Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
SUMMER
D ani and I came home after class to our quaint, two-story house in the middle of town we are renting together. Dani’s mother didn’t want her living in the residence hall, so she found us a house instead. I tried to ignore the ickiness building in my stomach after seeing the photo sent out to the class. Everyone was talking about it when we left, whispers of Shadowface reverberating throughout the school. This unknown entity…this familiar demon in my mind.
I now understand why Dani and I saw a few students wearing burlap masks. I thought it was a weird freshman thing, but I now understand it’s a symbol of Shadowface.
They idolize him here.
It also makes sense why my mom was upset I came here.
After spending a few hours unpacking and getting ready for our new roommate to join us, I head upstairs to my charming room that also serves as the attic. It comprises my bed, a slim armoire, a desk in the corner, and a dresser beside the large square window under the arched ceilings. It’s small but has a beautiful view of the outside, where I can stare out into the canopy trees of the park near my house, and the tree-lined street beyond. Kinsmen is known for its dark, massive trees, which only adds to the crippling ambience of its history.
This semester is already proving intense, so I open my literature textbook and start reading through some of the material, avoiding my psychology readings altogether.
I lean my head against my headboard and stare out at the moon and a cloud hovering over it. A cool breeze hits my face, but I don’t close the window. I always keep my window open, and that’s what I love about these old houses. Windows without screens, where people can crawl into your room at night.
The idea of being watched excites me…always has.
Eventually, I grab the computer and pull up the list of today’s readings I have to get done for psychology. Three online articles and the entire first chapter on research methods. I run my thumb over my father’s name.
K. Landry.
My heart swells when I remember him, and I allow myself to feel the pain of his loss. After running away immediately after he died, it remains a lingering wound in my heart. I stare at the textbook on my desk and my vision blurs, as if my subconscious won’t let me read his words. My jaw tightens, realizing that book is the only significant part of my father I have left.
Defeated, I place my computer on the edge of my bed and grab my phone and message my mother and ask how she’s doing. She doesn’t respond—she never responds to me right away. She’s been devastated, and in her mind, I abandoned her to come to school here. Leaving her after my father’s body gave out on him.
Cardiac arrest in his early forties. It was quick and dirty. One minute he was here, the next, he was comatose on life support. I haven’t really had a chance to process it.
I pull up the photo of the Shadowface victim and stare at it. I squint, trying to get a view of the eyes behind the burlap mask, trying to imagine them cut out.
I inspect the photo closer and let out a huge breath to release all the tension rising in me. She’s been delicately placed on the bed, her arms tied up behind her head, her breasts perky and on display. It’s like whoever was behind these photos took pride in making sure she looked perfect. And although her face is covered, I can imagine the serene look in her eyes before she died.
Like she was about to be fucked.
It’s the hair falling in gentle waves over her breasts that catches my attention the most, her ivory skin so smooth and tight.
It’s like looking in a mirror.
A spindly sensation shoots down my spine, landing between my legs with a pleasurable intensity.
My breath lengthens as I lift the hem of the sweater dress I’m still wearing from earlier and look at the similar white panties I have on, and heat pools in my core. I slip my hand beneath my panties and press down on my clit, moving my fingers in a gentle circle as a slight cool wind blows through my open windows.
It’s a coincidence—it has to be. White lace bras and panties are timeless.
It’s not him. It’s not my nameless monster. This photo is from twenty-two years ago, when the copycat killer slaughtered those women. I wasn’t even born when it happened.
I think back to two years ago…to the last night my monster came to me when I was in my senior year of high school. It was rare I saw him, even though he was a constant presence in my mind. The silly teenage me actually fell in love with him—or at least, I thought I did.
He is a ghost. A man I only saw in my dreams, and even then, it was only a couple of times a year. I’m not even sure he was real.
The pressure builds in my core as I think about him, then it starts to burn. Despite the fresh air coming in through my open window, the room grows hot.
Ping.
I snap myself back to the present and pull my hand from between my legs as if someone just caught me in the act. My pulse is racing, my fist curling the blankets beneath me.
What am I doing? Dreaming of a masked man fucking his victims.
Shadowface never indicated he had sex with those girls. Why would I even think that? That was never what it was about for Shadowface. He killed them for sport, and because he could. And I have no clue why my natural response is to get off on it.
Overwhelmed by disgust, I quickly adjust myself and strain my eyes to locate the origin of the noise on my computer. I notice a red circle on the chat group in my online class forum.
Someone sent me a message.
Dr. Garcia strongly suggested we form study groups, and I anticipated studying with Dani, so I’m surprised I have an unread message in our classroom chat group.
I pull the computer to my lap and lay my head back.
