Like, Follow, Kill

by Carissa Ann Lynch

  I rotated my thumbs, hesitating, before finally, I typed back to Hannah:

  Me: Doing well! Working hard on a writing project. Talk soon, I promise.

  Working hard, indeed.

  In reality, I was working hard not to fall apart because my latest addiction had run dry.

  Oh, Valerie. I need my fix.

  Her un-updated page stared back at me like an empty syringe.

  Or an empty glass.

  I clicked send, then added another message to my sister:

  Me: Miss you too, Hannah. I’m fine. Really.

  What am I going to do if Valerie never comes back online? I wondered. I had to do something to help her … to check up on her … but what if something terrible has already happened? What if I’m too late?

  My thoughts were quickly spinning out of control. I could ask Hannah for advice, tell her what was going on … but then she’d just give me that look, the one from the other day … that look of disapproval and concern. She thinks I’m a drunk and a pill addict …

  I sat up in bed and refreshed my browser. For the hundredth time today, I checked local crime reports in Kentucky. I checked Indiana and Ohio, too, since they were close. Lastly, I checked New Orleans. Nada.

  There were crimes, plenty of them. Burglary, assault, driving while intoxicated … but no mention of a young pharmaceutical rep vanishing from her hotel room. No pretty-girl murders splashed dramatically across the front page, no catchy taglines about stalkers or kidnappings …

  As popular as Valerie was online, I wasn’t sure how long it would be before her real-life friends or family missed her. She had an aunt who lived in town … Janet, she said her name was. But Valerie’s employer … surely, they would know if she never made it to New Orleans. Wouldn’t they?

  I rolled onto my back, staring up at the popcorn patterns on the ceiling above my bed. They swirled, triggering a sick rush of something in my gut … fear? No, not fear—memory. I blinked slowly, the tilt-o-whirl roof from the night of the accident flashing like a blinking bulb in my face. Chris’s voice, pleading in the dark … was he pleading or screaming …?

  Fuck. I have to do something. I can’t just sit here and do nothing to help her.

  Valerie worked for a company called Rook Pharmaceuticals. They weren’t the biggest branch of big pharma, but they were damn near close.

  For one silent second, my next move became clear.

  Valerie could be in danger. And if there’s no one to help her or warn her, then I could be the only one who does.

  As I sat up, there was a new form of energy pumping through my veins.

  I composed my message in a Word document, then read over it a dozen times before finally copying and pasting it into a message on Instagram. I exhaled, then clicked send:

  Valerie,

  I know it’s none of my business, but I couldn’t help but notice something strange in the background of your latest video. A strange man peering in the window behind you. I noticed him in the background of some of your other pictures as well. I know we don’t know each other well and we weren’t all that close in school … but I’m worried about you. After that other video about the man following you from the bar, I was a little concerned that maybe the man in the window was him … that maybe you have a stalker. Please write me back.

  Next, I looked up the phone number for Rook Pharmaceuticals. The receptionist who answered was young, her words breathy and practiced.

  My words, on the other hand, sounded like someone else’s—throaty and strained.

  I cleared my throat, “My name is Janet Hutchens. My niece is employed as a rep with your company.”

  Silence.

  “Umm … her name is Valerie. She was traveling on business to Kentucky, and then her next stop was New Orleans. I’ve been unable to reach her on her cell the last couple days, and I was hoping you had another line where I could reach her. Or could you just check in on her, please?”

  “Yes. Just a moment.” The “Yes” part gave me cause for hope, but still, I had a bad feeling that giving out info about their young, attractive, female reps was against company policy. If not, it probably should be.

  Papers shuffled in the background and I could hear the receptionist striking keys.

  “We have a lot of reps on staff, ma’am. I’ll write down her name and see what I can find out. May I call you back?”

  Shit. Call me back?

  The thought of leaving my number, a number that could easily get funneled back to Valerie somehow, shook me to the core. No, no I can’t leave my number. It’s one thing to send a concerned message on social media, it’s another to call her work pretending to be a worried family member. She’ll think I’m insane if she finds out I called Rook, impersonating Janet.

