Chapter 34
The murderer did not send a crumpled note. They sent a very nicely folded letter in an envelope. I think that freaks me out
more.
I go sit in the tub with the pepper spray and the whistle.
I don’t turn the faucet on, I just sit there and take slow breaths to calm my heart rate down.
After about five minutes, Louis comes in to check on me, and within a few seconds all three dogs are sitting in the tub with
me. It’s not a very big tub, but I’ll admit there’s something comforting about the three of them being crammed in with me,
like I have a weighted blanket of punk rock dogs.
I lean my head back against the cool tile wall.
The murderer can’t want to kill me, or I’d be dead already.
Right?
I’m just gonna go with that.
So if they don’t want to kill me, and I just do what the note says—if I just stop—I’ll be okay?
I can just be a regular crossing guard or even get a new job. I don’t have to avenge anyone’s death or find missing bribe money. I don’t have to do anything. I can go back to having a normal life.
But what does normal even mean? There’s no Chris. No Hannah. Not even Tasha.
Does it just mean a life without murder? Because that is a low-ass bar.
As I contemplate how incredibly low the bar is, Jean drives it home, ripping the worst fart I have ever experienced. It takes me so long to escape from underneath the three dogs that it’s verging on violating the Geneva Conventions, and
the moment I’m out of the tub, I don’t even pause to think about it.
I reach for the green screen.
My first step to normalcy, whatever that looks like, is getting Sheila off my back and giving these adorable fart bags to
someone who can appreciate them.
A breeze wafts out of the bathroom and I gag.
It’s time to make some videos.
Past time.
An hour later, the apartment has fully aired out and I have some great material. Turns out punk rock dogs who can do tricks
are excellent video subjects. Marlowe was really on to something.
I cleverly cut the ten minutes of Jacques ignoring me, Jean eating my shoe, and Louis XIV dragging his butt on my kitchen
mat, and with a few special effects—boom. I have some very compelling adoption videos of three cuddly, well-behaved poodles.
As I fold Eva’s stolen green screen, I can’t help but think how much fun Hannah and I would have had doing this together.
We’ve never had a fight this big, but it can’t be the end of the friendship. Right? Maybe it’s time I come clean, tell her
about the murders, bribery, etc.? Let her know what I’ve been up to lately?
Nope. I can’t drag her into this shit show. I definitely wish Claudia had never dragged me into it.
And I especially don’t want Hannah to think I’m just using her for advice. Not after I accused her of using other people. I won’t tell her about the murders. I’ll just see how she’s doing.
Is that so hard?
I pull out my phone.
Me: Hey so I was a dick, and I’m really really sorry. You’re right. I’ve been super self-involved, and not at all present for
you. I want to make it up to you. Can we meet up and talk? Name the time and place
I hit send and wait, but there’s no activity on her end. I probably deserve that. After a minute of waiting pathetically,
just watching my lock screen, I toss it on my chair and roll up the green screen to keep it from wrinkling.
And then the phone rings.
It’s a video call from Hannah, and when I swipe to accept, I see that she’s crying. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“Can you . . . get a drink right now?” she asks through tears, wiping a hand across her face.
I probably shouldn’t drink before my afternoon shift, but this is clearly an emergency, and I need to prove to Hannah (and
myself ) that I can do better.
Time to get my priorities straight.
“Absolutely. Where?”
“Not out here—somewhere near you,” she says, her voice catching.
We plan to meet up at Dickie’s, which is maybe becoming my place, against all odds.
I don’t want to bring the dogs along and annoy Hannah any more than I already have. But they’re all hyped up from shooting the videos (and all the snack bribes I gave them) and can’t be left alone for that long. Too much temptation to do something terrible to my poop-free floors.
I text their favorite human and get a response right away.
Benny: Do you think I sit around all day waiting for dogs to hang out with
Me: Not only that, I think you have a picture of the poodles as my avatar on your phone
Benny: Guilty as charged
Benny: I reluctantly agreed to train Charlie today, buuuuuut
Me: ???
Benny: I’ll reschedule
A few minutes later, we meet at the dog park by the school for the handoff.
“Thanks for doing this,” I say. “You’re gonna have to put it on my tab though. My dog handler budget is pretty tapped out.”
“Don’t worry, I actually turned down a paid gig to do this,” he says. “This one’s pro bono.”
“Wow, must be nice to turn down work,” I say with a smirk.
“Some dogs are more important than money,” he says, ruffling their punk poofs.
