No. That’s crazy.
I have his phone, and he needs it back. There’s guilt on it. Evidence in it. I may not understand the gambit, but I really do think he needs it all back. He could have already deleted it remotely, and he hasn’t. He wants what he’s got left on there; it is a prize. It is important.
As the clock ticks toward eleven, my chest tightens. If he’s going to show up, now would be the time. The man behind the deli counter turns out the lights. The Muzak overhead abruptly cuts off at a quarter till. It’s not like it was good music, but its absence is eerie.
Now I hear other carts moving, out of sight. Cases opening. Bags rustling. An irrational, giddy part of my brain points out how much this feels like a zombie movie . . . right before the zombies attack.
God, brain, just shut up. There are no zombies, and this guy is not going to show. Not today, and I can’t set up camp in a grocery store until he does.
At random, toss a couple of frozen pizzas into my cart. They look absurd, huddling in the corner without anything else around them. I feel suspicious and obvious and wildly out of place. Somehow, buying something will make that better.
Just in case, I grab two bags of Doritos on my way to check out, too. There. That’s better. Four whole things, to justify how long I spent wandering.
“You have a Red Stripe card?” the clerk asks by rote.
I shake my head no. I stand, poised at the card reader, with my phone. When the total comes up, I touch my phone to the reader and nothing happens. With a frown, I touch it again.
“Oh,” the clerk says flatly. “We don’t have one of those. You have to put your card in.”
“Oh,” I echo, embarrassed.
I hope I have my card. It’s probably stuck behind my school ID, in a wallet that perpetually sinks to the bottom of my bag. It’s a two-arm expedition to get down there, shoving aside the remains of recent snacks.
Empty animal cracker bags, half-full party mix bags (I eat only the brown chippy things), two unopened bags of Takis Fuego . . . Why do I have so much food with me? Loose change and Starburst, tubes of Carmex and Chapstick—
“Bringing in the carts.”
My spine snaps straight. It’s that voice. That mechanical, almost human voice I found on the killer’s phone.
It’s him.
I KEEP DIGGING, SLOWER NOW, AND LOOK OVER MY shoulder.
It’s the bag boy, the cart guy, whatever, who’s been coming and going all night. He stands by the Customer Service counter, his arms folded on top of it.
Between his hands, a phone—he texts someone with swift thumbs. Only, when he hits Send, that digital voice speaks again. “There’s one across the street again. I’m gonna leave it there.”
The automatic door opens; cold sweeps in. Sweeps over me, steals my breath.
All this time, I’ve been waiting for this guy to skulk in and ask for his phone. Someone from the outside, with shifty eyes and a dark aura or something. Black clothes and menace incarnate.
And that’s stupid. That’s so stupid.
Monsters and murderers and rapists and fiends aren’t slavering, bug-eyed creatures from central casting. I know that better than anybody. Nobody willingly goes off with a snaggle-toothed, unwashed demon of a man.
Monsters are charming. They’re pleasant. They ask if you want to see—
“Girlie?” the cashier says expectantly.
Down into my bag again, I find and drop, drop and find my wallet. It takes me a moment to remember my PIN. Hands trembling, hips aching to run, I manage to type in 1066
(the Battle of Hastings; William the Conqueror slaughters Harold Godwinson; au revoir, Anglo-Saxons; bonjour, Normans)
on the second try. Beepity, approved, thanks for shopping at Red Stripe, thanks, have a nice night.
Even as I take a step, I stare. He’s there. He’s right there; been there all night, in and out, before my eyes. The red smock had made him invisible—I didn’t see; how lucky am I that he didn’t, either?
He slides his other phone into his back pocket and heads outside again.
I follow. The cold engulfs me, instantly piercing me in every direction. It’s colder at the far, dark corner of the building, but it’s a better view. When he trudges into the side lot and stalks back to the front—he’s right there, never out of sight. With frigid fingers, I fumble with my phone, trying to wake it.
It’s my turn to stalk, to take photos without permission.
Unlike him, however, I remember to turn off the flash. From every possible angle, I steal his image.
