#MurderTrending

by Gretchen McNeil

  But instead of acknowledging that it was, in fact, her name, Mara turned on her heel and hurried back inside her house, drawing the sliding door closed behind her.

  So her neighbor either wanted nothing at all to do with her or was completely nuts. Maybe both. An antisocial lunatic next door. Just one more fun thing to deal with on Alcatraz 2.0.

  AS SHIT-TASTIC AS ALCATRAZ 2.0 was, Dee felt empowered by taking control of her day. Back home, she’d been driven to school, picked up from school, and supervised at activities, rarely getting a moment alone. Not that Dee blamed her dad for his overprotectiveness in the wake of what she’d been through, but despite the fact that she was, technically, in prison, Dee’s morning commute to I Scream was the freest she’d felt since before her abduction.

  She liked the way the island looked as the fog was slowly beaten away by sunlight and warmth, its wispy tendrils snaking around the duplexes in her neighborhood. Greenery bloomed all around her, flowering grasses and overgrown shrubbery, and the birds—the real ones, not the creepy camera ones—chirping away in the trees were contagiously cheerful. At the end of the Barracks, Dee noticed a sign she’d missed the night before: NINTH STREET. That sounded so normal, so suburban. There were probably Eighth and Tenth Streets as well. Utterly and completely ordinary.

  A motor buzzed in the distance, growing louder with each passing second until a drone whizzed overhead, flying off toward the far end of the island. Okay, “normal” except for the ever-present cameras waiting to film her imminent death. That wasn’t ordinary at all.

  Ninth Street appeared to be the main commuting route between the Barracks and Main Street, and Dee wasn’t the only person heading into work. A woman about Blair’s age with two-inch-long dark roots growing beneath bleached-blond hair hurried past Dee. She didn’t look up, her eyes fixed to the pavement, and her mouth was screwed up to the side as if she was deep in thought.

  Dee involuntarily slowed her pace, allowing some distance between herself and the woman. As with Mara, Dee wondered who she had been convicted of killing. Significant other? Total stranger? Coworker? Several other inmates followed—a rail-thin brunette in a tweed pantsuit, a short blond guy who walked with a slight limp, a man with dreadlocks and a heavy parka. They all raced by her, not even acknowledging her presence. Did they know who she was? Did they want to stay as far away from Cinderella Survivor as was humanly possible? That was just fine with Dee.

  “Damn, girl,” a male voice said from close behind her. “Your booty looks fine in that thing.”

  Dee glanced over her shoulder. A heavyset man with oily hair trailed behind her, eyeing her backside with a blatant leer. She quickened her pace and said nothing, but instead of taking the hint, he sped up to join her.

  “I love that The Postman’s been sending us these fine pieces of ass recently,” he said. Normally, Dee would have kneed him in the balls and run for her life, but Blair’s warning about killing other inmates loomed heavy. Did that apply to maiming other inmates as well?

  So Dee ignored him, hoping he’d just give up and leave her alone. No such luck.

  “What?” he said, his voice indignant. “I don’t get a thank-you for the compliment?”

  She wanted to point out that being called a fine piece of ass was in no way a compliment, but before she could respond, the guy grabbed her by the wrist.

  “Think you’re too good for me, huh?” he growled, shoving his face close to hers as he looped his other arm around her back. His breath smelled like dead animal, and his eyes were wild and bloodshot, as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.

  Dee tried to wrench away, but the arm around her back was like iron, and the hand on her wrist held her so fiercely she was starting to lose circulation.

  “You wanna know what I did to the last bitch who thought she could ignore me?” he said. “That’s what landed me here. Good story. It might just turn you on.”

  Panic overwhelmed her. She opened her mouth to scream for help, unsure if anyone would even come to her rescue, when suddenly the guy let her go. Flung her away, in fact, as if he’d discovered that she was toxic to the touch. All the color had drained out of his face, and he glanced nervously at the nearest crow cameras, all five of them pointed directly at Dee and her assailant with their tiny red lights. Without another word, he turned and ran.

  Dee stood in the middle of the street, panting, as the guy rounded the corner and disappeared onto Main Street. What in the hell had just happened?

