by Mary Frame
After a second of silence, the girl turns and walks inside, leaving the door open for us to follow. “Come on in,” she calls out behind her.
Lucy and I look at each other.
I shrug and walk in. It looks like most college student apartments: kinda messy, with empty beer bottles on the counter and a giant glass bong on the coffee table.
The girl—whom I’m assuming is Natalie—plops into an oversized chair. Lucy stands awkwardly in the entryway, and I sit on the edge of the couch.
“Ask away.” She waves her hand at us.
“What time did Daisy arrive the night of the murder?” I ask.
“Around six.”
“Can you give us a detailed description of the events that transpired from the time she arrived until the following morning?” Lucy asks.
She shrugs. “There’s not much to tell. She came over. We had a bunch of people here. We drank some beer, smoked some weed…that part, we didn’t tell the cops.” She’s quiet for a second and then snorts out a laugh. “Daisy got a little sick. I told her, ‘You can’t smoke after drinking. Pot after liquor, never been sicker,’ but did she listen? Nope. She was puking in the bathroom for like an hour.”
“That’s not in her statement,” Lucy says. No doubt she memorized the entire thing.
“No shit, probably because she didn’t want to get busted for the weed.”
“Approximately what time did Daisy get sick?” Lucy asks.
“I don’t know.” She stops and thinks for a minute. “It was right after Jason got home from work—he’s one of my roommates—so it must have been like ten thirty or something.”
Ten-thirty. That was just after Dean texted Daisy. Coincidence? I think not. But I have no idea what it means.
Lucy must be thinking something along the same lines, except in hyperdrive because she says, “Can we see the bathroom she used?”
I look over at her. Why the hell do we want to see the scene of the vomit?
Natalie seems as surprised at the question as I am.
“Sure.”
We follow her down a narrow hallway to the small bathroom. “Here it is.”
“Thanks,” Lucy says. She hurries into the room. She is way too excited about this.
It looks like a normal bathroom to me. Tub, toilet, sink.
Lucy flings back the shower curtain. They seriously need some scrubbing bubbles in here. The tile is a disaster. There’s a couple of bottles of shampoo and conditioner lying on the bottom of the tub.
There’s also a small window—about four feet wide and two feet tall—above where the tile ends and the wall begins. The window is open to let in the air, no screen or anything.
“Thank you for all your help,” Lucy says suddenly, and then she’s stalking past me and out towards the door.
“Um. Yeah, thanks Natalie. Nice to meet you.”
I hurry after Lucy.
“What the bananas is going on?” I ask her when we exit the apartment.
She doesn’t stop to answer me. Instead of heading for my car, she walks around the side of the building.
“Daisy was in the bathroom for about an hour,” she says.
I follow her down a narrow space between two buildings. There’s not even enough room for us to walk side by side.
“Yeah, and?”
“And what if she wasn’t in the bathroom the entire time?”
“What do you mean?”
She stops suddenly, making me halt in my tracks behind her. She turns towards the building and nods up at the open window. It’s the bathroom window we were just looking at minutes ago.
“What if she received the text from Dean, faked being sick, went to the bathroom, climbed out the window and killed Jesse, then returned the same way?”
I look up at the window, the narrow space and the six foot drop. “Seems like a lot of work to kill some asshole.”
“Over fifty percent of victims are killed by someone they know, and more than a third of that number involves romantic relationships.”
“Okay, but we need more evidence. All this is circumstantial. And why would she kill Matt, too?”
“I don’t know.” Her face is pensive as she examines the window, and then her gaze moves around the building and down to the hard-packed dirt ground. “I was hoping we would find more clues or something,” she says.
I glance around as well. “No trail of bloody footprints here, Scoob.”
She sighs. “I can see that.”
“How would she have gotten back into the bathroom? She’s not much bigger than I am, and that window is pretty high up there.”
“I’m not sure. I will have to do more research,” she says resolutely, and then frowns. “But I’m not sure where to start.”
“Ruh-roh!”
She rolls her eyes at me.
“Come on.” I sling an arm around her shoulder. “Let’s get back to the mystery van, and we’ll figure something out over dinner.”
***
“Do you want another egg roll?” Lucy asks.
I snort. “Is that a rhetorical question?”
We’re sitting in front of the TV at my place, munching on Chinese takeout and watching Pitch Perfect.
I grab the last egg roll and dip it in sweet and sour sauce. Lucy’s done eating anyway—she’s pulled out her laptop and is tapping away, barely paying attention to me.
“Any luck getting more intel out of the police records?” I ask.
“No.”
“What about security on campus? Do they have cameras anywhere?”
Her fingers hover over the keyboard and she looks up at me. “That’s a good idea. I’ll have to see if they have cameras and where they’re located. It will be fairly easy to narrow down which footage to view since we have a more exact time of death for both murders.”
“Will it be easy to hack into the system if they have one?”
