Chapter 45
Agatha
I look up and pull a smile onto my face that feels borrowed. “Yeah, it’s me,” I say, trying to sound surprised in the way people do when they run into ghosts from a life they left on purpose.
“Oh my goodness, I have not seen you since senior year. How are you?” she asks, all high-pitched and beaming.
“I’m good,” I answer, keeping my voice even.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asks, like she expects nostalgia to glue us together.
“I recognize you, but no, I don’t recall your name. Sorry,” I say.
She shouldn’t feel bad. I don't remember most of the kids’ names I went to school with.
Barely remember the kids that were at church: Adam, Kyle, Catherine, Delores.
They were at church every time I was, and they made sure I knew how much they despised me for not conforming. No one else sticks out in my mind.
“Christine,” she supplies, like a librarian handing me back a lost book. “Mary Christine, but I go by Christine now. We had AP English and Psychology together. My parents and I joined the church our junior year.”
“Oh, right,” I say. “Nice to see you again. We were just leaving.” I push Evander with my hip, and he stands.
“Did you move back to town?” she asks.
“No, not really, I am just passing through,” I say.
“A shame. How are your parents?” she asks, and there it is, the question they all ask.
“Couldn’t tell you,” I reply flatly. “I haven’t talked to them since graduation.” I check Evander with my eyes. “I’m going to hit the ladies’ room. Meet you at the car, okay?”
Turning back to her, my expression ends any further questions. “Nice to see you, Christine. Have a good dinner,” I add, and then I move away.
The bathroom is a small square that smells of cheap hand soap and is covered in white tile from floor to ceiling.
I lean on the sink and let my forehead drop to the cool porcelain for a breath.
Just my luck to run into someone from the church here, but she doesn’t look like she still kneels in the pews.
If she were still deep in those circles, she wouldn’t have come over without being told to.
That little fact makes me breathe faster.
I splash water on my face and pat myself dry, tug my shirt down over my hips, and step back toward the hallway to rejoin the world.
When I enter the main room, I see Christine talking with an older man I recognize from my father’s circle of friends.
He nods at her and she looks from him to the doorway where I’m at and back.
The tilt of her head says she’s traded gossip for praise, and everything in me goes cold. She’s telling him I’m here.
He turns and starts across the floor toward the bathrooms. I move without thinking, ducking into the short passage by the men’s room and pushing through the exit into the alley behind the building.
The alley smells like grease and the last day’s cigarette smoke.
I can already see the mouth of the alley where the parking lot and freedom waits.
Two of Christine’s men enter the alley opposite of me and stride toward me with purpose. Both with hair shiny with oil and stupid faces that hold crooked, rotten grins. One of them calls out before they get close enough for me to do anything but brace myself.
“You’re that slut from the woods video.” He grimaces.
Before I can answer, a splash hits my chest. Cold and sticky coffee soaks through the cotton, making it cling to my skin.
“You’re the whore with the devil’s props,” the other one says with a sneer before he spits on me.
I wipe at my face and flick my hands like I’m trying to shake them dry.
“That’s the only way you’d get your fluids near me, asshole.”
They step closer, and the smaller one smiles. “Fucking freak.”
I shove past them. My shoulder bangs the first one, and my knees pump hard. My shoes slap the pavement fast, and I break into the open, running through the parking lot to the car.
I jump into the backseat and slam the door shut. Corwin is beside me with his hand already on my shoulder like he knows what happened and is giving me a second to exist. Garron is behind the wheel, Evander riding shotgun.
“Shit, what the hell happened, and why are you wet and smelling like coffee and caramel?” Corwin asks.
“Two guys cornered me in the alley and threw coffee on me because, apparently, they think they have opinions about my life,” I say, voice shaking but getting steadier with each breath I take.
“I’ll kill them,” Garron says, his voice a flat promise.
“You can’t,” Evander says.
“Yes, I can,” he retorts.
“Not in public, with witnesses. Plus, it’s still daylight,” I reason with him on his level.
“Why were you in the alley, Little Horror?” Evander asks.
“One of my father’s friends was talking to Christine as I was coming out. He nodded my way, and I panicked and bolted,” I explain.
Garron jerks his head toward the diner window. “Look.”
Two men are stepping out of the alley and heading toward the pizzeria door.
I hear the click of a phone camera and look toward Evander with a brow raised.
He laughs. “Easier to track them down and find out who they are if we have a face and a name.”
I curl up on the couch in a pair of joggers and an old tank, half a cup of cold coffee forgotten on the table, watching a Charmed rerun.
Prue is snapping at her sisters, and the background noise is more comforting than I care to admit.
The house feels too quiet, like the air itself knows something I don’t.
Yesterday was… a lot. Seeing my parents, the church, running into classmates.
I’m glad that today we’re doing nothing.
I reach for the mug on the table, curling my fingers around the warmth.
A sudden alarm from the TV makes me jolt so hard I almost drop it; Emergency news alert.
I grip the remote tighter as the screen shifts.
The local station. Sheriff Meyers stands in front of yellow tape, his hat too big, his voice too steady.
My stomach drops when the photo box in the corner flashes two faces I know. Devon and Darron Highland. The assholes from the alley.