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Dee screamed. Her heart leaped up through her throat and she instinctively swung her fist around toward the voice. Nyles managed to dodge in time to avoid a punch to the face, taking the impact of Dee’s swing on his shoulder instead.

  “Oh my God!” Dee cried when she realized who it was. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Bloody hell!” Nyles staggered. “That hurt.”

  “You shouldn’t have snuck up on me like that.”

  “I wasn’t exactly stealthy, you know.” Nyles rotated his shoulder, easing out the impact of Dee’s fist. “Besides, you’d been talking to Rodrigo.”

  “We were not talking,” Dee said, her voice still shaky.

  “Ah,” Nyles said after a pause. “Yes, I’ve heard the rumors. Did he hurt you?”

  “No,” Dee lied.

  Then he chuckled to himself. “No wonder he was running away from you like the Devil was chasing him. He must have realized that you’re Cinderella Survivor. He’ll leave you alone from now on.”

  Right. She was famous, The Postman’s newest star and the Painiacs’ newest target. None of the other inmates would want that kind of notoriety by association. Except for Nyles, who had diplomatic immunity.

  “Are you okay?” Dee asked as Nyles rubbed the spot where she’d punched him.

  “Well, I’m still on this island,” Nyles said, “so my answer will be relative.”

  Despite her vow not to let herself get attached to anyone on Alcatraz 2.0, Dee smiled. “I’ll assume your snark means that you’re not permanently damaged.”

  “Rather.” He grinned. “Not a bad shot, by the way. I bet Ethan could give you some pointers, though.”

  “Yeah?” It had never occurred to Dee that she could improve her self-defense. But it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea. “So weird that Alcatraz two-point-oh has a gym.”

  “It’s more entertaining to watch us attempt to defend ourselves and then fail utterly. Like Jeremy. He was one of Ethan’s clients. Spent the last month bulking up, apparently in an attempt to swim for it.” Nyles turned to her, eyebrows raised. “Never a good idea, that.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  They walked in silence, Nyles still rubbing his shoulder. As they turned onto Main Street, Dee noticed another sign she’d missed last night, affixed to the streetlamp on the corner, with brightly colored letters: WELCOME TO ALCATRAZ 2.0, YOUR HOME AWAY FROM HOME.

  Perched on top of the sign was a crow-shaped camera.

  Charming sense of humor, Mr. Postman.

  “You said yesterday…” Dee began, her eyes fixed on the crow as they passed.

  “Yes?”

  She wasn’t sure how much she could trust Nyles, or how much he’d be willing to trust her. But she needed to ask about those cameras. “You said yesterday that nothing happened on this island unless there was a camera around to see it.”

  “I did,” he said cheerfully. “Absolutely true. You saw what happened with Jeremy.”

  “They left him alone until the drones arrived,” Dee replied. But that wasn’t what she wanted to know. “And you also said that not every spot on the island was covered by cameras.”

  Nyles stopped. His eyes darted back and forth as if he was looking for something or someone. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You implied it.”

  “No,” he said sharply. “I didn’t.”

  Why was he being so stubborn? “When we were walking home, you pointed to the softball field and—”

  W
ithout warning, Nyles threw his arm around Dee’s waist, pulled her body into his, and kissed her.

  Dee wasn’t sure if it was the pure shock of Nyles’s action or the fact that, technically, she’d never kissed a boy before, but instead of pushing him away, she let Nyles kiss her.

  When he released her, he was blushing bright crimson.

  “What the hell was that?” Dee asked, sounding angrier than she felt.

  “Uh, I believe I just kissed you.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Her lips still buzzed. “Why?”

  Nyles’s blush deepened as he shrugged. “No reason.”

  “No reason? I was asking you a simple question about the cameras on the island and then from out of the blue you just—”

  Before she knew what was happening, Nyles had enveloped her again. His kiss was stronger this time, more forceful. She was about to knee him in the crotch and run for it, when she heard his voice in her ear.

  “Can’t…talk…here,” he whispered in momentary gasps as he broke away from the kiss.

