by Kat Ellis
“Detective Holden,” I supply.
“Yeah, him. He called my dad to go deal with some press who were camped outside the manor gates last night. Anyway, he also said something about the time of death being around twelve p.m. Wednesday.”
“I was in school then,” I say.
“So you have an alibi?”
“Why are you making that sound like a question?”
“I’m not.” Daphne shakes her head, wide-eyed. “I just wondered because you weren’t with me and Carla at lunchtime.”
I think about that for a moment, tracking back to Wednesday. Where the hell was I at midday? “I was in the art studio?” I say, but now I’m the one making it sound like a question.
“Anyway,” Daphne continues, “I heard her eyes weren’t actually removed—they were smashed in. Like with an ice pick or something.”
Acid burns the back of my throat, and I have only two seconds to dive into a stall before I’m heaving my guts up.
I feel Daphne’s hands in my hair, holding it back for me. “Sorry,” she says, sounding it. “I didn’t think.”
“Not your fault,” I croak. “I think this is just a delayed reaction, honestly. Or maybe a fun new side to the bug I caught off Uncle Ty. Did you overhear anything about them catching the killer?” I ask hopefully, taking the bottle of water Daphne offers me.
“Well . . . I mean, not really. It turns out Freya had surprisingly few people who hated her apart from you, and the next people the cops look at are the ones who found the body—also you—or whoever the victim was dating. But Freya wasn’t—”
“She was dating someone,” I cut in. “Sexting someone, anyway.”
“Really? Who?”
“I’m not sure. I just overheard her talking on the phone about some nudes, and arranging to meet up. I told the cops, though, so they’re probably checking that out.”
“Wow. I had no idea Freya was seeing someone. That could seriously be the person who killed her.”
“Do they know how she died yet?” I ask, then grimace. “Or was it the ice pick?”
Again, Daphne checks all around us before she answers, as though someone might’ve snuck in unnoticed. “I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I did hear Dad say something about strangulation. And I guess that’s something else in your favor.”
“In my favor? What does that mean?”
“Well . . . you don’t want to be on the suspects list, do you?” She doesn’t give me a chance to answer that. “And they’ll have to rule you out because of your hands, right?”
I look down at the jagged pink lines on my palms. “You think I couldn’t strangle someone?”
Daphne’s eyeing me curiously when I glance up at her. “I dunno. Could you?”
TWENTY
I step past the carved wooden doors into the public library after school, feeling its eyes following me in. Eyes everywhere. For a second, I experience a surge of panic, remembering how it seemed as though Uncle Ty’s and the cops’ eyes were missing when they came to question me yesterday. I take in a deep breath, let it out slowly. Try to think about kittens.
Dominic’s already inside. I expected him to look haggard and unkempt, the way Mateo and Casper have every time I’ve seen them the past couple days. But Dominic looks the same as usual in a dark sweater that probably cost more than my car, his wavy black hair falling forward in that accidentally-on-purpose way of his as he reads a comic book on the table in front of him. It’s Uzumaki by Junji Ito—a horror classic, and one of my all-time favorites. I feel weirdly resentful that he’s reading it.
I clear my throat. Dominic looks up a moment later, dragging his focus out of the book.
“Hi, Ava. How are you?”
His voice is smooth and even. The only giveaway that his sister just died are the dark circles under his eyes. I’d never know he was the same guy I saw yesterday, sobbing in the cemetery.
“Hey,” I begin, taking the seat opposite. “I’m sorry—”
“Can we not do that?” Dominic cuts me off. “The whole I’m sorry for your loss thing? I’d rather just concentrate on the comic.”
“Not researching Sadie?”
He hesitates, and I think for a blistering second that I’ve said the wrong thing. I mean, duh, that was for Haunted Heartland. Of course he’s not bothered about that anymore. And yet he doesn’t say no.
All the idiots at school are whispering about Sadie being behind Freya’s murder, but there’s no way Dominic believes that . . . is there?
