by S. E. Green
Sounds more like a proposition. “Yours.”
“Today?”
I like this girl. “Yes.”
“One o’clock. My address is . . .”
I jot it down, say bye, and sit for a second puzzling her. Seems as if she likes to get right to the point as well.
At one I ring her doorbell.
She swings the door open. “So,” she says and plants her hand on her hip, “what’s your story?”
I look at her skinny jeans, tight tee, and Pumas and almost laugh. I’m skinny. She’s skinny. I’m tall. She’s tall. I have red hair. She has curly black hair. I’m fair. She’s olive.
She’s like the dark mirror image of me.
I glance past her into the house—it appears empty—and then I bring my gaze back to hers. “My story?” I ask.
“No one’s home.” She answers my look. “You’re either here (a) for my hot older brother, (b) to see what it’s like to be with a lesbian, or (c) you want my dad to get you out of a ticket. So which is it?”
This girl’s going to see right through my bullshit, and so I proceed. “One, the hot older brother is more my sister’s thing; two, I’m not a lesbian but that’s cool if you are; and three, I don’t have any tickets. But I am here because of your dad.”
This causes her dark brows to lift. “What can my detective father do for you?”
I improvise on the spot. “He’s on the Masked Savior local task force. I registered on the site. Then I took my registration down. Basically, I want to make sure my ass isn’t going to get busted. And I heard there’s a ‘big break’ in the case and, frankly, I’m probing what that is.”
Catalina’s mouth curves into a huge grin. “Lane, my tall, skinny new friend, we’re going to be good pals.” She motions me inside her house. “You’ve just met the moderator of Masked Savior dot com.”
My heart skips an excited beat. Well, holy damn, this chick may very well know the true identity of j_d_l.
“Although I don’t know what that ‘big break’ is,” she continues, “I’m more than willing to snoop and find out.”
I’m more than willing to help her snoop. Catalina, my curious new alliance.
“So what do you think of the site?” she asks.
I shrug. “Some people seem kind of stupid. Others seem like they’re really into the vigilante thing.”
She rolls her eyes. “Did you see that one guy that posted a brownie recipe?”
No, I didn’t, but I fake a laugh as I follow her up to her room. “I know. How stupid. Since you’re the moderator, you probably have everyone’s real names.” Like j_d_l. “You should make that brownie recipe and send it to the guy,” I stupidly joke.
She laughs but doesn’t confirm one way or another if she has the real identities of people. I don’t press it any further. I’ll differ my tactic next time I’m with her.
She walks down a wood-planked hall and through an open door into her bedroom. I give it a quick glance. Purple walls. Black comforter. Silver metal desk. Messy. Disorganized. Not my kind of room.
Catalina plops down across her bed, leaving me to decide where to sit. I grab a wad of clothes off her desk chair, lay them aside, and take a seat.
“What are your thoughts on this Aisha person? Do you think she’s the real Masked Savior or not?” she asks.
I shrug. “Well, another victim hasn’t popped up since she’s been in jail, so despite what the task force says, she may very well be.”
Excitement glints across her eyes. “I thought the same thing. But then that guy got beat up on the trail. . . . What was his name?”
Bucky.
She waves that question off. “You don’t think that’s connected somehow?”
“Nah, not really the style.”
She leans forward. “Know what I think? I think there’s more than one person involved with all this.”
“Really?”
She narrows her eyes. “Taser. Zip ties. Baseball bat. Turning some people in to the cops, and others not. It’s almost like there’s the real vigilante, and then there’s someone else who thinks they are a vigilante.”
Catalina is a smart one.
She grins. “It’s all very mysterious.”
“Yes. It is.” Why didn’t I think to connect with Catalina sooner?
Chapter Nineteen
THE NEXT NIGHT I PARK myself in front of my laptop and scroll through “my” site. One username catches my attention, and I pause.
[KyleScienceGuy] Getting bored. When’s the next M.S. victim?
Kyle, as in the guy from school. Kyle, who I have known forever. He’s an active member on “my” site. I don’t like this at all.
I continue moving through the pages of posts but don’t see any more from j_d_l. Now that I know Catalina is the administrator, I study several of the usernames. None seem like her, though.
My phone rings and I check the display. Catalina. “Hey.”
“Hey,” she says. “I did some snooping. I don’t know exactly why, but the cops are positive Aisha has nothing to do with the Masked Savior. They do, however, have solid evidence that the Masked Savior is . . .”
I take a breath and hold it.
“. . . a female. And young.”
My brain spins about a million miles out of control. “But Aisha is female and young.”
“I know, but for whatever reason they know for sure she’s not involved. You ready for the best part?”
A tingle runs through my body. “I’m ready.”
“Remember how we were talking that we think there’s a real vigilante and then someone else who is copycatting?”
Copycatting. She’s using my word. “Yes.”
“This is super secret. . . .”
“I won’t say anything,” I assure her.
“The cops think the same thing. But they’re not officially releasing that. That’s majorly under wraps.”
