“We’ll talk soon, Malin.”
She swallowed hard, struggling to hold his heavy gaze, wishing he would call her May just one more time. “Okay,” she replied, shutting the door and setting off for her apartment, hating herself for being so terrified of being alone.
But that’s exactly what she was.
Terrified and alone.
Tipping her head back, she froze in place. Rain fell in her eyes, twisting a vision of Holly Banner watching from Malin’s living room window three floors up. A potent dose of fear bled into her as the dead girl from Mortimer Woods calmly palmed the glass. Malin spun back to Holden and shot a hand into the air as he pulled out of the lot and blended into traffic. Dropping her arm, she exhaled a dejected breath and turned back to the apartment. Holly was gone from the window but the handprint was still there. Malin shivered in the rain and stuck her keys through her fingers, rehearsing kickboxing moves inside her head that wouldn’t do a damn bit of good against the malicious ghost trespassing inside her home.
Chapter22
After spending ten minutes searching her tiny apartment for a specter that didn’t exist – and only coming up with a skull ring she hadn’t seen in months – Malin stopped in the kitchen and sniffed at the air. Creasing her brow, she followed her nose, chasing the scent of something nasty rolling across the room on a warm wave. The same nasty Luna and Holden mentioned. She hadn’t noticed it before but she did it now. After checking under the sink for a moldy leak or decomposing mouse, and then inspecting the sparsely populated fridge, she gave up and spent the next forty-five minutes searching shitty jobs online that tugged on her eyelids with both hands. Compared to her old job, every position looked pitiful and she could only imagine how bad the pay would be to start.
Slamming the laptop shut, she pulled on a blanket and turned on the flat screen because maybe a marathon of Orange is the New Black would keep her from thinking about having to move back in with Luna. The unruly thought weighed upon her nearly as heavily as the lifelike visions. The problem was trying to handle a seemingly routine task such as finding a job, while discreetly hunting down a serial killer at the same time. Malin’s eyes drifted to the smudged handprint on the window, imagining herself in some douchebag’s stuffy office, telling said d-bag about her phony strengths and weaknesses before dashing off to comb another murder scene for clues.
Huffing out a frustrated breath, she grabbed the remote and switched to The Strain on Hulu, which only made things worse, so she fired up Amazon Prime, wondering which streaming service she’d have to cancel first. Probably Hulu. Downton Abbey wasn’t much better of a distraction but it helped pass the time. She resisted checking her phone for missed calls or texts from Holden, allowing herself only one peek every two hours – which quickly turned to every hour. Then every thirty minutes. If Roxanna hadn’t texted three times already today, Malin would’ve thought her service had been interrupted on top of everything else because when it rains it pours. Setting the phone down, her mind shuffled from one thought to the next. From Holden to Holly. Amber to Roscoe. And, ultimately, back to Holden and his sudden bout of coldness.
The smell of sulfur hit her again and she tracked it from the kitchen to the bathroom and back into the living room. Just when she started writing it off to a neighbor’s disgusting cooking, her eyes snagged on the hardwood flooring just outside the kitchen tiles. Dropping to her knees, her nostrils flared in and out as she examined a small stain that couldn’t possibly account for such a nauseating odor. Hesitantly, she ran a finger through the mystery liquid and rubbed it against a thumb. It was clear and cold, like Rumple Minze, and smelled like rotten eggs. Standing back up, she stared at her fingers, face souring. Whatever it was, it was potent, like skunk spray or ghost urine.
The next thing she knew, she was on her knees scrubbing a patch of dark hardwood with a Pine-Sol laden brush. Using both hands, a strand of her bangs wiggled free from its hair tie as she thought about the girls and their connections to Roscoe. They had four things in common: they were young, pretty and looked just like Lisa.
Oh, and they were all dead.
But Malin knew that – if Roscoe was the killer – he would never murder his ex-girlfriend for two reasons: 1) it would lead the police straight to his doorstep. And 2) he couldn’t live without her. No, he would continue taking his heartache out on random lookalikes. Malin scrubbed harder from her knees, hair swinging in her face and the cleanser stinging her eyes. The worst part was that – if Roscoe was the killer – Malin was partially to blame for the lives he took. At some point, she should have recognized the evil in his eyes and done something to stop it. Instead, she was nearly as culpable as he was and it brought a teardrop racing down her cheek.
