’m surprised at how disappointed I am to hear that. Despite constantly butting heads with Esau about aspects of the show, the afternoons I’m able to spend here rather than cooped up in the restless quiet of Aunt Karen’s house have become my safe space. The only time I can truly be myself without fear of being scrutinized by my overprotective guardian.
Don't Look Behind You (Don't Look Series Book 1) Page 9