Or is it easier for him to believe in a murdering ghost than to think about someone hating Freya enough to want her dead? No, not just want her dead, but to actually kill her and destroy her eyes? I try and imagine how much hate that would take. The closest I can compare it to is how I feel about Madoc Miller causing the crash that killed my parents, and even I can admit it’s not apples to apples. I hate Madoc for being careless, and for acting like an unfeeling jerk after it happened. I hate him for taking my parents from me and ruining my life. But someone hurt Freya on purpose. That’s another kind of evil, and I’m not sure I wouldn’t be reaching for a supernatural explanation if I were in Dominic’s shoes.
“Let’s work on the comic first,” he says at last. “Then maybe we can go through the Sadie stuff I sent you.”
“Fine by me.”
Dominic relaxes back into his chair. I take that as my cue to dig out the sketches I’ve been working on.
“I’ve laid out the panels from the point the girl first looks out from the tower and sees the zombies starting to uproot themselves, up to where she opens the trapdoor in the basement of the tower and releases all the zombies into the hell dimension. See?”
I trace over the panels with their empty captions and speech bubbles, watching Dominic’s face for his reaction. I’m ready to snatch the sketches away if he so much as sneers. But he studies each panel carefully before opening a notebook in front of him. “I assume you want my input for the captions and dialogue, seeing as you’ve left them blank?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I’ve also written a rough outline of what I thought could come after the trapdoor chapter, but of course you might have a completely different direction in mind. Here, read this while I make some notes.”
Dominic hands me a neatly typed sheaf of papers. He’s laid out bullet-pointed scenes detailing how Sadie (because of course that’s what he’s called the girl, despite me telling him this isn’t about Dead-Eyed Sadie) finds she needs a key in order to switch directions in the elevator tower so it’ll take her back up to the hilltop. And that key, as a demon gatekeeper tells her, is in the possession of the last keeper of the tower—who now resides in the far reaches of hell. So Sadie has to set out to find the keeper, fighting her way past zombies, demons, and the unhappy souls of the damned.
Even in bullet points, I can tell from the way Dominic has phrased it that it won’t just be scary—it’ll be funny too. It gives me serious Hellboy vibes, which is probably the highest compliment I could pay him, not that I have any intention of paying said compliment. I can’t deny the surge of excitement in my gut at just the prospect of this comic coming together the way it feels like it will. My fingers itch to get sketching.
I love this.
And how fucked up is that, to be enjoying myself like this when Dominic’s going through hell?
I crane my neck, trying to read what he’s writing in his little notebook. Of course, he looks up and catches me.
“What do you think?”
I nod quickly. “I think I can work with it. But we’re not calling her Sadie.”
There’s a faint upticking at the corners of his mouth.
“All right,” he says. “What should we call her?”
I turn over possible names in my head, testing out how they sound. Nothing seems right.
“I’ll t
hink about it and get back to you.” Dominic huffs in amusement. “It’s not going to be Sadie, though. And wouldn’t it be weird to call her Sadie after what happened to—”
I hadn’t realized how warm Dominic’s expression had been until my words shut it down like an ice bath.
“Sorry,” I say. And I mean it. He shakes his head.
“I knew we couldn’t avoid the subject forever. I just wanted to not think about it for a while.”
“Yeah. Again, sorry.”
Dominic closes his notebook. “I guess you’ve spoken to the cops.”
“Twice. Pretty sure I’m on their suspects list.” I figure it’s better to just get it out there. I assume Dominic doesn’t think I killed Freya, or there’s no way he’d be spending his free time here with me. I’m still not entirely sure why he is, to be honest. Maybe it’s some elaborate ruse to . . .
Okay, so I can’t think what Dominic’s ruse would be here. But accepting a Miller’s intentions at face value just feels weird.
