You stalk, I stalk
Hazel
I think I’m about to be disowned by my Italian great-grandmother. “Sure, Nonna. I definitely remembered to put salt in the pasta water,” I say down the phone as I pour said salt into the pan.
“Hmm, maybe you’ll finally learn to cook properly when you’re not working so much.”
I go to the fridge and grab some tomatoes to chop, fully doubting my Nonna’s sanity.
She’s my granddad’s mom but he died before I was born and she’s spent her whole life in Florence so we only ever talk on the phone.
She doesn’t know that me actually just cooking is miracle enough, let alone cooking well.
I was so tempted to order in, but my fridge is still stocked full of fresh food from the second time Flynn broke into my house and I felt bad letting it go to waste.
I thought maybe calling my nonna would give me at least a chance of making something somewhat edible, but I’m starting to think I’m not Italian enough to understand her instructions.
“I like my job, Nonna.”
“You’ll have to leave it to go to Canada.”
The knife slips off the tomato. “I’m not going to Canada.”
“That’s not what you told me last time.”
I go quiet, making a hack job of halving the tomatoes.
Canada is just a pipe dream. Gran told me my mom wanted to move us there before she died.
I had a plan that once I finished school, I’d finally do just that.
See the town my mom grew up in, live a slow peaceful life.
But then my gran got sick. She made me promise her that once she’d died I’d still go but Tommy did a real number on me and the last thing I wanted to do after she was gone was leave the only place that felt safe.
At this point, I don’t think moving to Canada is ever actually going to happen.
“Maybe one day, Nonna. How much garlic should I put in the sauce?”
“The right amount.”
“Which is…?”
“You will know. When it is right, it is right.”
I pick up the bulb of garlic, debating whether I need any at all because I think my nonna might be insane.
“Your grandmama would not want you to stay in that house forever, mi Tesoro.”
The stab of pain I get whenever I think of my gran knocks into me.
I turn away from the counter and sink down into one of the dining chairs.
It’s the one my gran used to sit in and sometimes when I’m quiet I can still hear her voice, asking for all the gossip from school or telling me stories about my parents.
“I know, Nonna.” I run my thumb over the chip in the table from when my gran tried to teach me how to chop potatoes. “I just… I’m not ready yet.”
Nonna tsks softly. “You’ll never be ready, Tesoro. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it.”
My phone pings at me through my headphones, the screen lighting up with a message from Flynn.
Dexter
Your pasta is burning.
I whip around on instinct and curse.
“Nonna, I gotta go,” I say, hanging up on her as I scramble from my chair to grab the smoking saucepan. “Fuck. Shit.”
All the water has boiled away, the spaghetti stuck like glue to the bottom of the pan. I dump the pan in the sink and turn on the cold water which does nothing but add a load of burning hot steam to the mix. A cough scratches at my throat as I stare glumly at the charred spaghetti.
Breaking News: Seattle woman discovers that you can, in fact, burn pasta.
I’m annoyed with myself for about two seconds before I remember I have a better target for my aggression because there is only one way Flynn knew my dinner was burning. Snatching up my phone, I jab my fingers at the keyboard.
Hazel
You said you’d turned the cameras off!
Dexter
I did.
Hazel
I meant permanently!
Dexter
Oh. If it makes you feel any better, I’m about to turn them back off because watching you try to cook is physically painful.
My mouth drops open.
Hazel
You’re not allowed to stalk me and insult me. It’s rude.
Dexter
New rule: Don’t touch anything hot.
Dexter
Or sharp.
“Says the serial killer,” I mutter, slumping back down at the dining table.
I don’t think I want to dare try make dinner again, so I drag my laptop towards me instead and go back to my latest obsession: deep diving on all of the Vigilante Choker’s victims.
As far as I can tell none of the others have the same tattoo as Randall Leewood and Garret Sleet but they did, however, all go to the same college.
Which doesn’t necessarily mean anything, the University of Washington is the biggest college in the state, but it’s enough of a coincidence to have me searching for other connections.
Tommy still hasn’t replied to my message and I can’t deny part of me is relieved.
I could happily go my whole life without ever hearing his voice again but without him I’m left trawling through the internet for scraps of information about the Kings Society.
It’s like it doesn’t even exist and part of me is starting to think Tommy made it all up when an article on the fifth page of the google search catches my eye.