“Most likely, but I’m not sure yet,” she murmurs.
There’s silence for a moment while I watch the movie and she types away.
“Did you check social media sites to see if there’s a connection between Daisy and Matt?”
“Yes,” she says, “and I could not find a viable association.”
I blow my breath out of my mouth with a huff. “You know, as much as I want Daisy to be the killer, I just don’t see how we can prove she killed her own boyfriend, let alone someone she apparently didn’t know.”
“Mmhmm.”
She’s totally into the computer and not listening to me at all, I can tell.
“Maybe the killer is a three-legged orangutan.”
“Hmmm.”
“Or a one-armed man. I’ve heard that’s a popular theory.”
She nods.
“I’m pregnant.”
Nothing.
“It’s yours.”
“What?”
I sigh. “You’re a freak, but I love you.”
“Okay.”
A couple hours later, Lucy leaves and I’m straightening up when there’s a knock at the door.
“Did you forget something?” I call out as I walk to answer. She literally just left. But it’s not like her to forget anything—her brain is like a steel trap.
I swing open the door and it’s not Lucy on my doorstep.
It’s Cameron.
“What are you doing here?”
“Can I come in?” He’s standing there, hands in pockets, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, smiling disarmingly.
My hands tighten on the door knob. “Um, I don’t think so. It’s late. I was just getting ready for bed.”
“Were you?” he asks with a smirk.
My stomach knots. I should not have mentioned the word bed in his presence.
“Why are you here?” I ask again.
I haven’t talked to him since the night at the bar when I vomited all over Dean. I’m still on the fence about whether Cameron actually roofied me or not. I mean, he’s scum, but I can’t imagine him doing something t
hat nefarious. He’s more like a child. A stupid, selfish child.
“I miss you,” he says. “I just want to talk. Hang out.” He shrugs. “Maybe get to know each other again.” He sounds odd, jittery.
I laugh, but there’s no humor in the sound. “That sounds like crazy talk. Goodbye, Cameron.”
I move to shut the door, but he stops it with his hand.
My heart starts beating rapidly. What if he forces his way inside? What if…
“I know it was you,” he says, his voice suddenly cold, his eyes dark.
“What?”
“Don’t play stupid, Freya. Someone’s spreading rumors that I have gonorrhea, and I know it was you.”
Gonorrhea? I would laugh, if I wasn’t so freaked out.
“I didn’t spread any rumors,” I say.
“I could come in right now and you wouldn’t be able to stop me. I could do whatever I want to you. Remember, Freya?”
Shit.
“I remember—” I start and then in the middle of the sentence, I slam the door as hard and as quickly as I can, locking it with trembling fingers.
My body is covered in chills that won’t quit. I knew Cameron was a fucked-up asshole, but I didn’t realize how far his douchebaggery went. Why would he come here? Why would he do this?
I try to pull it together.
“What I remember is how insignificant your penis is,” I call out. I wish I could think of a better comeback, but I’m too terrified to come up with a wittier response.
He laughs and then there’s a loud bang, like he hit his fist on the door, making me jump. “Too scared to tell me that to my face, girlie?”
I race to the living room and grab my phone from where I left it on the couch. “I’m calling the cops!” I yell in the direction of the door. My hands are shaking too much for me to use my phone effectively. I walk around my apartment, making sure all my windows are locked and closed. Even though I’m on the second floor, I just feel better checking.
I sit on my couch and stare down at my phone. I don’t want to call the cops, even though I know I should. Without thinking too much about it, my fingers find Dean’s number in my contact list and I hit the call button.
Chapter Fifteen
Dean
Just because you are paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.
—Joseph Heller
I’ve just gotten back from taking Mom home from the hospital when my phone rings. I really hope it’s not another disaster. I answer without looking at the number. “Hey.”
“Dean.” It’s Freya. “Um, I, Cameron is here and I don’t know—”
“What? Are you okay?” My heart has sputtered into overdrive, and I’m already heading for the door, keys in hand.
“Yes, yes. I’m…I’m okay, I think. He just showed up and he wouldn’t let me close the door.”
“Where is he now?”
“Outside.”
“And where are you?”
“Inside.”
“Good. Don’t move, I’ll be right there.”
I drive faster than I probably should, but it still feels like it takes forever to drive the mile to Freya’s apartments. When I get there, I look around as I’m jogging to her building and then up the stairs to her door, but I see no sign of the asshole.
“Freya.” I call, after knocking. “It’s me, you can open up. I think he’s gone.”
The door swings open and she looks freaked the fuck out. I immediately step inside and wrap my arms around her small frame. I probably shouldn’t do this, but the compulsion to comfort her, to make it all better, is inordinately strong. I need the comfort almost as much as she does.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods against my chest. “I think so.”
“I checked around your building, and I couldn’t find him. What kind of car does he have?”
“A black Audi.”