“I can’t see how you’d be a viable suspect,” Dominic says evenly. “You were at school when she died.” He’s heard about the time of death, then. “You know, it’s actually very lucky you found her. I mean, we would’ve noticed Freya was missing pretty soon, but it might’ve taken a long time to figure out where she was if you hadn’t found her like you did.”
“Yeah,” I say, “lucky.”
He leans forward. “No, it was. The weather’s so cold right now that the police forensics people would’ve had a much harder time figuring out her time of death if she’d been left outside overnight. That would’ve made it a lot harder to find alibis for everyone who wasn’t guilty—or rather, made it a lot easier for the killer to hide in a crowd.”
“I see.” I still don’t feel lucky about finding Freya’s butchered body, but I take his point. “I’ve been wondering, though,” I lie, because this is literally the first time it’s occurred to me. “Didn’t the security cameras pick up anything? They should’ve caught anyone sneaking onto the property, right?”
Dominic slumps back in his seat, deflated. “No, unfortunately. Some of the cameras needed to be taken down when my parents had the house painters in, so the system wasn’t working. Aside from the gate cameras, the only one recording anything was the static I left hooked up near the bridge after our Haunted Heartland filming session. That one was pointed away from the house, so it caught nothing.”
“Not nothing,” I point out. “It tells you whoever did it didn’t come from the direction of the bridge.” If I was going to sneak onto the property to commit a murder, that’s the way I’d go. But I don’t say that out loud, obviously. “Do you know who else the cops are looking at?”
Dominic shrugs. “Everyone, I suppose. They’re interviewing all the kids at school who knew her or saw her earlier this week.”
“What about . . .” I let my question trail off until Dominic squints at me quizzically. “I mean, didn’t Freya have a boyfriend? Because that’s who cops usually look at first, isn’t it?”
I could tell Dominic what I overheard that night in the orchard. He knows I was there. But do I really want to tell him that his very recently deceased sister seemed to be arranging a secret hookup? Not really. And I’ve already told the cops.
“I wouldn’t know,” Dominic says. “It wasn’t the kind of thing we talked about. I’m—I was—her older brother, not her bestie.” I almost laugh at the way his lip curls around the word bestie, as though it’s entirely alien to him. “Besides, having somewhat overbearing parents teaches you to be discreet. It’s annoying when they constantly pry into your business.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I parrot back, regretting it as soon as I do. “Sorry. That wasn’t really aimed at you.”
And it isn’t. Somehow, Dominic has become separated from my feelings toward the Millers. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I actually like him, but I don’t actively hate his guts, either.
He nods, thawing a little. “The cops have her cell phone and her laptop. I suppose if there’s anything or anyone suspicious to find on either of them, they will.”
Dominic sighs, and with that one shaky breath I see it. He’s been hiding it so well until now, but it’s there: that stark look in his eyes. I know that look. It shows the horrible dawning surprise that you can be hurt by something so much—so damn much—and somehow be expected to just . . . carry on. That’s exactly how I felt after my parents died.
And it feels fucked up that looking at Dominic Miller—the son of the guy who destroyed my life—is like looking in a mirror. Yet somehow I still want to reach out to him. Because I know how it feels. I know.
“I should go,” I murmur.
Dominic blinks, apparently lost in his own thoughts. “Do you have enough to work with over the weekend?”
“Plenty.” I nod. “Thanks.”
“You have my number if you want to run through anything.”
I pack away my sketches and Dominic’s notes, shrugging on my coat. He doesn’t make a move to do the same.
“Are you sticking around here for a while?” I ask.
He pauses before answering, and I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing again. “My parents are meeting with the funeral director at the house, and there are still one or two reporters hanging around outside. I’d rather keep out of the way.”
And now I feel like an ass for saying I had to leave when really I’m in no particular rush. I don’t love that I’m kind of depending on a Miller to help me finish my final art project—and hopefully graduate—but he is helping me, despite this being literally the worst time in his life.