Battering one cart into another, he builds a stainless-steel snake. That takes strength. The line of carts grows, but he controls them. They don’t veer or stick in the slush and packed-down ice in the parking lot. His face is concentration: brows furrowed, lips pursed.
Right there are the hands that beat Jane Doe. There is the last face she ever saw in this life. There’s the man—the boy—who took everything from her and still wants more.
“Bet you want to hit him,” Jane says, murmuring right in my ear. Her voice shocks me. I feel her breath on my neck. Feel the anger in her skin.
When I glance back, Jane’s an ice-white phantom. Bloodless. Gouged. Face swollen; eye disappearing behind a bloody clot of red and purple. She puts her hand on my shoulder—no fingertips. Her fingers are nubs that brand my skin, right through my coat.
I know it’s not right, that she’s not real—
(basket case)
But she is. She’s my fraternal twin. My worst-case scenario, closed up in a tree and blanketed only by snow. Jane’s a better friend to me than Syd; Jane’s not conflicted. She doesn’t change the subject.
“You probably shouldn’t,” Jane whispers. She rests her misshapen head on my shoulder. “But I know you want to.”
And it’s scary because yeah, I do. I want to hit him. I want to hurt him, tear him to pieces, break his bones, split his skull—
I close my eyes and fight back the urge. Nice girls shouldn’t get angry. They shouldn’t explode. They don’t raise their voices, make a scene, lash out. But tamping down my feelings—it’s like trying to stop a magma flow. Anger and rage flow over obstacles and then consume them.
Right now, I’m not a nice girl.
And I’m not as subtle as I thought I was, either.
He looks up at me as I raise my phone to take a picture. He stares at me in double—thirty yards away in the flesh, thirty inches away in twelve megapixels on the screen. My lungs tighten; chest hitching, I drop the phone to my side and pretend I was taking a selfie or something. That’s normal; selfies in a dark parking lot in ten-degree weather at 11:08 p.m.
Our connection is a guitar string strung tight. It quivers, waiting for a touch. And then he plucks it.
“H-hhhey!” he yells. Abandoning the carts, he starts for me. Head down, shoulders broad, face furious. Steam spills out of his nostrils. His eyes burn, and I already know he’s fast.
I’m faster.
I run.
I DON’T KNOW CARIBOU; CARIBOU DOESN’T KNOW ME.
When I bolt through a back alley, I crash into dark trash cans. Not the metal kind. The giant plastic ones that you lock. (You can’t be too careful when you live this close to wilderness. Dogs, cats, raccoons, rats, and bears! Right there in your backyard! And bears, my friends, can open back doors and car doors, so yeah. Don’t teach them to eat where you live.)
I stumble-leap over the cans, but lights come on in the houses around me. It feels like new eyes fall on me. Strangers watching. They should. I’m not dangerous, but I could be. Pay attention, people. Pay attention!
Somebody shoveled between the narrow fences; put down some salt, too. Everything back here is running through dark grey mush. It soaks through my boots; it’ll freeze on them, too. A dark pile rises in front of me. No idea what that is. Jump!
Something wrenches in my back. I land hard. Skid. Fire shoots down my hip, but I don’t stop.
Footsteps slosh behind me.
I don’t look back because that’s how you die in horror movies. I know who’s chasing me. I know what happens if he catches me. A sickly orange streetlight illuminates the end of the alley. I am its earthbound moth. We are all that exists: me, that light.
Two words clang in my head. Reckless. Stupid. Reckless. Stupid. They make me run faster. Left foot is Stupid; right foot is Reckless. They pound and splash. My heart beats in time. My breath is fire, scorching my throat, searing my lungs.
Skidding out of the alley, I turn Stupid, deeper into the knot of houses just off the highway. Recklessward is woods, and I know I can’t run in there. The white noise of escape fills my head. I have my beat, stupid-reckless, and now a static haze fills out the melody.
It’s like I’m alone. I’m not outrunning the devil, just myself. I’m beating my own time. From the outside, I probably look insane. I run right down the middle of the side streets. The sidewalks are still covered in snow. I flicker beneath halogen lights; I don’t stop for stop signs.
