7. Don’t Worry, I’ve Got a Serial Killer on Speed Dial
DON’T WORRY, I’VE GOT A SERIAL KILLER ON SPEED DIAL
Hazel
I’m in my night shirt again, standing in the middle of my bedroom, staring at my phone and trying to decide whether or not to message my ex.
I really shouldn’t. Tommy had a temper. He never actually hit me, but the smash of glass on the wall next to me will be forever etched into my nervous system.
I didn’t realize how bad things were getting until Wright saw the fingerprint bruises on my wrist. Tommy is the last person I should be going anywhere near.
But he’s also the reason I recognized the tattoo on Garret Sleet’s wrist.
Tommy used to draw the same design on his arm.
Used to say one day it would be real. That he’d be pledged into the Kings Society and then he’d be set for life.
He never told me what exactly the Kings Society was, and I don’t know whether he ever got in or not.
The night Wright saw the bruises she told me in no uncertain terms that I was breaking up with him so I stood him up for our date, blocked his number, and hid in Wright’s dorm room.
I only saw him once after that, when he turned up at Wright’s dorm, bloody and beaten.
He’d tried to break the door down with a chair, shouting that it was all my fault and he was going to make me pay.
He didn’t go away until Wright called campus security and threatened to cut his dick off.
I sat under her desk, shaking, for hours after he left.
God this is stupid, what would I even say to him?
Hey, I know you’re an abusive asshole who I haven’t spoken to in four years, but I was just wondering if you could tell me more about that tattoo you used to draw on your arm like a ten-year-old boy.
Like, for example, why a serial killer might want to murder the members of the secret society you were obsessed with.
Ugh, I should just forget about it. Why does it matter who Flynn is killing? Why do I care that maybe he has a good reason for murdering eight people? It’s still murder.
I do care though.
Screw it.
I pick up my phone and type out a message to Tommy then throw the phone back on my bed like it might bite me.
I hug my chest, grimacing at the black screen. It lights up with a message and my heart clenches, but I put on my big girl panties and take a look. Only the message isn’t from Tommy.
Olivia
911. Wright.
Shit. Wright was planning on going out vigilante style tonight and we have a rule that I’m only contacted in absolute emergencies.
Olivia sends another message, sharing Wright’s live location, and I grab some clothes out of the closet. I type out a response with one hand as I grab my backpack.
Hazel
Is she hurt?
Olivia
Only her ego.
My chest unknots a little and I slip my shoes on by the door. I get another message as soon as I step outside and I open it without thinking, assuming it’s Olivia because apparently I totally forgot I have a stalker now.
Dexter
It’s late, Lilac. Where are you going?
I skid to a stop.
Hazel
You said you turned the cameras off.
Dexter
I did.
Dexter
But I may have also set an alert for when you leave the house.
My jaw drops. The audacity of it is incredible. He’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s stalking me. I half expect to get a formal notice in the mail.
Dear Ms. Halloway,
I am writing to inform you that you are now the obsession of a certified stalker. I will be tracking your movements and invading your privacy for the foreseeable future.
With love and fixation,
Your friendly neighborhood sociopath
I growl at my phone and shove it in my pocket because I don’t have time to deal with Flynn right now, not when Wright needs me.
I get in my gran’s old Buick and balance my phone on the dashboard with the map set to Wright’s location.
She’s down in the center of the city so I have to park a few streets away.
It’s almost midnight by the time I arrive, and I regret not bringing a jacket.
And pepper spray and maybe a taser. This part of the city is shady as hell and I’m pretty sure the guy leaning through the window of the car parked a few spaces away is buying drugs.
My internal dialogue right now is a constant stream of scolding Wright.
I hate that she does this vigilante act, but I know nothing I can say will stop her.
Most of the time we like to pretend she doesn’t spend her nights in bars scouting for men who like to use their fists more than their words.
I let her and Olivia get on with it and I live in blissful denial.
Unless I get a 911. Then I drop everything and drive into the seediest part of the city because Wright is the other half of my soul and I would do anything for her.
So, I slip my house keys between my knuckles and cross the street.
Olivia’s directions take me to an alley between a dive bar and a block of apartments that has more graffiti than brickwork. Only there’s no sign of Wright.
Hazel
I’m here but I can’t find her.
Olivia
She wants you to promise not to laugh.
I frown, my frustration only growing.