“My shift at the gas station doesn’t actually start until seven, so I can totally work on the comic some more,” I tell him. “I just didn’t want to take up your whole Friday afternoon with it.”
Dominic arches one eyebrow. “Go home, Thorn. I don’t need a babysitter.”
As if to prove my company isn’t needed, he picks up Uzumaki again and flips back to the page where he left off when I arrived. It’s only as I turn to leave that he says, “But don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten. We can go through my Sadie research next time.”
I pretend not to hear, but Dominic must notice the tightening in my shoulders as I cross toward the library door. His low chuckle follows me out into the cold.
TWENTY-ONE
It’s quiet in the Pump’N’Go, as per always. But tonight I’m on my own at the counter while my boss does a stock check out back, so I don’t feel too shady using the gas station Wi-Fi to watch videos on my phone. I suck down the dregs of the coffee I picked up from the cottage, eyes glued to the little screen. Because these aren’t just videos. They’re research.
I keep thinking about the guy Freya was talking to on the phone the night I overheard her at the manor. It’d have to be someone I know, right? Or at least someone her family would know? And someone she really shouldn’t have been hooking up with, judging by how sneaky she was being with that call.
Considering the guy ought to be at the top of the cops’ suspects list, it seems like I’m the only one who gives a rat’s ass about finding him. If I can figure out who he is, maybe that’ll mean finding the real killer—and the cops will stop looking at me like they’re sizing me up for an orange onesie.
Who is he, though? I immediately leap to Mateo and Casper. I mean, they all seem super clingy with each other. But I thought Mateo and Casper were together. I could be wrong, though. Or what if they are together, but one of them was also seeing Freya in secret?
I honestly don’t know any of them well enough to make anything but the biggest of leaps, and the theory just doesn’t sit right in my gut. But, as Carla and Daphne have often pointed out, I trust my gut a little too much sometimes, and should give my brain a try. (Okay, that last part was all Carla.)
This is why I’m going through recent episodes of Haunted Heart
land, studying the interactions between Mateo and Freya and Casper. Body language, eye contact. Little things that might mean they were something other than friends.
I click on a video from two weeks ago. Freya appears in close-up, and I almost shut it down again. I see her—not as she is on- screen, but the way she was in the pavilion. Her face, impossibly pale. Those two hollow pits.
Dead-eyed.
Blink.
Alive.
Blink.
Dead . . .
Blink, blink, blink.
But then the camera pans out, and I see Casper and Dominic next to her, all three of them in thick winter gear. They’re standing on a jetty, its rickety old boards stretching out beyond them over a dark lake. I can’t tell which one it is—there are so many in Indiana, and I’ve only been to a couple—but fine wisps of mist float across the surface of the still, glassy water. It’s around sunset, the light exactly right to pick out the blood-red undertones of Freya’s hair, amping up the whole Sansa Stark vibe she has going on.
I can see why anyone—including a good portion of the internet—would find her attractive. She was beautiful.
The camera lingers on her.
“Good evening, Hauntlanders! Tonight we’re gonna be in deep water—literally—as we investigate a tiny island at the center of this lake where Hacksaw Henry, the nineties serial killer who managed to evade the police, is rumored to have spent his last days.”
The video jumps forward to the four of them in a boat, Mateo holding the camera out on a selfie stick to capture everyone in one shot as they chug across the lake. He’s leaning back . . . Is his hand on Freya’s leg? No, just a weird angle.
Another cut, and they’re scrambling up the shore on what is presumably Hacksaw Henry’s island.
“I see his shack up ahead!” Casper says, as if he just spotted Santa’s sleigh. It looks like Dominic is holding the camera now, and is it me or does it not linger on Freya the same way it did in Mateo’s hands?
The camera zooms in to where Casper’s pointing, but it isn’t a shack at all. Standing at the island’s peak is a narrow building, its stone sides forming an octagon, covered in faded, peeling paint. It stretches up maybe fifteen feet, and has dozens of tiny windows peeking out over the lake.