35. Doom Scrolling
Doom Scrolling
WES
I’m doom scrolling Ruth Roy’s social media.
“Fuuuuuck me.” Sir Fluffy weaves between my legs, dragging his tail under my knee.
“That has to be fake.” Her feed is image after image of perfect pies against cozy backgrounds.
There’s one of her baking in her pristine kitchen.
She has an apron on that says TGIF: this grandma is fabulous and a spot of flour on the tip of her nose. Totally posed and annoying as shit.
I know better than to look at her socials. But she tagged me in a post. Tagged. Me. Noah thinks I’m nuts for even having a social media presence given our dark activities, but it’s purely baking related.
And what did Ruth fucking Roy tag me in?
Well. She stopped in at Killer Beans—my fucking local coffee shop—and tasted a slice of pie.
She mutilated it, then took a picture and called it ugly, dry, and tasteless.
Said it was like swallowing a forkful of sawdust and that she has tomorrow’s apple pie competition in the bag for the fifth year in a row.
I’m furious, but it’s a welcome emotion from the despair that’s blanketed me since I left Callie in New York City yesterday. After she walked away from me, I met up with Noah, checked out the Joe Killer apartment location and car, then we headed back north.
My timer goes off, giving me a good excuse to walk away from my phone.
I adjust my apron and slip on an oven mitt so I can pull the apple pie out.
The only difference between this pie and the other two that are already cooling on the counter is the top crust. A big part of the Portland Springfest pie competition is appearance, including what the crust and topping look like before and after slicing. I step back to assess the pies.
The first one is a classic loose, laced topping, baked just until it started to brown. There’s a hint of the tender spiced apples underneath. I nod. Can’t go wrong with that one. Classic, if not a little boring.
The second one has a delicious crumbly streusel topping, chaotic perfection made of flour, sugar, butter, and spices. This is Ruth Roy’s specialty, and while it’s tempting to try to beat her at her own game, I think I want to do something different.
The third, which I just pulled out, is my attempt at art on the top crust. I tilt my head and try to see it from the judges’ point of view.
It is… not good.
I tried again to carve a loon into the dough, which, while better than the first few times, looks only slightly better than what a five-year-old child might create. Nothing against five-year-olds, of course.
I love this idea, but it needs some work. I bet I could get it on the next try.
The competition is tomorrow afternoon, so tonight I’ll prep the dough and the filling, and early in the morning I’ll assemble the pie and bake it so it’s as fresh as possible. I have just a few hours to make final decisions and adjustments.
I tap out a quick text to Noah.
Me
I need you here assessing pies immediately. It’s a pie emergency
I don’t even put my phone down because I know Noah’s probably sitting at his kitchen table plotting to take over the world.
Noah
you are a weird fucking dude
also, be right over
I snort and head to my coffee machine to prepare a fresh pot to go with the pie assessment.
I tracked Callie long enough yesterday to make sure she got back to Portland safely.
She visited with her half-sister—which I know because Noah had Meadow’s address as he’s apparently as much of a stalker as I am—and then she took the train home.
I haven’t been able to bring myself to disable the tracking devices and software on her phone, which I know is fucked up, but I’ll get there eventually.
I press the blue blinking light to start the coffee machine and sink into one of the kitchen chairs. This is the chair that I zip-tied Callie to on that first day, after I slid a needle in her neck out in the woods. She was so angry.
In hindsight, I wanted her from the first second I saw her watching me outside of Maine Coffee Co, and even more so when she was screaming at me to untie her instead of crying or begging. Even when I did untie her, she was still mad. Especially because I then gave her spiked hot chocolate.
She has trust issues for sure, but Callie never looked at me like I was a monster.
Even when she followed me and Noah to that alleyway in Boston and watched us take out Chad Smith.
She was far more pissed that I’d left her alone in the apartment than the fact that I’d helped Noah murder a guy.
It was only in our last conversation that she looked at me like I was something bad.
Part of me wonders if she was purposely pushing me away, but the thing is, I am bad. For her, at least. I’m not what she wants or needs, and I have to respect that, because I can’t change it. I drop my head into my hands just as the door swings open.
“Christ.” Noah shakes his head and closes the door behind him. “Are you crying about Callie?”
“I’m not crying.” I lean forward and press my palms to my cheeks. Yup. I’m crying.
“Wes—” Noah’s face softens, and he approaches the kitchen table.
“No.” I hold up my hand. “I don’t want to hear what you have to say about this. I know letting her go is the right thing to do. I’m doing that. But I don’t have to fucking like it.”
“If you—”
“Please. Noah. I don’t want to talk about it.” Part of me is desperate to know what he was about to say, but there’s no point in torturing myself further. “Not yet, anyway. I’m not ready.”
Noah takes a breath as if to talk but seems to think better of it.
“Can we just taste the pies?” I plead. “Ruth Roy’s been posting again and it’s driving me nuts.”
Noah stares at me for a long minute, then nods.
“I swear to god, that old lady is a serial killer.” He slides his jacket off and tosses it onto my couch.
I chuckle. “She’s a horrible human being, but I highly doubt she’s a serial killer.”
“I found out more that I haven’t told you.”
“Yeah?” The coffee pot steams and beeps as it finishes brewing. I head to the kitchen as Noah sits across from my chair. “Go on. What do you think you know about Ruth Roy?”
“Well. There was a serial killer who stopped killing around twenty years ago. It would’ve put Ruth in her sixties. The killer targeted men who were total scumbags. Domestic violence, rape, etc. Murder too, but it was the everyday abuses that triggered her.”
“Is this what you do in your spare time?” I pour coffee from the carafe into our favorite mugs—hacker and I just want to take naps and watch serial killer documentaries—and glance over at my brother. “Although I guess it’s better than adding people to your list.”
Noah ignores my comment.
“They were active for at least a decade. It was a couple. A man and a woman.” His eyes are wide and eager.
Jesus fuck. I would say Noah needs another hobby, but he already has one that I struggle to keep a handle on.
“Sometimes it would be a year or two between killings, and the authorities would think they died or retired or whatever. But then they’d hit again, up and down the Northeast.”
“First, how did they know it was a couple? And second, how’d they know it was the same people? Did they leave a calling card?”
“I’ve got answers to all of that.” Noah raises his eyebrows and rubs his hands together, looking self-satisfied. “Two pairs of footprints. It was winter, and they found frozen prints of impractical high-heeled boots and a man’s Timberlands.”
“Cool. A serial killer couple.” I splash some creamer into Noah’s and my coffees and add a sugar to mine.
“And get this.” He accepts the mug and sips noisily. “They left recipes as their calling card.”
“What?” Standing next to the table, I pause with my coffee halfway to my lips. That is weird. Still, it’s not Ruth Roy. Obviously.
“Yeah. I couldn’t find anywhere that says what the recipes were for. But I’d bet a lot of money it was apple pie. Killings stopped the same year her husband died. Twenty years ago.”
“Shut the fuck up.” I burst out laughing, and to his credit, so does Noah.
“I’m serious!”
“Stop. Please. You have sufficiently distracted me. Thank you. Now go look at my pies and tell me which one you like best.”
Noah stands and strolls over to the counter. Sir Fluffy is sitting on the wooden floor with his tail swishing back and forth like a Swiffer, staring up and probably wishing his hind legs worked better so he could jump up to lick some pie.
The knot of dread in my chest is looser now that Noah is here.
“Is this supposed to be a duck?” He scrunches his face at the third pie in the row.
I groan.