  Just as suddenly as he’d seized her, Nyles let her go and stood there, smiling sheepishly. His eyes were apologetic, and Dee realized that the kisses had been a cover, a way to tell her to shut the fuck up without drawing attention to the fact that he was telling her to shut the fuck up. Because, as always, someone was watching. And listening. The kiss was just a fake.

  And as the heat rose in her own cheeks, Dee wasn’t quite sure if she was relieved by that or horribly disappointed.

  “YOU’RE LATE,” GRISELDA ANNOUNCED the instant the silver bell stopped tinkling. “Blair won’t be impressed.”

  “My fault,” Nyles said, his chipper mask firmly back in place.

  “Yeah, I saw you two sucking face. Princess doesn’t waste any time.”

  Dee was getting tired of being Griselda’s punching bag. “I’m sure Ethan would be more than happy to give you a good face sucking.”

  “Oooh, Princess bites back?” Griselda cooed, feigning fear. “I’m so scared.”

  “I pack quite a punch,” Dee said, narrowing her eyes.

  Nyles raised his hand. “I can attest to that.”

  Griselda rolled her eyes. “What is this Candy Land outfit you’ve put together today? I thought The Postman had better taste than—”

  An electronic doorbell blared through the shop. Ding-dong! Ding-dong! The notification for The Postman app: he always rings twice. At that very moment, the sound effect was flooding houses, schools, malls, and movie theaters across the country as millions of cell phones and tablets alerted users that a new murder was about to go live.

  Griselda blanched as she turned to the screen above the door. Nyles clenched his jaw, his knuckles white as he gripped the counter with both hands. Dee didn’t want to look, didn’t want to witness another death even if it was a stranger’s, but she couldn’t look away.

  At first, the screen was dark. In the upper left corner, the word LIVE blinked in a bright yellow block font, letting everyone know that this wasn’t a replay or an edited version of events. Then the camera feed switched on, and Dee was staring at an elaborately decorated set.

  She knew it was Gucci Hangman even before the silk scarves fluttered across the screen. The set was over-the-top and lush—Gucci’s signature. Heavy brocade curtains fringed with gold tassels draped the wall behind a velvet tufted ottoman in deep lavender. Gold-painted Sphinx statues flanked the ottoman, poised on top of a cheetah-print rug. The lighting was muted orange, flickering as if a fire was raging just out of view of the camera, and smoke from burning sticks of incense snaked around four marble-esque columns, one of which stood sentry at each corner of the space. At the top of each column hung a wicker basket.

  Through the TV speakers, a muffled cry emanated offscreen, followed by scraping sounds. Moments later, Gucci appeared in the frame.

  He’d really outdone himself for the occasion, matching his ornate set with an equally gaudy outfit. He was in drag, just like in all the posters Monica had of him, and today’s costume was a rococo masterpiece: a fitted midi dress in a thick, shimmery fabric of burgundy and gold paisley that perfectly complemented his dark brown skin but looked exactly like something Dee’s abuela, who had died when she was ten, would have picked to upholster a sofa. The dress had ruffled sequined cuffs and a matching collar, and Gucci had paired it with pearl-studded Mary Jane platforms. His face was swathed in an enormous Gucci scarf, bearing the designer’s mirror-image G logo, that left Dee wondering if the Italian design house had paid for product placement.

  Gucci leaned forward as he lumbered into view, and soon Dee understood the scraping sound: he was pulling a giant burlap sack behind him.

  With impressive grace, considering his footwear, Gucci swung the bag up onto the ottoman. Someone inside whimpered as Gucci untied the sack, whisked it upside down, and poured the contents onto the tufted velvet.

  And by “contents,” Dee meant a person. A person she knew.

  “Blair?”

  Though it was difficult to see the face of the woman bound and gagged in Gucci’s kill room, the blue-streaked hair gave Blair away even before Gucci raised her face to the camera so that the audience could get a good view. Blair’s copious blue eye shadow was gone, and it looked as if she was wearing pajamas—a heather-gray tank top and matching ankle-length bottoms—which meant she had probably been taken from her house after she’d gotten ready for bed. Despite her rules, had Blair fallen asleep last night, thinking that since The Postman had already had Dee’s encounter with Slycer and Jeremy’s failed escape attempt rerun ad nauseam, it might be safe? Or had she been taken in the morning, trying to grab a little rest before she went to I Scream for the afternoon shift?