Leaning back on her knees, Malin blew out a tired breath that fluttered her loose bangs. Her heart sank when she realized she’d scrubbed the varnish from the floor, leaving a light spot in the wood. Staggering to her feet, she took a step back and swore under her breath, wondering how many shades of touch up she’d have to buy before finding the perfect match. Because it was either that or kiss her security dep…
A knife stuck in her windpipe. Pulse quickened. The pale face in the floor tightened her grip on the dripping brush. It was watching her, like the person out at the lake. Kicking the bucket out of the way, she bent down and ran a hand over what looked like hollow eyes. Her fingertips slid down a sallow cheek and stopped to rub circles into a yawning mouth where the varnish was… Yanking her hand back, she inhaled sharply through clenched teeth and stared incredulously at a bead of blood forming on the tip of an index finger. Her eyes fell back to the sneering mouth, hooking on the jagged teeth nestled inside. Malin let out an uneasy laugh, pulling something from her finger and holding it up to the light.
Splinter.
Flicking it away, her knees cracked when she got up and it took every ounce of energy she had to traipse into the kitchen and wash her hands until they were pruned. Back on the couch she never should’ve left, Malin picked up her cellphone and swiped a thumb across the screen, willing Holden to call. Willing him to give her another chance. When he didn’t, she closed her eyes and tried to see who the next victim would be so, maybe this time, she could save them before it was too late. Setting her jaw and staring into the swelling abyss behind her eyelids, Malin hung her head when the only thing that came to her was a vision of Holden standing over her naked and hard. Snatching up the remote, she returned to derailing her wandering thoughts through streaming ques stuffed with unremarkable content.
The sun fell and rose as another season of Downton Abbey came to an end. Yawning, Malin sat up and checked her phone, startling when she realized she’d spent the past forty-eight hours parked in front of the TV. Plates of pizza crust and sticky ice cream bowls littered the coffee table like an all-night diner. Looking around, she cringed at the nest of wrappers and crumbs tangled in her blankets and hair. Setting the phone down, a mournful sigh deflated her shoulders. Holden still hadn’t reached out and she couldn’t stop wondering what she’d done wrong. Was it something she said? Did she underperform in bed? Did she overperform? Did he get back together with his ex-wife? What was her name again? Andrea. April. No, Angel. Didn’t matter because there was no way they got back together. That ship had sailed. Her eyes widened with a stirring revelation. Maybe Holden was dead and Malin should call him to find out. Maybe the killer followed him home from the lake. Pulling up his contact, her thumb hovered over the Call button with her heart banging against her ribs. A disturbing vision of him lying in a pool of blood on his kitchen floor with his legs bent beneath him at awkward angles made her shudder. Bringing the Call button back into focus, the verdict was in: fuck it. She was calling him to make sure he wasn’t dead.
A loud rap at the door made her accidentally hit the Call button. Heartrate shooting from its rhythm, she fumbled to hang the smartphone up, nearly dropping it and wondering if the call went through or not. “Dammit,” she whispered, tossing it on the cluttered c
offee table and rising from the couch. Dashing across the room, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a corner standing mirror. She looked like hell but Holden was back and she needed him now more than ever. This was too much to handle alone and Roscoe was no longer on Team Malin. Straightening a wrinkled Guns N’ Roses concert tee, she unlocked the deadbolt with blood racing through her veins. She inhaled a deep breath and held it, reminding herself not to look too desperate. Casually opening the door, she let out a weak groan.
“Good to see you too, pumpkin spice,” Roxanna said, barging inside. “You look like you got hit by a Mack truck.”
Malin shut the door and locked it, the nervous energy draining from her body as fast as it came, leaving her winded.
“Sweet Jesus, would you look at this hell hole?” Roxanna spun on black high heels, sweeping a hand out over the living room. “Would you look at that?”
“You should’ve called first,” Malin replied, dragging herself back to the couch and dropping into her nest of blankets, wrappers and crumbs.