God, I wish he would just adopt them.
“Text you in a bit?” I ask. “After you wear them out?”
“We’ll be here when you’re done,” he says, and as I slip through the dog park gate, I glance back to see that he’s already
got the guys running an agility course around the place. He truly is a dog wizard.
Meanwhile, I am going to be a life wizard.
By which I mean, I’m not only making up with Hannah—I’m also determined to get as far away from that cursed construction site as possible. That’s right:
Baby’s getting herself a new job. As I walk to the bar, I pop into every single store and restaurant and coffee shop and check
if they’re hiring.
Tragically, by the time I mustered up enough humility to call that guy from LookShopNow, they were done setting up interviews.
And I’m clearly not getting the magical 11.5K infusion that I hoped I would. So if I’m going to quit being a crossing guard,
I need a new job pronto, or I’ll have to move back in with my folks, which is obviously not happening.
#thankssheila
I’m only a little sweaty by the time I get to Dickie’s. It’s cool in there and the lights are low, as usual, and Hannah’s
already there, sitting in the booth farthest from the door.
She looks worse than I’ve ever seen her.
She’s also already got two beers at the table, so I don’t waste time at the bar and just slide in across from her.
“I’ve ruined everything,” she says, before I even get a chance to ask.
It takes me a second to understand what she’s said, because Hannah’s not the ruiner. That’s me.
She’s the perfect one.
“What do you mean?” I ask gently. “You don’t mean us, right? We were both in a weird mood, we said dumb things—”
“No, not us,” she says, waving a hand dismissively as she chokes back a dry sob. “With Kenji and Reuben and Eva. Eva found out that I borrowed her green screen and just lost it at me. Which is fair. I should’ve asked.”
Oh boy. “Just blame me,” I say. “It’s my fault and she hates me anyway.”
She shakes her head. “That’s small potatoes compared to the arguments with Reuben and Kenji. Kenji says I spend more of my
time online than with him. And Reuben just thinks I’m doing everything wrong with my business, so I can’t talk to any of them
about—” She kind of chokes and then blows her nose on a napkin.
Here’s me being honest: Yeah, fine, I’ve been jealous of Hannah’s setup. I always joke about how her polycule seems way more
complicated than fun, but at the end of the day, she’s got so many people who care about her . . . it honestly makes me feel
like she doesn’t really need me. Which sucks.
But the fact that they’re making it work and are in love and romantically humping—it’s inspiring. It makes me think it could
happen for me again someday. So as much as the comparison game can creep up on me, I want those crazy kids to make it. I want
love to be real, even when it looks like a dodecahedron. I don’t want my friend to be as heartbroken as I am.
I reach out and squeeze her hand. “I’m here for you,” I say. “No matter what.”
She takes a deep breath. “Mo, they don’t believe me.”
Did I miss something? I missed something. “About what?”
“The Instagram stalker.”
“The stalker you tried to tell me about?”
Hannah sniffles. “That one.”
“And I didn’t listen?”
“And you didn’t listen. But at least you believed me. And I just—I feel so alone, and I’m a little scared, Mo. I need help.”
“Let me see,” I say, holding out my hand. “The messages.”
She hesitates. “I haven’t shown anyone these.”
“Why not?”
“You heard Eva and Reuben and Kenji when you came by. They say I’m too online and don’t protect myself. And these messages
prove they’re right. But I need help, not fucking scolding.”
That would explain why they were all so weirdly upset with me when I came over thinking I had a stalker. They were upset with
Hannah and taking it out on me.
Okay, that is not cool. They should be supporting her and helping her through this. And I suddenly see that I am still important. Even three romantic partners can’t take care of all your needs. Sometimes you still need a best friend.
“I know it’s scary, but you have to show them, Hannah,” I say gently. “And right now, you have to show me.”
Especially a best friend who accidentally sort of has a lot of experience at detective work.
Hannah hands me her phone.
And as I scroll through her DMs, I can see just how many people Hannah’s reached. How public her life really is. How many
people think they know her. It isn’t as cool as I imagined.
Then Hannah points out her thread with the stalker.
And holy shit, it’s intense. The person isn’t just spamming her, they’re obsessed. They know way too much about her.
Like . . . why is there a photo of the house Hannah grew up in? Facing Hannah’s old bedroom window?
I feel sick.
“That’s just the latest thread,” Hannah explains. “I’ve blocked them five times and they just open new accounts. But the words
they use— It’s clearly all the same person.”
“Did you tell anyone that?”