“So the cops think there are two, and they think female and young. Do they believe the real Savior and the copycat are both female and young?”
“No,” she says. “They think one is female and one is male.”
How would the cops know this? My copycat aside, I’m always so careful. The way I dress is masculine. When I speak I disguise my voice. My movements are certainly not feminine.
Unless the people I’ve targeted or the evidence I do leave somehow points the investigators to female and young. Or maybe they think the real Masked Savior is male and the copycat is female.
“You said you were sort of on the fence about Aisha. What do you think now?” I ask.
“I’ve officially changed my mind. I think they’re right about her being innocent. I think the real Masked Savior is out there, and I think the copycat is live and active on the website.”
Me too. Hearing Catalina voice my thoughts validates my hypothesis. Either way, the cops really do have a big break. Proving I now more than ever need to stay low in my search for j_d_l, who I know followed me and who I now highly suspect is also my copycat.
“Oh, and I have a question,” she says. “I looked for your registration on the site but didn’t find it.”
“I registered under a fake name.” I also took it down.
She laughs. “Oh, Lane. I like you more and more each time we talk.”
Truth is, I feel the same way.
Kyle comes up to me the next day after school. “I heard you and Catalina know each other.”
“Yes. How do you know her?”
“I tutor her in physics.”
They know each other. They’ve talked about me. Kyle’s on “my” site. Catalina’s the site administrator. They’re both Masked Savior fans, and they both now think I am too.
“She mentioned you guys talked about the Masked Savior,” he says.
“We di
d.” How well do they know each other? Did she tell him about her snooping and the information she uncovered?
“So . . . you want to go get dinner or something later?” he asks.
I fight the overwhelming urge to hit him upside the head. Really? Now we’re soul mates or something because we all have talked about the Savior? But this isn’t polite conversation and so I reply instead, “Busy. Work. See ya later.”
He nods, all cool, even though he’s not. “See you later, then.”
I meet Daisy at my Jeep, and we head over to the elementary campus to pick up Justin. The kiss-and-ride line is longer than usual, and we take our spot to wait. Daisy gives her customary impatient breath and pulls out her phone to check messages.
True, most people hate waiting, but it’s never bothered me. I see waiting as an opportunity to think. To look around. To observe others when they don’t know someone’s watching.
Like the guy behind me picking his nose.
Or the woman across the street chewing gum.
“Look at that.” Daisy nods over to the right where a pack of elementary boys are coming down the sidewalk dressed as the Masked Savior.
Inwardly I sigh. Without meaning to, I really have developed a fan club. This all desperately needs to go away.
“I am so sick of this superhero thing,” Daisy says.
With this I totally agree. Frankly, I never understood the concept of Superman or Spiderman. Perhaps people have some need to hand their problems over to a larger-than-life character.
I, however, am not one of those people. I prefer to handle my own shit.
Justin finally emerges. He hops in the back and we head home.
Gramps has made us a snack, and while Justin and Daisy dig in, I head up to my room. Five minutes later Gramps knocks, and I glance up to see him hovering in my doorway.
I give him a fake smile. “Hi, Gramps.”
He doesn’t smile back. “Your stepdad says you’ve been gone a lot at night.”
Gramps always refers to his son as my stepdad when everyone else I know calls him Victor or my dad. “Yes.”
“Where do you go?”
“The coffee house to study.”
“Which coffee house?”
My inner alarm goes off. “Down the road.”
“Hmm.”
I decide not to say anything else and wait for whatever he wants.
“I don’t know what you do at night, but I don’t think you go study. You’ve got your stepdad fooled. I think you’re up to no good.”
I get really still. He didn’t follow me last night, did he? “Why do you think I’m up to no good?”
He doesn’t answer and instead looks around my room. “I’m a retired principal, and I raised five kids. I’m not stupid.”
No, I never said he was stupid. But he’s definitely annoying.
Gramps brings his eyes back to mine. “Why do you have journals about serial killers in your closet?”
Anger sparks in me. He’s seen my collection of news clippings, personal research, notes. “Why did you go in my closet?”
“Answer me.”
“Mom and Dad both work with serial killers. I started researching them too. What’s the big deal?”
“Does your stepdad know?”
Mom had accidentally found the box months ago. Her concern surrounding it is laughable now. “Mom knew and I’m pretty sure she told him.” Though I doubt she did. “I’ll show him tonight if you want me to.” There, maybe that’ll throw Gramps off. “I’m not hiding anything.”
Gramps rolls his eyes over to the closet. He doesn’t say anything else, just turns and is gone.
I swallow my suddenly dry throat and immediately get up. I grab my box from the top shelf of the closet, slide open my underwear drawer, and tuck it among all the cotton undies. It’s the only place I can think that somebody won’t go prying again.
Chapter Twenty
THERE’S A NEW GIRL IN group therapy, and she’s droning on and on about her sorrowful self. Beside me sits Tommy, and I can tell he’s bored as well. Five minutes in I catch him totally zoned out and figure that’s my green light to do the same. I tune the girl out and allow my thoughts to drift as I indulge my fantasies. . . .