Inside, I’m molten—for a few timeless, perfect moments, I’m high. Untouchable. Immaculate.
Then it all crashes. From the inside, not the out. My stamina drops. My muscles melt. Strength spills from me, and it hurts to breathe. All the thoughts that were so clear turn to grey haze. Where am I going? What was I doing?
I’m a wobbly, rubbery dolly. I stagger into the middle of an intersection before stumbling to a stop. Everything in my bloodstream is wrong. The cold hits hard. My stomach clenches, and I have to grab my own knees to keep my balance. There’s a high-pitched ringing in my ears, and I can barely find the fortitude to raise my head.
Four stop signs waver in the wind. The roads are narrow here, no lines. And empty. Swaying, I veer around to double-check that. Empty, empty; I’m alone.
In the dark.
In a strange town.
Because I followed a killer.
My body is heavy now. The call and answer of stupid-reckless isn’t sharp anymore. It’s a corrupted MP3, warbling and scratched with electronic spikes. A muddled mix of pain wells inside me. I just stand there. Right there, in the middle of the intersection, with no idea what to do next.
A cheerful ping startles me. My phone, still clutched tight in my hand. It’s like I’m moving through molasses now (maybe this is one of those nightmares?), but I finally clear the lockscreen and raise it to my face. A bluish glow washes over me. It feels so good; so safe.
Where are you? my mother demands.
A burst of emotion threatens to overwhelm me. I want to tell her, I don’t know, and I’m scared, and come save me. I want to tell her, It’s dark out, I’m cold, I’m somewhere in Caribou. I want to beg her to make everything all right.
Instead, I reply with shaky hands, Hanging out with Syd. I told you I was going to.
That was hours ago, she types furiously. Do you know what time it is?!
Headlights rise in the distance, and I step out of the street. I need to figure out what I’m going to do here, sooner rather than later. People will eventually notice a stranger standing outside their houses in the middle of the night.
Sorry!! I text.
••• hovers there, three-eyed monster in the dark. Then comes her reply. Forewarning next time!
Yes. Next time I go to Caribou to stalk a murderer, I will definitely tell Mom first. Maybe she can pack me a dinner bag, tuna salad sandwiches, no crusts. Goldfish. A juice box. I haven’t even started my reply when Mom texts again.
I’m not kidding! I need to know where you are! All times!
A whole bramble of barbed wire tightens in my chest. Her exclamation points are the sharpest points, piercing deep. I’m seventeen, and historically responsible and level headed. I have a phone; I know how to call for help if I need it.
(Okay, I don’t do it, but I know how.)
(I would if I really needed to.)
(Probably.)
So what is going on? Are you staying the night or what?!
Well, I can’t call Syd without a lot of explanation—she thinks I met my mom. And I can’t ask Mom to come get me, because she’s throwing an epic wobbly because I’m not already home. The ground scrapes beneath my boots as I turn, calculating my next destination.
Yes, I tell Mom.
According to the map on my phone, my Lyft will arrive in fourteen minutes.
IN BOOKS AND MOVIES, THERE ARE ALWAYS convenient trees and trellises outside second-story windows. Pebbles, too, plenty of them lying around. Just the right size to toss at a window. Not too big, can’t break the glass, but just big enough to make a noise.
Standing beneath a naked maple tree in Hailey’s front yard, I realize I don’t even know which window is hers. So I won’t be climbing, and I definitely won’t be doing any geological window tapping. Instead, I text her and watch the house avidly.
You up?
Yeah. What’s up?
Good question. It has too many answers, so I deflect. Look out the front window.
A moment passes, and then the curtains part in one of the upstairs windows. What little light there is comes from behind, so I only see the shape of her. But I know it’s her, with her wild, flyaway hair and arms made of velvet and steel. The curve of her shoulders in silhouette entrances me.
Raising a hand, I wait for her to see me. I thumb directions into my phone. Under the tree.
Her posture sharpens and she replies, Omg what are you doing out there?
Can I come in?
There’s a pause before she answers. Come around to the back door.