I created a fake username earlier. The professor told us we can remain anonymous if we choose to. In fact, she encouraged it due to the personal nature of the course.
I click on the message and my eyes narrow when I see the display name.
SF : Hi there.
I hover the mouse over the name.
Oh, for crying out loud. Subtle.
Fuck. It’s as if he knew. Like he was watching me through that screen and smelled my arousal. I pause for a second before answering.
Bikiniqueen: Hi
SF: Want to study with me?
Feeling silly for being freaked out, I blow out a breath. This is just psychology class, and this weirdo must have a sick sense of humor. But the thing is, it doesn’t freak me out like it should, given the symbolism of it all and this town’s obsession with Shadowface.
Bikiniqueen: I don’t fraternize with serial killers, sorry.
A pause and my lips curl into a small smile. But my heart…the rhythm of the beat tells a different story.
SF: You don’t like my name?
Bikiniqueen: No. I do not.
I scan the class list. There is zero indication who this could be. And even though this seems innocent enough, someone at this school sent that photo. Joke or no joke, it’s really messed up. And who’s to say this SF wasn’t the one who sent it?
SF: It’s a joke. And it could mean something entirely different, you know.
Bikiniqueen: Like what?
Another pause on his end. Or her end, because I have no idea who I’m talking to.
SF: It could mean several things. Super flirty, perhaps?
Someone is flirty, so I guess I’ll play. I’m a good flirt. It comes with the territory of being me, even if I’m a prude at heart. And all I ever do is flirt, even though what I just did is the opposite of prudish.
Bikiniqueen: Why are you assuming I’m a girl, or are you into guys, too? I could be hideous, and you might not want to be my boyfriend when you see what I look like.
SF : I bet a girl with a name like Summer must be gorgeous .
“What the hell?” I mutter. I’m tempted to slam my laptop closed, instantly regretting logging on here. I don’t need some creep bugging me during my first week.
Bikiniqueen: How do you know my name?
SF: Your attempts at anonymity are cute. I figured it out from your nickname. It wasn’t that hard.
Okay, he has me on that one.
Bikiniqueen: Smart ass.
SF: I try. I bet you like people seeing you in your bikini, don’t you, Summer? You enjoy people looking at that tight body, don’t you, pretty girl?
Pretty girl…
The little hairs stand on my neck and my head lifts to the window, only to be met by moonlight and darkness. No creepy masked man standing outside looking at me, but the blinds are wide open, and I’m splayed out on my bed for anyone outside to see.
I pull my sweater dress over my knees. I’m too curious now to end this conversation, even though I should. So far, my interactions with people at this school have been strange, to say the least. That’s what I get for choosing such a stupid username, I guess.
Bikiniqueen : Come again?
SF: Maybe you’ll show me what’s underneath that little sweater dress.
Nope! No. No. No.
I get up and slam the window closed. Settling my heartbeat, I sit back down. He’s just fucking with me. I wore this outfit to school today.
Bikiniqueen: Who am I speaking to? It’s only right that, given you have my name, I should have yours.
He doesn’t respond right away. A few minutes go by, and I stare up at my pitched ceiling.
Finally, a response.
SF: Fairness is a social construct, identified and articulated by your worldview and limited by experiences you had as a child. You will learn this when we study personality. Life isn’t fair, Summer, and it’s not in my best interest right now to tell you who I am. You didn’t tell me your name, I figured it out. I never asked you for it, so how is it fair you’re asking for mine?
I suck in a breath. It’s like listening to my father speak or scold me at the dinner table. Always psychoanalyzing. It’s like he couldn’t help himself.
Bikiniqueen: You seem to know a whole heck of a lot about our class.
Lincoln kept staring at me today, like he recognized me… Would he message me like this?
SF: I read ahead. I like to understand what I’m getting into.
I shake my head. “So stupid,” I mutter to myself. Why would a guy as established as Lincoln want to play some prank on me? It makes no sense.
SF : So will you answer my question?
I bite my bottom lip and smile, typing back a response.
Bikiniqueen: What question?
SF : Will you study with me?
Bikiniqueen: I think I’ll pass.
A few seconds go by before he or she finally says,
SF: Have a good night, Summer .
Their circle turns gray, indicating they’ve logged off, and I slam my computer shut, shaking my head. I turn off my bedside light and curl up in a ball, trying to calm my senses. Every nerve in my body is fired up. This school, this town, this obsession with masked men…
Officially. Fucking. Creepy.
All I can think about is some psycho wearing a potato sack mask, fantasizing about me in my bed. Worst of all, I am so sexually frustrated right now that a pulse hits between my legs again. I have to admit, for the first time since that night, I’m really fucking turned on.