The Dark Elitism Hiding Behind College Secret Societies
I click on the article. It’s an op-ed piece from eight years ago written for Spokane community college’s newspaper. The piece lists eight rumored secret societies in Washington and right there at the bottom are the words The Kings Society.
Potentially one of the most dangerous societies in America, no one actually knows whether the Kings Society exists.
Talked of only in corners of parties, whispers from hopeful pledges eager to earn their spot.
It’s said that a place in the Kings Society will secure your future for life.
Riches, fames, whatever you desire, if you’re a King you get it.
The question this writer wants to know the answer to: how exactly do you become a king?
My neck pricks. I scroll down but that’s all there is and I’m left with nothing but more questions and an uneasy feeling that has me jumping out of my skin when the doorbell rings.
My hand flutters to my chest and I take a breath, shaking off the feeling before getting up and heading to the door.
I open it to find Flynn standing on my doorstep. I blink at him. In hindsight, I really should have expected this, but I blame the article for distracting me.
“Lilac,” he murmurs, the deep timbre of his voice doing unfair things to my body.
“No,” I say, already closing the door.
The bell rings again.
I ignore it, staring at the varnished wood.
“Open the door, Hazel.”
I don’t listen, but I also don’t move from my spot on the other side of the painted wood.
Flynn’s voice filters through the door. “Want to hear a joke?”
A paper laugh slips from my lips and I rest my forehead against the wood. “Sure,” I say, quietly.
“What happened to the spaghetti that got burnt?”
“I don’t know Flynn, what happened to the spaghetti that got burnt?”
“It pasta-way.”
I open the door. “That’s dreadful.”
He smiles at me. “Worked though.”
“Debatable.” I’m still tempted to close the door again but then Flynn holds up a bag I didn’t see before, and the scent of Chinese takeout has my stomach growling.
“Hungry?”
Don’t be the blonde girl in the horror film, Hazel. Say no. Close the door.
I step back and let Flynn pass.
He’s brought almost a dozen dishes and the boxes cover the table by the time we’ve unpacked them all. I’m too hungry to overthink my bad decisions so I grab us both a plate and we dig in.
Just because he’s here, it doesn’t mean we have to talk though. I decide to spend the whole time ignoring him in protest but apparently Flynn has other ideas.
“So… Canada?”
My chopsticks freeze midair. “How do you…”
Flynn clucks his tongue, his gaze soft and scolding. “The cameras have audio, remember?”
Right. Of course. I stab a chopstick into a chicken ball. I should tell him to go fuck himself. I should make him tell me where the cameras are. I should sneak into the bathroom and call the police.
911 what’s your emergency?
Hi there, I just wanted to let you know that I’m currently having dinner with the Vigilante Choker. Okay thanks, byeee.
I don’t do any of those things.
“My mom grew up on Vancouver Island. I was so young when she was killed, I never really knew her.” I shrug and push the noodles around my plate.
“When I was thirteen my gran gave me my mom’s diaries because she thought it might help.
She had a whole life in Canada, so many stories of places and people.
I always said I’d move there so I could see it for myself. ”
Flynn puts down his chopsticks. “Do you miss her?”
I nod, pressure building under my eyes. “Of course.”
“So, if Canada is the plan, why are you still here?”
The words stick in my throat. How do I explain to him that Tommy left me broken? That I was only just putting myself back together when my gran died?
I point my chopsticks at him, turning the question back on him instead. “Why are you still here? Shouldn’t you be off on some island without extradition by now?”
I don’t know the ins and outs of being a criminal, but I’m pretty sure escaping from prison only to skulk around Seattle wasn’t Flynn’s original plan.
“Want to come with me?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m serious.”
Flynn’s clear gaze meets mine. “So am I.”
The promise in his words makes me feel some kind of way and I push back from the table, needing a little distance from this man whom I really shouldn’t like. I take my bowl to the sink and rinse it.
“I have something I need to do before I go,” Flynn says from behind me.
I turn around and brace my hands against the edge of the counter. “Does this something have anything to do with the Kings Society?”
A predator stillness settles over Flynn. He lowers his chopsticks, carefully placing them across his bowl. “Where did you hear that name?” The words are too calm and my heart kicks up a notch.
Flynn’s sharp gaze locks onto me and my fingers curl around the counter. I kick myself because for a second there, I let my guard down. I forgot that I was sitting across from a sociopath. But there’s no ignoring it now.