Like a burglar, I steal into her backyard. The gate protests when I open it; it’s so loud. I expect everyone in the neighborhood to stick their heads out their windows. If the gate doesn’t do it, the crunch of snow will. My every footstep cracks through the icy shell on top of tall drifts. I’m a suburban yeti out here; somebody’s gonna notice.
Somehow, I get to the back door. It’s open just a crack, and Hailey peers through it. When she sees me, she pushes it open in an elaborate ballet. A push, a twirl, strands of her hair floating softly in the wind.
Holding open the storm door, she presses her back to the inner door and waits for me to slip inside. I brush against her: coated, scarfed, booted. She’s just wearing sleep shorts and a T-shirt.
“Cold,” Hailey whispers.
I whisper back, “I know, right?”
When I get past her, she closes up carefully. A soft chirp confirms the alarm. No doors slam; no locks creak. The house is quiet, warmed with the hum of the furnace and contained by the ticking of a clock. Hailey doesn’t have to shush me. I take her hand when she offers it.
Thick, sweet floral perfume hangs in the air. An air freshener in the key of lilac or lavender; I always forget which one is which. As she leads me down the hall and up the stairs, I try to drink in all the details of her house. What little I see as we sneak toward her room paints a picture.
A slightly cluttered, lived-in picture: cool leather couches with warm winter afghans thrown over the backs. Curtains that match; family photos alternating with pretty landscape photography.
Books, paper, mail stacked on a table by the door; a coatrack laden with jackets and scarves and umbrellas. That makes me smile: the sight of umbrellas hanging from the hooks. Her house is nothing like mine.
When we get to Hailey’s room, she shuts the door tight and locks it. Lush, rich colors surround me: purples and reds and oranges. Her room feels like a fantasy: shelves full of books and sports trophies, a glittery bead curtain hanging over the window, oversized pouf chairs on the floor.
Every flat surface is covered in a crazy jumble of her life. A single shin guard lays on her dresser full of jewelry, and Hufflepuff schwag pops up everywhere: a tie dangles from the side of her mirror; three different badger stickers adorn her headboard.
Seeming happily baffled, Hailey asks, “What are you doing here?”
“It’s been a long weird night, and I just wanted to see you.” Then I feel a shade of guilt tha
t’s not nearly dark enough. I offer something that’s not really an apology, because I’m really hoping she doesn’t mind the intrusion. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
She laughs. “It’s fine. Dad’s on nights, and Mom’s on Xanax.”
“Then why did I come in the back door?”
“Because the neighbors are really, really nosy.”
At that, I laugh. Sneaking in for the sake of sneaking in, after turning up in the middle of the night—this is turning into a good adventure. A journal story, one of the ones I might talk about for fun when I’m thirty and average and stuff.
“Okay, so,” she says, then pushes off the door. At first, I think she’s going to hug me, the way she comes toward me. I’m tight, then I soften when she grabs my lapels. Tugging my zipper, she smiles. “You should take off your coat and stay awhile.”
There’s a bolt when our hands touch. Static electricity, but it feels monumental. Our hands weave and dodge as she helps me from my coat. Every glancing brush of her skin against mine is a drug. It burns away the cold and sets me on a dreamy, drunken kind of path.
The bad fades because she’s standing so close. The wait in the Red Stripe, the chase—packed away for another time. I’m not standing here, deaf and dumb in front of the prettiest girl I know and pretending I just came here to talk.
I shrug my coat the rest of the way off. It falls heavily at my feet. Hands finally free, I actually skim them against her waist.
(I’m touching her! I’m touching her!)
One cold ring finger grazes against her skin where her shirt rode up. She shivers and presses in. Dark strands of her hair drift toward me, electrically charged. One makes contact; I shiver.
She pulls off my scarf, and the fabric crackles on my neck. Her laughter is soft, and she murmurs, “Ow.”
“Seriously, ow,” I say back.
The room is small and tight around us. It gets tighter when Hailey folds her arms and insinuates her fingers against me. Right against my ribs; they slot right into the spaces. Even though I’m still fully dressed, I feel stripped against her. My body forgets how to breathe. It forgets how to be.
All the Things We Do in the Dark Page 11