The anchor’s voice carries over the scene. “This morning, a friend of the Highland brothers arrived to hitch a ride to church and found the front door open. Inside, she discovered a horrific scene.”
The screen cuts to Christine. She’s crying, blotchy, with makeup streaked down her cheeks.
“They always locked the door. No way it would be left open like that. So I went inside and…and…God.” She gags and covers her mouth.
“Darron’s tongue wasn’t in his mouth. It was on the floor next to him.
And Devon…he had a camera lens shoved into his eye socket.
One of those big fancy one’s wedding photographers use. Who would do something like this here?”
Her sobs fill the TV until the camera swings back to the sheriff. He’s pale but holding himself together like he’s had practice at this. “If you know or saw anything, call the CrimeStoppers number. We advise residents to stay home after dark until further notice.”
Then the screen flips back to Charmed like nothing happened. Just Prue bossing her sisters around again. The whiplash makes me dizzy.
But I know who did this.
I just can’t figure out how they left without me hearing. We all went to bed at the same time. I would have noticed footsteps, doors, the engine. Wouldn’t I?
I stand up and head to the door, the mirror behind the entry table catches my eye, and I stare at my reflection.
I look different. Hair wild, eyes sharp, lips still swollen from biting them in my sleep.
I tilt my head, studying myself. I look like a woman who gave three men permission to burn the world down for her. And now, I can’t find the off switch.
I head out the door in search of the trio. I can already hear them before I see them—music blasting and the hose spraying. They’re in the driveway washing the car. Foam streaks down black paint. Yungblud’s Parents screams out of the speakers.
I walk over, reach out, and twist the radio knob down until the noise dies. My hands find my hips. My heart still pounds from the news. Evander spots me first, rag dripping in his hand.
“What’s up, Little Horror?” he asks like it’s just another morning.
“What’s up is my show got interrupted by an emergency alert!” I snap. “Devon and Darron? Found dead this morning.”
Corwin whistles low, shaking his head. “Well, ain’t that karma.”
“Cut the shit, crazy pants. How the hell did you get out of the house without me waking up? We went to bed at the same time.”
Corwin smirks, flicking soap suds at me. “Doesn’t mean we stayed in bed, babe.”
“Why?” My throat feels tight. “Why did you do it?”
Garron throws the sponge into the bucket. His jaw is set hard. “They touched you.”
“Not like that, they didn’t,” I fire back.
“Doesn’t matter,” he barks. “They threw a drink on you. They humiliated you. Hurt your feelings. That’s not allowed. Not anymore. We’re the only ones who get to hurt you, and that’s because we know how far to push and how to make it feel good.”
“You didn’t have to kill them,” I whisper, even though I already know the answer.
“Yes, we did,” Garron says. “You know why we’re here. Is it too much for you now?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, taste copper, and look at each of them. “I-I-I don’t know. It feels different now that I’m here. I can’t explain it.”
Corwin slings the hose over his shoulder, water dripping onto his boots. “You better figure it out quickly. Tomorrow night we move on Michael.”
“I…” The word dies in my throat.
“Figure it out, Little Horror,” he says. His eyes burn into me. “You either handle us or you don’t. The end.”
My chest is tight as I turn and march back inside. The TV blares behind me, ignored, as I pass the table and snatch up my AirPods. I hurry upstairs to the bathroom, lock the door, and crank the water as hot as it will go. Steam fills the room as I strip out of my clothes and sink into the tub.
The heat bites at my skin, but it’s not enough to burn away the thought—what the fuck am I doing?
I grab my phone, slide in my AirPods, and scroll until I find the podcast that always steadies me. A true crime one, voices of two women who sound like they’re sitting in my kitchen with coffee and gossip.
They’re talking about a man in Germany. A cannibal. He wasn’t hunting people in the shadows or sneaking into houses. He put out ads on the internet asking for volunteers. Willing participants. People who wanted to be eaten. And the worst part? So many actually answered.
Another man got chosen. Came to his house. Sat at his table. They had dinner and wine like it was a date. And then they agreed. The second man wanted his penis cut off. He wanted to eat it with the cannibal, share the meal.
The hosts describe how it went. How the knife wasn’t sharp enough at first. How there was screaming, begging to finish the job. How they fried it up in a pan with butter and garlic, but it burned before they could swallow more than a bite. My stomach twists, but I don’t pull the earbuds out.
They talk about how the victim bled out in the aftermath, how the cannibal sat with him for hours while he died, then dismembered the body, like a butcher with a pig, parceling cuts into freezer bags. He kept some of the meat in a fridge, tucked away like leftovers.
The trial dragged on for years. The defense tried to argue it wasn’t murder because the victim consented. He wanted it. He begged for it. The law said it was still homicide. Consent doesn’t change the fact that someone died. But even the prosecutors admitted it was unlike anything they’d ever seen.
The hosts giggle nervously, voices bouncing off each other. “Can you imagine volunteering for that?” one says. The other groans. “I couldn't even get my ex to take the trash out, and this man signed up to be sautéed.”
I barely hear them. All I can think about is the willingness.
Willingness changes everything.
The hot water creeps higher on my skin, prickling, but I don’t move. I close my eyes and imagine it: choosing death, because the hunger in you demanded it. Because something in you wanted to be consumed.
And something in me wonders if that’s what I’ve already done.