Chapter 12 #2
Then she pulls back, just barely, breath catching against my mouth.
Reality slams back in. The rubbish bags, the empty stadium, the mess of our lives waiting outside this moment. Her eyes meet mine, and I know if I kiss her again, there’ll be no going back.
I clear my throat, step back, and force myself to let go. “Right. Bleachers aren’t going to clean themselves.”
She looks away first, lips parted, cheeks flushed. No quip, no comeback. Just silence thick enough to drown in.
I bend, grab the rubbish bag at my feet, and pretend my hands aren’t still shaking.
Whatever this is, it’s not over. Not even close.
It’s strange, having a Saturday off without practice looming or a game breathing down my neck. The coaches finally gave us the weekend since midterms wrecked half the team, and apparently even sadists know when to let up.
Blake and I rarely get days off, especially not together. And it figures the first one we do have comes on the heels of us basically witnessing a murder. Some rare stroke of luck, and it’s wasted on trying not to lose our minds.
I can think of a hundred better ways to spend the weekend with Blake, but there’s a small, twisted part of me that’s glad we’re in this mess together, because I’m not sure she’d have warmed up to me so quickly otherwise.
Homicide really brings people together.
The living room’s quiet, the takeout bag sitting on the counter, grease already staining through the paper. The smell hangs in the air. Comforting, ordinary.
Pasta, garlic knots, and a box of cannoli that I only ordered because I know they’re her favorite. Enough for two people who haven’t eaten since morning and leftovers for later.
I scroll on my phone, checking for updates I know aren’t there, then shove it aside.
The laptop waits on the coffee table, screen dark but heavy with everything we’re about to dig back into.
The idea of pressing play again makes my stomach twist, but what choice do we have?
We need to figure out who those guys are, and we’re not going to do that by sitting here pretending we didn’t see what we saw.
The bedroom door creaks open, and I’m surprised to find the steam from the shower didn’t set off the smoke detector again, which has happened every time either of us has showered since we replaced the batteries.
Blake steps through, skin still flushed from the heat, damp hair curling against her neck. She’s wearing one of those oversized T-shirts that should look shapeless but doesn’t, because I know her shape by heart.
She doesn’t even glance at me, just pads barefoot across the carpet, toweling the ends of her hair.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting here fighting the urge to tell her not to move, not to do anything, because she deserves to stay safe and untouched by all of this.
She deserves a quiet night in bed. Reading.
Gorging herself on cannoli. Wine. Rest. Maybe a few orgasms in between.
Her shirt clings where the damp from her hair’s soaked through, thin fabric teasing the soft skin underneath.
I can’t stop my eyes from tracking her every move.
Hips, waist, the line of her back. It’s ridiculous, the way my chest aches with equal parts want and the urge to lock the door, bar the world out, keep her all to myself. In my bed.
Every inch of her has me burning, but it’s tangled up with the all-consuming need to protect her from everything… even from me.
When she finally looks over and spots the takeout bag, her expression eases, the tension around her mouth softening. “Please tell me that’s for both of us.”
“Obviously,” I say, standing to grab it before she can. “What kind of barbarian do you think I am?”
“The kind who eats three meals a day out of the vending machine.”
She’s not wrong. I grin anyway, setting the containers down and handing her a fork like it’s some grand chivalrous gesture. My chest eases a little when she takes it, when she sinks onto the couch and pulls her legs under her like she’s actually comfortable here, with me.
The laptop is a perpetual shadow in the corner of my vision.
We’ll get to it. We have to. But right now, she’s here, curled into the couch with a fork in hand, finally eating.
I let myself soak in the sight, let myself believe that making sure she’s fed and comfortable is progress.
Because if there’s one thing I love, it’s this—getting to take care of her, seeing her relax for once, watching her stomach fill instead of tying itself in knots.
Blake twirls spaghetti onto her fork, eyebrows lifting. “You ordered half the menu.”
I tear a garlic knot in half and point it at her. “Strategic. One of these is bound to bribe you into not murdering me later.”
She bites into the spaghetti, chewing slowly. “Which one do you think?”
I lean back on the couch, grin spreading. “Cannoli. No one murders the guy who brings dessert.”
She hides a smirk behind her glass of water. “You’re putting a lot of faith in a pastry.”
I nudge the takeout box closer to her. “I’d put my life in pastry’s hands. Preferably, your hands, holding the pastry.”
She stabs another bite, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “Are you flirting with me through dessert metaphors?”
I steal one of her meatballs and pop it into my mouth. “Yes. And succeeding.”
She kicks my shin under the coffee table, not hard enough to hurt.
She leans in just a little, fork still in hand, eyes bright despite everything. “Don’t push your luck, Keller.”
I slide the cannoli box toward her, voice dropping. “I mean, dessert is nice and all, but I’d rather be eating you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Better men have tried.”
I swallow a mouthful of spaghetti. “I don’t doubt it.”
She shoves the box back at me, cheeks flushed even though her tone stays cool. “Eat your food, Keller, before I change my mind about sharing.”
I laugh, but the sound dies quickly.
I wipe my hands on a napkin and nod toward the laptop. “Ready to ruin dinner?”
Blake exhales through her nose, pushing her plate away. “Not really.” She leans forward anyway, setting her elbows on her knees.
I flip it open, the glow cutting through the room. Whatever lightness we had a minute ago disappears in an instant.
I queue up the file again, and Blake leans closer.
Every muscle in me strains against the urge to wrap around her, to anchor her to me instead of this nightmare on the screen.
We’ve already seen this once, already felt it crawl under our skin, but now it’s about studying. Picking it apart frame by frame.
The basement flickers back to life. My stomach knots, but I force myself to focus.