“I did!”
“I’m sorry, Rox.” Malin rubbed at her puffy eyes. “I haven’t been feeling well.”
“I guess not.” Roxanna scrunched her face up. “And what is that God awful smell? Is your toilet clogged?”
“I think it’s coming from the apartment below me.”
Her gaze fell to the floor and sharpened. “Okay, what the hell is that?” Using the toe of a shoe, she kicked a dirty Domino’s napkin from the faded spot in the floor. “Is that a…face?”
“What? No.” Malin twisted around on the couch, face turning beet red when she saw what she’d done to the floor. “I spilt some turpentine.”
Roxanna’s head flinched back. “Turpentine? Are you making homemade bombs in here now?” She dropped her purse into an armchair and threw blond hair over a shoulder. “Don’t you start going domestic terrorist on me now, not after everything we’ve been through! If you want to have a meltdown, Malin Waterhouse, you do what everyone else does and quit Facebook for a week.”
“I was painting a picture, Roxanna Presley, and I spilt some turpentine. It happens.”
Roxanna folded her tattooed arms across a sleeveless midnight blue dress stopping just short of the knees. “Painting a picture? What picture?”
Malin shrugged. “It’s of a cottage in the woods. Okay? Painting has always calmed my nerves.”
“Since when?”
“Since I was little.”
Jaw coming unhinged, Roxanna planted her hands on her hips and searched the room. “A cottage in the… Girl, you better let me see this picture right fucking now before I report you to Homeland Security.”
“Will you sit down? You’re making me nervous.”
“I’m making you nervous?” Sighing, Roxanna sat in the wingback next to the couch and lowered her voice. “I don’t like what I’m seeing here and I am not afraid to say it.”
Malin rolled her eyes and checked her phone again. “You said you wanted to tell me something.”
She laughed sharply. “Yeah, like days ago!”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been scrambling to find another job and there’s nothing out there and I just don’t feel like talking to anyone right now. Get over it.”
Frowning, Roxanna rested her elbows on her bare knees and clasped her hands together. “So, what happened, sweetie? Why did you leave in the middle of a shift? On a Saturday of all days?”
Malin held her friend’s unwavering eyes, wanting to tell her the truth about the visions of dead girls, wanting to seek her counsel. But so far, everyone she dragged into this nightmare turned against her and she didn’t blame them. This was Crazy Town, U.S.A. and she didn’t want to involve her. Malin could just imagine the next vision leading her to find Roxanna hanging from a rusty clothesline in the backyard of some abandoned house. As far as Malin knew, the killer could be watching them right now after sticking her nose in his grisly business one too many times. Roxanna was at risk just being here.
“Malin!” Roxanna snapped her fingers. “What the fuck?”
“I-I wasn’t feeling well.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that, but how come Sherry caught you boozing it up at The Office a few hours later?” Roxanna inhaled sharply and covered her mouth, eyes bulging from their sockets as everything clicked into place. “Sweet Christmas, you’re pregnant and Roscoe is the father!”
Malin’s lips flatlined. “I’m not pregnant.”
“Look at you! Circles around your eyes, retaining water…” Her gaze drifted to the wrappers and crumpled bags on the coffee table. “Eating Zingers and pickle-flavored popcorn. Why didn’t you tell me, girl?”
Malin held up a hand to stop her from going any further. “Rox, I’m not pregnant. Why would I be drinking at a bar if I was preggos?”
“Hmmm.” Leaning in closer, she softened her tone. “Then what is it? Cause this isn’t you.”
“I…” She trailed off as the dead girls paraded through her spinning mind, a carousel of mutilated corpses, rising and falling with sinister grins splitting their faces. She wanted to tell Roxanna about the man in the Carhartt because she would get it and know what to do. That was her gift. Dragging in a calming breath, Malin released it. “I wasn’t feeling well.”
Roxanna stared hard at her for a long moment before bowing her head and exhaling a frustrated breath. Slowly sitting back, she smoothed her dress. “I’m just worried, that’s all. You barely text me back and you know I hate that.”
“I know and I’m sorry.”
“If I don’t hear back from someone in like four minutes, I start taking it personally.” Her eyes narrowed. “Start plotting ways to get back at them for their thoughtlessness.”