  My heart was throbbing in my ear drums. “Uh … I’m sorry. I’m having trouble hearing you. Please check on my niece. I’ll call back in about an hour.”

  Clicking end before the chirpy receptionist could respond, I fell back on the bed, breathless.

  It was hard to believe that doing normal things—like sending a message or having a phone conversation with another human being—could cause this much anxiety.

  I held my hand to my chest, sucking in deep, craggy breaths.

  There’s no way Valerie will find out it was me. It could have been anyone calling …

  I didn’t plan on calling back. I’d done my part. I couldn’t take the chance of Valerie finding out about her weird former classmate checking up on her at work. By the look of things, Valerie had enough admirers without adding me to the list …

  At least now, though, maybe someone will check in on her and make sure she’s doing okay. Won’t they?

  Slightly satisfied, I refreshed Valerie’s Instagram page. Still nothing.

  Please be okay, Valerie, I secretly wished. I wasn’t sure if she would write back or not, but I felt strangely giddy about the fact that I’d written her a heartfelt message. I wasn’t just her follower; I was her friend—and I needed to know that she was okay.

  There was a can of flat Sprite on my bedside table. Cupping the can, I took a slow sip, remembering how good Sprite used to taste in a white-wine spritzer. Especially when I chased it with a few shots of something stronger …

  ***

  I added my night-time pills to my dinner plate, which consisted of waffles from a box in the freezer and slimy, out-of-date syrup.

  For once, I was using the kitchen table. A dinette really, with only two chairs and enough room to clank two plates together. Chris would have liked it—he was a minimalist, or he used to be, always getting mad at me for buying clunky furniture and too many pans. It wasn’t the stuff I enjoyed buying, it was the shopping itself, buying things just for us and our little, two-person family. It made me feel domesticated and happy. Although, I’m not sure Chris would have agreed …

  It had been hours since I’d sent the message and made the call to Valerie’s employer, the day floating by with heady longing … longing for something … I couldn’t put my finger on.

  My phone blipped, startling me in the silent kitchen. I picked it up, pushing my chair back with a screech as I read the words: _TheWorldIsMine_26 started a live video. Watch it before it ends!

  Yes!

  My hands were shaking with adrenaline. Instead of getting up and going to my laptop, I clicked on the video from my phone.

  The screen was dark.

  Maybe she’s waiting, giving everyone a chance to get online …

  I turned the volume on my phone all the way up, holding my breath. Listening.

  At first, I couldn’t see or hear anything. Just static. Groaning, I walked over and flipped out all the lights in the kitchen. I tried to zero in on the pitch-black screen.

  In the dark, I watched and waited. But what am I waiting for?

  “Where are you, Valerie?” I whispered.

  The screen was still dark, but now I could almost hear … muffled voices, a man and a woman talking …

&
nbsp; “I don’t have it. I never did. You can’t do this. Someone will come …” said the woman, her voice barely above a whisper. Was it Valerie’s voice? I strained to hear more, no longer looking at the video, but pressing my ear up to the screen.

  “Please.”

  Please. It was one simple word, barely audible, but I had no doubt: it was Valerie talking.

  The video cut off, the comments below filling up with silly emojis and ‘Where ya at?’s and ‘Oopsie’s.

  I watched the comments coming in, refreshing often, a sense of dread bubbling over inside me.

  Finally, a new comment appeared, this one different from the rest. This one had an edge of concern to it.

  ‘Valerie, call me now. I can’t reach you.’

  It was from a follower I hadn’t noticed before … not a frequent poster, apparently. I clicked on her face and pulled up her profile: Janet Haukemeyer.

  I’d never seen this woman before, even though I’d pretended to be her hours earlier. But I instantly knew who she was: Valerie’s aunt. Looking at her picture gave me a strange feeling, like I was looking at another version of Valerie, only it was forty years into the future.