“Of course he does. Fucking douche.” I reluctantly pull away and glance around her apartment. “Do you have any weapons or anything? I left in kind of a hurry and didn’t grab anything from my place.”
“Um.” Her forehead creases as she thinks. “I have a baseball bat,” she says finally, then she steps over to a closet near the entryway and pulls it out.
After she hands it to me, I head for the door. “I’ll be right back. Lock the door behind me.”
I wait on the other side of the door until I hear her engage the lock. I’m pretty sure Cameron has vacated the premises—I would have seen him on my way up, or he would have seen me—but it doesn’t hurt to check. I walk around the dark building, and then check out the parking lot and down the street in either direction for his car, but he seems to be gone.
I head back to Freya’s apartment and knock on the door again.
I hear her come to the door and stop for a second, probably looking at me through the peephole before opening the door.
She looks worse than before. She looked freaked when I first got there, and now she looks freaked and exhausted.
After letting me in, she turns and heads back into the living room. I lock the door behind us and follow her.
“He’s gone,” I tell her. “I checked everywhere. All the parking lots and down the street, couldn’t find him.”
“Good.” She nods, her gaze on the floor.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking.”
“Uh, I forgot to tell you, I’m a meth addict and I really need a hit.” She clenches her hands in her lap but it doesn’t entirely stop the tremors.
“Do you always use humor to mask your emotions?”
“Is there something wrong with that?”
I’m sure she’s in emotional overload and that’s why she’s acting moody. That’s something I can relate to.
“We should call the cops,” I say.
“No. Hell no,” she responds immediately.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to talk to them about him.”
“If there’s a report against him, and then he does something bad to you or anyone else, there will be evidence and a history to back up the story. You can build a case against him.”
“I can’t, I just can’t do that right now.” She swallows and looks a bit ill. “Besides, what did he do, really? He came over, acted creepy and left. I’m not sure that’s illegal. They’ll think I’m overreacting, and I probably am.”
“Okay, okay,” I say, making my voice as calm as possible. “Maybe tomorrow we can go down and file a complaint or something.”
“You really want to go back to jail?”
“I would do it for you.”
I can’t believe I just said that. It’s true though. I’m starting to care for this girl more than I probably should. In order to avoid saying anything else I’ll regret, I get up and head into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m hungry.” I’m not, but she probably needs to eat.
“I don’t have much food,” she calls.
“I’ll manage,” I call back.
About ten minutes later, I make my way back into the living room with a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches and a large bowl of soup.
She hasn’t moved from her same position on the couch, staring into space.
I need to get her to snap out of it.
“Here.” I hand her a sandwich with a napkin and a spoon.
She eats and we share the bowl of soup. Once we’re done, I take the dishes back to the kitchen.
When I’ve finished cleaning up, I go back into the living room. She still hasn’t moved. I sit down next to her on the small couch, our knees touching.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?” I ask.
She tells me, in a halting voice, about how Lucy came over, she left and Cameron arrived. She tells me how he seemed strung out and accused her of spreading rumors he had gonorrhea.
“Gonorrhea?” I ask, raising my eyebrows at
her.
“That wasn’t me,” she says. “I swear.”
“It sounds like you,” I say.
“It does,” she agrees. “But I didn’t.”
“Would you be mad if I told you it was me?” I smile at her.
Her eyes widen and she smacks me in the arm. “You didn’t!”
“I did. I didn’t mean to, it just happened. I was so pissed after the whole incident the other weekend. That guy is such an asshole.”
She gives a short laugh. “That also sounds like me.”
I feel an immediate sense of relief when she laughs. It seems to relax her, get her out of the zone she’s been in.
“Maybe you’re rubbing off on me,” I say, nudging her knee with mine.
“Can I rub myself on you?” she asks, and immediately slaps her hand over her mouth, her face flushing red. She turns away from me, grabbing a pillow off the couch and trying to hide in it.
I can’t help but laugh, even though I’m trying not to because I don’t want to embarrass her.
“Hey,” I pat her back.
She sits up but won’t meet my eyes, and her face is still red. “I…don’t know where that came from, I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?” I’m feeling pretty flattered, actually. This whole time I’ve been sure she sees me as a friend or just some asshole she’s helping because she’s a good person. Maybe I was wrong.
“I have no idea,” she says. “But I think I need to go to bed before I say even more things I’ll regret.”
I’m still trying not to laugh. “Okay. Why don’t you just show me where you keep a spare blanket and pillow, and then you can go to bed.”
“Why do I need a spare blanket and pillow?” She sounds confused.
“I need a spare blanket and pillow. I’m sleeping here.” I pat the couch between us and try not to grimace at the size. Or lack thereof. There’s no way I’m going to fit on this, but I suppose it’s better than sleeping at the hospital.
“That’s really not necessary,” she says.
“Yes it is. Clifford might come back and I’m not leaving you here alone.”