I crouch in the darkness, my breathing steady and calm, my pulse fluttering in anticipation. The deviant I’m following knows I’m here, and his own breathing quickens as his pounding heart echoes in the night around us. I stand to my full height and step from the shadows to see his eyes widen in realization that I’m here for him. I take my Taser out, raise it, and—
Tommy nudges me. “Lane,” he whispers.
I blink, glance around the group, and see every eye focused on me. “Yes?”
“It needs to be unanimous,” the counselor says. “We all know we’ve lost a loved one, but we’ve yet to share how we lost that loved one. It needs to be unanimous,” he repeats. “Everyone’s agreed to share but you.”
“Oh.” I glance over to Tommy. Why I glance at him, I’m not entirely sure. “Okay.” Mine was murdered. This is what I’ll say and spare the details.
The girl a few seats to my left starts. She lost her mom to breast cancer. The guy beside her lost his twin brother in a swimming accident. Guy beside him lost his grandfather to a heart attack. And on around the circle it goes.
When it’s Tommy’s turn, he quietly starts, “My sister was a preschool teacher. She was the Decapitator’s last victim.”
I sit up in my chair. What?
He continues, “Well, that’s not true. The last victim was an FBI woman.” Then that’s all he says.
I know it’s my turn, but all I seem able to do is replay his words:
She was the Decapitator’s last victim.
Tommy gives me another nudge, indicating I need to go.
I turn and look him straight in the eyes. “My mother was that FBI woman.”
Everyone in the room gasps. So much for me sparing details.
The counselor finishes out the meeting, and although I don’t look at Tommy again, I know he’s staring at me. I imagine he wants to get out of here as much as I do. The counselor dismisses us and I beeline for my Jeep.
He had to have known who I am. Everyone at school knows who my mom was and how she died. Then again, he doesn’t go to my school. But it was heavily covered by the media. How could he not know who I am?
My sister was a preschool teacher. She was the Decapitator’s last victim. Her hands and feet were delivered in a cooler. I watched the video of her death. A video my mother sent me.
My parents killed his sister. They cut her into pieces. They enjoyed it. Oh my God. I’ve got to get out of here.
“Lane?” Tommy stops me.
I spin and look him square in his confused eyes. “How could you not tell me?”
He takes a tiny step back. “That means you’re the niece of the Decapitator. Your uncle murdered my sister.”
As the story goes. “How could you not tell me?” I repeat.
“And also murdered your mother,” he continues, obviously working things through in his mind. “I didn’t know. After my sister died, I couldn’t take it. It was killing me. I ended up leaving and staying with some family in New York. I knew there was an FBI woman, but I didn’t know she was your mother.”
I don’t know what to do, what to say, and so I just stare into his perplexed eyes and . . . I honestly don’t know if I believe him.
Tommy blows out a breath and runs his fingers through his blond hair. “I need to go. I need to think through all this.”
That’s probably a good idea.
On a second thought, he turns back. “Just when I think I’m getting better . . .”
Getting better. I never thought of myself as getting better, as something needing to be cured. I am who I am. I only need to perfe
ct the details of dealing with that.
“Are you blaming me?” I ask. Because it sure sounds like he is.
Tommy shakes his head. “Your uncle violently murdered my sister. It’s a lot to take in.” He swings his leg over his bike, gives it a crank, and is gone.
It is a lot to take in. I thought I’d found a new friend in Tommy, but I’m not entirely sure we can be friends with this between us now. If the situation was reversed, if his uncle killed my sister, I probably wouldn’t want anything to do with him either.
Chapter Twenty-One
ALL THE WAY HOME I think about Tommy, j_d_l, Marji, and where all this started—with my mother—which circles my brain around to the mysterious key that I have yet to identify.
I need Reggie’s help. As soon as I get to my room I pull up the scanned image, send it to her, and then call her.
“We found this key. . . .” I begin weaving my tale when she answers her phone. “It was in Mom’s personal stuff. We can’t figure out what it goes to. Victor said he’s really busy at work and will look into it in a few months. I thought you might be able to help get us there sooner.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Reg?”
She sighs. “This is it, Lane. I’ll help you with this and then no more. We used to talk about stuff. We used to be real friends. But lately all it is with you—if I hear from you at all—is what I can do to help you research something.”
I don’t respond. Neither does she. Seconds tick by, and with each one guilt nestles in. She’s right. I didn’t even bother to say hi. Or ask about MIT. Or see how she’s holding up after Mom. I’m a horrible friend.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
“Thanks for apologizing, but I mean it. This is it.”
I’ve never heard her voice so resolute. I’ve really pissed her off. Other than apologizing, which I just did, I don’t know what to do.
“I’ll look into the key and send you what I find. Talk to you later.” With that she clicks off.
I sit and just stare at my phone. I can’t lose Reggie. She’s been my only real friend. What can I do? The only thing is to give it some time and then call her and have a real conversation with her, like we used to.