  So, this is Aunt Janet.

  Suddenly, it was like someone else was taking over my body—in a frenzy, I started clicking, searching every social media site I could online. Anything that contained the words ‘Janet Haukemeyer’ and ‘Oshkosh, Wisconsin’.

  Immediately, I got a hit. Janet Haukemeyer was a painter, and like most normal people online, she had a Facebook profile, Twitter page, and LinkedIn account. She also had an Instagram page but hadn’t posted anything new in two years. I scanned through her pictures—mostly paintings, some photography. No pictures of her and Valerie. Her Facebook page was locked down, too, privacy settings set to “Fort Knox” or whatever the most private of settings were …

  Damn. No help.

  I waited for Aunt Janet to leave more comments. For anyone else to start worrying besides me …

  Impulsively, I sent another message to Valerie:

  Me: Valerie, please let me know that you’re okay! Are you in trouble? Can I help?

  And then it happened—a tiny ding on my cell phone. Valerie responded to my message!

  Shell-shocked, I slunk back down in my chair at the table and read her message again and again. It was short; only two lines:

  I don’t know who to turn to. I don’t know who can help …

  Feverishly, I typed back:

  Are you in danger? Want me to call the police?

  Her response was instantaneous:

  NO.

  I leaned back in my chair, unsure how to respond. Finally, I typed:

  Valerie, tell me what’s going on.

  I stared at the phone for what felt like hours, minutes painfully ticking by.

  I can’t write about it on here. Can you come to Paducah? PLEASE. I NEED A FRIEND.

  Chapter 5

  Please. I need a friend.

  Valerie needed my help, but why?

  I’d sent a dozen follow-up messages: Where are you? Why don’t I just call the cops? I’ll need directions if you want me to come …

  My body buzzed with adrenaline as I floated around my room, tossing shirts and panties into a duffel bag I hadn’t used in years … Can I really do this? This is nuts!

  Finally, with my bag bulging with clothes and toiletries, I sat on the scruffy carpet, clutching the bag to my chest like a shield.

  Valerie still hadn’t written me back. She can’t really want me to come there … can she?

  Valerie Hutchens—with her million-dollar smile and her ten thousand followers … why does she need me to come?

  But then my mind drifted back to the comments on her page … her followers, with their cookie-cutter responses … not a single one of them had noticed the man. But I had.

  I’d reached out to her, and now, she was reaching back.

  Valerie needs me. Maybe she’s not writing back because she’s in danger.

  I got up, slowly, and went to the bathroom. Under the glaring lights, I smeared thick, cakey concealer on my face—it did nothing to help my scars—then I lifted the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, a lame attempt at concealing my face.

  There are few things that could motivate me to leave this house—but Valerie … maybe this is my chance.

  Valerie was my only friend. Maybe I was her only real friend, too.

  Anxiety ran through me like an electric current. With my keys in one hand and my bag in the other, I took a few steps toward the door.

  Wait. I need something. A little extra courage …

  I returned to the bathroom.

  Hannah was right about one thing, one thing she hadn’t forgotten … the bathroom had always been my favorite hiding place.

  But sometimes, you have to go the extra mile to hide things from yourself …

  In the top of my closet, I reached for a slimy old jar of petroleum jelly. It’s one of those items that everyone has, but rarely uses … well, I had a use for mine.

  Screwing off the lid, I dipped my fingers inside the still-sticky, scraped-out jar. My fingers closed around a shot-sized bottle of vodka.

  ***

  Parking at the curb on Apple Drive, I found myself five doors down from my sister’s house. My chest burned, my head swimming in a way I hadn’t felt in months …

  It had been so long since I’d gone outside, beyond my porch. Since I’d smelled the air in the town of Oshkosh … since I’d tasted the courage that comes from alcohol.

  The drive to my sister’s house had felt like an out-of-body experience. I’d had tunnel vision for most of the drive, but now that the vodka had settled in, I was feeling better.