Hazel
Olivia, where is she?!
Olivia
Look up.
The alley is more shadow than light, but I use my phone to peer up the gap between the two buildings and break the promise I didn’t make immediately.
“It’s not funny!” Wright says. Except she says it from where she’s hanging by her backpack, from a fire escape. Her legs wiggle in the air.
“Oh, it’s a little funny,” I say through my laughter.
“Will you just get up here and help?”
Still laughing, I climb up the fire escape, my steps on the metal stairs echoing in the dark alley. “How did you even do this?” I ask as I crouch down on the platform and inspect where the handle at the top of her backpack is hooked over a jagged bit of metal.
“Hey, you try balancing on a fire escape banister!”
“Why would I do that, Wright? Why did you do that!”
Wright wriggles her arms, which I’m pretty sure must be half dead by now from the way the straps of the backpack are cutting into her armpits. “Um, plausible deniability?”
I shake my head. “Yeah, let’s go with that.” I thread my arm through the gap in the railings and reach down. “Can you grab my hand?”
Wright tilts her head back then lifts her arm but the second she does she starts to slip.
“Fuck.”
“Okay, stop, stop, stop.” I gulp, staring at the hard asphalt which is three floors, and many, many broken bones away.
I look back down the metal stairs of the fire escape, trying to figure out how to get Wright out of this mess.
Each level has a small platform, and Wright’s legs are dangling just above the level below.
“I could try lifting you up from underneath, but I don’t think I’ll be able to hold you steady by myself. Can you hang on until Olivia can get here?” I pause. “No pun intended.”
Wright snorts. “Livi’s picking up an extra shift.”
“Crap.” This is why Wright and I disagree when it comes to her vigilante streak.
I knew one day it would land her in trouble.
At least finding her dangling from a fire escape is better than finding her dead in a ditch.
Or it is so long as I can get her down before the strap on her backpack snaps and she becomes a pretty Jackson Pollock on the sidewalk.
A fate which is becoming more and more likely because I really don’t know how to get her down from here by myself.
A thought occurs to me then. A thought I really, really hate. Because aside from Olivia, there’s only one person I can think to call who won’t ask questions that will get Wright in trouble.
“Hey Hazel, do you think it’s a bad sign that I can’t move my fingers or are we all good with that?”
Crap.
“It’s totally fine. Fingers are overrated anyway,” I say, despite panic pricking at my chest.
“That’s good then.”
Cursing everything about this situation to high hell, I screw up my face and type out a message to the one man who I know for a fact won’t go to the police.
Hazel
Pretty sure I’m going to regret this, but I need your help.
My phone rings, instantly. I put it to my ear to answer, not wanting Wright to overhear.
“Lilac.” Flynn’s voice is dark, a warning threaded through the pet name.
I definitely do not shudder. “Any chance you know where I am right now?”
“Somewhere you shouldn’t be.”
I’ll take that as a yes. My fingers pick at the black paint on the railing. “I need your help.”
“Are you hurt?” The question is sharp, like he actually cares about my safety, like he really feels something for me, which shouldn’t be possible. And yet… “Hazel, are you hurt?”
I’m not used to a guy caring about my safety and it takes me a second to respond. “No. I’m fine. I just… need an extra set of hands.”
A bike engine revs. “I’m on my way.” He hangs up and I imagine him speeding down the road, visor down, leather jacket wrapped around his body.
“So… you want to tell me who you just called?” Wright’s voice drifts up from down by my feet.
I stare at the graffitied wall of the bar opposite. “Not really.” How do you explain to your best friend that you met a serial killer the other night and now you’re on a text each other in emergencies basis?
I have a feeling Flynn might have been following me because it’s not long before a motorbike purrs to a stop in the alley below.
He takes off his helmet, shakes out his hair, and looks up at Wright, totally deadpan. “How’s it hanging?”
“You’re not funny,” I call down to him, leaning over the railing.
“Plus, Hazel already made that joke,” Wright adds.
“Shut up you,” I say, glaring down at her because I refuse to admit that I have the same sense of humor as my stalker. Then I lean over the railing again. “And you, get up here, preferably before Wright loses the use of her hands permanently.”
“Wait, is that a possibility?!”
“No, definitely not,” I say, though honestly, I have no idea.
The fire escape rattles as Flynn makes his way up, each step of his boots vibrating through the metal.