  Gucci arranged her on the ottoman, fussing over her position like a photographer setting up a shot.

  Which he is, I guess.

  Blair was gagged with another Gucci scarf, this one an iridescent silver, though her ankles and wrists were tightly bound with plastic zip ties. Gucci sat Blair upright, feet planted on the ottoman with her knees bent in front of her and her wrists bound together beneath them.

  Blair didn’t struggle. She didn’t scream or panic or give Gucci any kind of satisfaction that she was afraid. It was a ballsy thing to do, an act of resistance, and Dee deeply admired her for it.

  Once he was satisfied with her position, Gucci pranced out of the shot. Music started, some kind of Euro electropop crap, and when Gucci returned moments later, he had a bundle of scarves flung over one shoulder. They were all the same—long and beige with the Gucci diamond pattern and the trademark red and green stripes running down one side. Gucci made a show of them, a magician presenting his props to the audience so that they could be inspected for authenticity. He whisked one off his shoulder, flourishing it around the room like a rhythmic gymnast going for gold, and timed his dance to the beat of the irritating music while he formed a slipknot at one end.

  Dee’s stomach tightened. “Can’t we do something?” She wanted to run out of the shop and down the street toward the warehouse district from which Nyles had escorted her yesterday. That had to be where Blair was being held.

  “Like what, Princess?” Griselda said, turning her cold blue eyes on Dee. “Save her?”

  “Um…” Yeah, kinda. “Nyles might know—”

  “I have no idea where Gucci has her,” Nyles said softly, clearly reading Dee’s mind. “I was only privy to Slycer’s warehouse because it was your first day. Otherwise, the Painiacs’ kill locations are a closely guarded secret.”

  Dee wasn’t about to give up. “But we could—”

  “There are kill rooms spread across the island,” he said, cutting off her thought as if he knew exactly what she was going to say. “Blair could be back in Slycer’s warehouse or two dozen other places. By the time we found out which one, she’d be gone.”

  Gone. The word echoed in Dee’s head. She felt the panic welling up inside again, more so than when she’d been a victim in Slycer’s maze. The
helplessness of watching Blair on a live feed somewhere nearby was even more unbearable. “So, we just do nothing?” she asked.

  Griselda shook her head. “I told you yesterday, the sooner you get used to the fact that you’re going to die, the happier you’ll be.”

  “Happy? Really? Is that what we’re going for here?”

  Griselda didn’t answer.

  Blair now had four different scarf nooses around her neck, each laced through a metal loop at the top of one of the columns and tied to whatever sat in the baskets tethered to their sides. Gucci was perched on a bedazzled footstool, finishing the last knot of his creation; then he climbed down, placed the stool out of frame, and removed the gag from Blair’s mouth.

  “Blair Huang,” Gucci said in his stiff, deep voice. “You have been found guilty of murdering your elderly neighbor in order to inherit her estate. Do you have any last words?”

  Blair glared at him, defiant to the end. “Fuck y—”

  “Too late!” Gucci cried. Then he pulled a tasseled cord hanging from the nearest column.

  Instantly, the bottom of each wicker basket dropped out, releasing massive kettlebells to which the scarves had been tied. From all four directions, the neckwear went taut, cinching the nooses closed.

  Dee wasn’t sure if the force of the kettlebells had snapped Blair’s neck instantly or what, but she never struggled. Her body twitched once, her eyes wide and dilated, and then went limp as her head was severed at the neck and catapulted through the air like a popped champagne cork.

  Dee wanted to scream, but she was afraid that if she opened her mouth, she’d puke all over herself. She couldn’t even blink; her eyes were riveted to the screen as Blair’s decapitated body pitched to one side, blood oozing from her open neck.

  The shot jiggled and then zoomed in on Blair’s body, as if Gucci had removed the camera from a tripod and walked across the room with it. Blair’s torso was covered in blood, which soaked into her pajamas, and the skin around her throat was jagged and torn from the force of the strangulation. The white bones of Blair’s spine jabbed upward toward the skull that had been ripped away.