  I’m outside. I did it! Valerie not only wants my help, she needs it …

  The air smelled sweeter, sharper than I remembered … I could almost taste somebody’s leftover supper in the air. As I followed the sidewalk to my sister’s house, my footsteps echoing on the quiet street, I caught a whiff of used diapers.

  Apple Lane. Is it possible for a street to look happy?

  If so, Apple Lane was a pure delight.

  I stopped outside my sister’s dining-room window, in awe of the life she’d made for herself. The house was brick, two-story. Two perfectly shaped pumpkins dotted each side of the grand entranceway.

  Mike and Hannah had no children. Did they sit and carve these pumpkins together?

  I could picture Hannah, in my mind’s eye, penciling in ‘Carve pumpkins with Mike’ on her monthly calendar.

  They were grinning, the slimy pegs of pumpkin teeth perfectly aligned and evenly spaced. I shivered.

  When we were little, Hannah and I didn’t carve pumpkins. But we did chuck some of the neighbors’ pumpkins at people’s houses. The kids who had perfect families and perfect pumpkins … even though we never said so, they were always our targets.

  I missed those times with Hannah. Times when there was no Mike, no Chris … no dead husbands chasing me in my dreams …

  My sister had traded in childish shenanigans for cardigans and six o’clock dinners and husbands who don’t yell when they’re mad. Husbands who don’t wrap their hands around your throat when you’ve pissed them off …

  Now that I was here, I felt foolish for coming.

  I’d come to tell her about Valerie. I’d come to ask her to either stop me, or come with me … which one, I wasn’t sure.

  Anchored to the ground outside their window, I watched Hannah and Mike from where I stood. They were seated across from each other at the dining-room table. The curtains were wide open, the fancy chandelier above the table creating a prism of sparkling diamond shapes around the room.

  Beneath my feet, the grass felt squishy and soft … I imagined it were like quicksand, slowly pulling me under as I watched my sister’s happy, smiling face.

  Pass the bread please, I imagined Hannah saying as Mike, with his Rolex watch and dorky, plaid pullover, handed her a plate of what lo
oked like garlic sticks.

  The window was closed, but I swear I could smell the soft buttery bread … taste a smidge of salt on my tongue.

  Mike said something as he passed the bread. Possibly, probably: Sure thing, dear.

  Like a ghost, I remained there, unseen. After several minutes, I turned and walked back to the truck.

  ***

  Tears blurred my eyes as I rolled through the stop sign and pulled away from Sunny Springs subdivision.

  My sister’s life on Apple Lane is sunny and perfect, and the last thing she needs is me showing up at her door, begging her to go on a road trip with me.

  Two miles down the road, I whipped my truck to the side and took out my phone. I checked both Valerie’s and Janet’s pages for updates, I checked for a new message—nothing. I felt an ache in my stomach I’d never felt before … a need to do something, but unsure what exactly.

  There were a few thousand dollars in my bank account. More than I used to have, when I lived check-to-check working at the buffet. But since the accident, I hadn’t been working. Instead, I’d been living off a small inheritance I’d gotten from my dad when he died. A few g’s doesn’t feel like much when you’re not working and have no plans to return. It would all be gone in a few months, tops, what with the cost of my rent, utilities, toiletries, and groceries.

  No money coming in, a decent amount going out each month … dwindling away like dust in a windstorm.

  I could have sold my dad’s truck for a few thousand dollars, but it was the only thing of his that I still owned. Hannah had taken most of the small things, but I had the truck … I couldn’t sell it.

  I’m like a ship that is full of holes, sinking faster by the minute. And it’s not like I don’t know how to swim, how to get my head above water … it’s just that I don’t want to.

  I had nothing to lose anymore, except for Valerie. She was my one pastime … and now she was in trouble. I had to help her.

  Oshkosh resembled a ghost town as I made a slow left onto Main Street. The six o’clock dinner hush clung to the air as I rolled up to a stop light.

  Is everyone sitting around their tables, passing bread to one another? Am I the only one alone in this town?