Malin bit back a smile. “Just tell me what happened.”
“Okay.” Roxanna filled her lungs and held it, staring Malin directly in the eye. “They made me manager at Southridge,” she blurted, shrinking into the chair.
Malin stared blankly at her from the couch, reminding herself to breathe. “Seriously?”
She nodded back.
“That’s great, Roxanna! You deserve it.”
“You’re not mad? Because that job was yours.”
“Mad?” Malin laughed and pulled on another blanket. “No, I’m not mad. I’m happy for you!”
“Really? Because you don’t seem happy. You seem super pissed.”
She frowned. “How so?”
“The downturned lines in your face and those hollow-ass eyes. That’s how. And if anyone should be pissed around here, it’s me!”
“And why’s that again?”
Roxanna picked a piece of lint from her dress and let it float to the floor. “After you ditched out on us Saturday night, Wade and I ended up taking Sylar back to our place and shit got weird.”
“Weird?”
Crossing her legs, she swung a high heel back and forth while coiling a lock of honey-colored hair around a finger. “We got kinda drunk and ended up…fooling around a little.”
“Wait. What?” Malin blinked at her. “All three of you?”
Roxanna bent closer, lowering her voice as if her boyfriend was listening outside the door. “Girl, you missed out, because that Sylar boy is a freak in the sack.” Dolefully, she shook her head. “My butt still hurts.”
“Oh, my God.” Malin hid behind a hand. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because it’s all your fault for not showing up that night!” Roxanna set her lips. “And now things are weird between Wade and me. He’s acting like I cheated on him or I’m damaged goods now. Barely makes eye-contact with me anymore and he won’t talk to Sylar.” She fluffed her hair a bit. “It’s all very stirring.”
“Why would you do something like that?”
“Did I mention the part about we were drunk?”
Malin couldn’t stop a laugh and it felt good. Her abrupt bubbliness brought a smile to Roxanna’s red lips and, God, Malin missed her crazy stories. Missed her smile. It made things fe
el…normal. Safe.
“Anyway, Wade wants to try again and even the score.”
Malin shifted on the couch, smile running down her face. “What do you mean?”
“Well, that’s where you come in. He wants me to find a friend this time.” Roxanna took Malin’s hand in hers. “Would you like to have dinner with us tonight?”
Forehead wrinkling, she yanked her limb back. “Eww, no!”
“Oh, come on, Maymoon. You know you need to get laid and this will help get me out of a jam at the same time.”
“By having sex with your boyfriend?”
A hurt look washed over Roxanna’s face. “What’s wrong with my boyfriend?”
“Are you insane?”
“No, I’m not and he’s very good in bed. I promise you won’t go home emptyhanded.” She checked her watch. “Oh shit, I have to get back to work but just think about it for a minute.” Grabbing her purse, she stomped her high heels across the face glaring at them from the floor. Unlocking the door and pulling it open, she looked back over her shoulder. “Oh, and did I mention? Wade isn’t circumcised,” she grinned, giving Malin an impish wink.
“Get out.”
“Call me, bitch!” The door slammed shut and Malin found herself trapped back in her own little world of mystery and despair. Alone again. She wished Roxanna would’ve never left. Would’ve stayed and watched her sleep. Running to the door, Malin grabbed the knob but didn’t twist it. Instead, she turned to her reflection in the corner mirror and let a quiet agreement pass between them. There was only one thing to do and it was as clear as the dark circles sucking her reflection’s eyeballs into their sockets. Cracking open a bottle of cabernet, she settled into the couch and boldly refused to call Holden under any circumstance, jumping between pizza rolls and chocolate brownies, Amazon Prime and Netflix. A few glasses later, a cool buzz helped quiet the unremitting voices inside her head, allowing exhaustion to sink its dirty claws in. Her sleep was deep and troubled, haunted by nightmares that left her eyes jerking around beneath their lids. Some of it she would remember; some she would not. And just before awaking with a scream lodged in her throat, her dreams pulled back the curtain on the next person to die a horrific death in Cottage Grove.
The Hunting of Malin Page 14