“There.” Blake points, finger hovering just above the trackpad. “Look at him.”
Not the one pacing, snapping orders—the other one, acting as if he’d rather vanish into the wall.
Even with the mask, you can see it in his body.
Restless. Twitchy. He keeps wringing his hands, shifting from foot to foot, shoulders hunched as if the fabric of the cape is choking him.
Every time the guy barking orders moves his way, he flinches.
“Doesn’t look cut out for secrets,” I murmur, pausing the video. “Bet he’d fold the second someone leaned on him.”
Blake nods, certain. “He’s the weak link.”
I rewind a few seconds, slow the playback.
The main guy’s body language is seemingly deliberate, every movement controlled, like he’s the one holding the strings.
The others hover behind him, silent and stiff.
But the one we’re focused on—he’s unraveling.
Panic written in the restless twitch of his hands, the way he keeps tugging at the edge of his cape like it’s suffocating him. Every nervous tic screams liability.
Blake leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Wait—back it up. Right there.”
I tap the spacebar, frame by frame. The nervous one jerks, yanking the cape off in a rush. Underneath, his shirt flashes into view—black, with bold white lettering across the chest.
DEAD CHANNEL FILMS
Blake gasps, sharp and triumphant. “Could that be something?”
I hit the keys, screenshotting the logo before the camera shifts away. The still frame freezes on the screen, the words standing out stark against the grainy backdrop.
“Dead Channel Films,” I read aloud, frowning. “Yeah, that’s something. Could also explain why any of this is on video in the first place.”
Her brows pull together. “What is it? A YouTube channel?”
“Film company,” I say. “Local, too. They’ve plastered fliers all over campus the last few months looking for extras, crew.”
Blake tilts her head, studying the frozen image. “So maybe he works there.”
“Or he just likes their merch,” I counter, though my gut says otherwise. “Regardless, I think it’s worth looking into.”
She hums in agreement.
There’s a knock at the door—two short raps, no urgency.
Blake looks up from the laptop, shoulders snapping tight again. Her fingers pause over the keyboard, like she’s deciding whether to yank the drive out and hide it in her sock or just throw the entire laptop out the window.
I check the peephole.
Campus security again.
I crack the door just enough to wedge my face through. One of the guys from last night. He has the look of someone who’s regretted this career choice since about his second shift.
“Hey,” he says, giving me a nod. “Just a quick follow-up on the gas leak report. Any dizziness? Symptoms? Weird smells?”
“All clear,” I say. “Unless the smell of three-day-old takeout counts.”
He makes a face that suggests it probably does.
I step out just enough to block his view of the laptop behind me and flash what I hope passes for my most cooperative-citizen smile. “Not to worry. No headaches, no vomiting, no mysterious fainting spells. We’re just two very normal students, doing extremely normal things on a Saturday afternoon.”
Blake snorts behind me. Quiet, but audible.
Security Guy raises an eyebrow, glances at his clipboard like he’s got a list of inane comments, and he’s checking this one off.
“Right,” he says, drawing the word out.
I pause, casual. Weight shifted to one hip, hand on the doorframe like I’ve got all the time in the world and absolutely nothing incriminating on a laptop two feet behind me.
“Hey, off topic—” I tilt my head, keeping my tone light, making casual conversation to throw him off the scent of anything being amiss. “You know who keeps sticking those campus safety flyers on my windshield? I’ve got, like, six of them now. Pretty sure my SUV’s more informed than I am.”
His expression shifts, not suspicious, just a little thrown by the sudden change of topic. “Safety flyers?”
“Yeah. The bright orange ones. Lock your doors, don’t walk alone at night, report suspicious activity.” I mimic the bullet points with my fingers. “Apparently, my 4Runner screams ‘prime target.’”
He huffs, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Could be worse. They keep slapping those on my patrol car, too.”
I blink, then flash him an amused smile. “Guess you’re not safe either.”
He shakes his head, muttering under his breath, “Not from paperwork, anyway.”
There’s a beat, the absurdity lingering in the air, and then he just exhales, tired but almost amused.
“Well. Good luck out there. Death by paper cut is a rough way to go,” I finally say.
“Yeah. I’ll try not to become another statistic,” he grunts.
I shut the door and click the lock behind me.
Then I stand there for a second, hand still on the knob, already deciding which button of hers I want to press next.
Blake looks up, reading me like always. “What?”
“Just thinking about how you’ll forgive just about anything if I feed you first.”
She arches a brow, deadpan. “Yeah, well, maybe try it more often. You’re for sure to be less annoying when I’m not half hangry.”
I laugh, hands raised in mock surrender. “Noted. Snacks before smack talk.”
I plop back down on the couch beside her, gearing up to go over the video again, not because I expect some miracle answer, but because I can’t let it go until I’ve wrung every last detail out of it.
I mindlessly run my finger over the trackpad, and the screen flickers—a chaotic mess of green and white lines, then black.
I mutter a curse under my breath as the cursor freezes.
Windows open and vanish, files blinking out one after the other. My nerves snap tight as I lean in closer, desperate, uselessly clicking on whatever I can, like I can wrestle the proof back from the machine.
Nothing sticks. Every trace is wiped.
“Fuck—”
“It’s gone,” Blake says, too calm for the mess spinning in my head. Probably in shock. “Maybe the drive was rigged to self-destruct.”
“Then what the fuck was the point?” I all but yell.
I want to throw my laptop across the room.
What was the point in sending this to Blake if it was impossible to crack, and once we finally did, it just disappeared after a few hours?
How the fuck are we supposed to figure any of this out, let alone take it to the police, if we don’t have a shred of proof left?
We’re left with nothing but the absolutely fucked memory of what we saw.
And I have no idea where the hell to go from here.