Vigilante Shit
Hazel
I haven’t seen or heard from Flynn in three days. I know he’s still watching me because my fridge has been mysteriously restocked again and I keep getting glimpses of his motorbike on my way to and from work.
I keep telling myself it’s for the best. Flynn point blank told me he plans on killing again, I should be happy he’s distancing himself and yet I’m spending ninety percent of my day checking for a message from him.
I keep oscillating between missing him and being fucking pissed that he’s ignoring me.
I kissed him. I broke my rule and I let him kiss me and now he’s done this.
I refuse to be the one to reach out to him though so I’m distracting myself by finally sorting through some of the boxes of my gran’s belongings.
After she died, Wright came around and helped me box up all her clothes and anything that I couldn’t look at without crying.
We tucked it all away in the closet in my old room and I’ve been slowly going through it all over the last couple of years, deciding what to keep and what to donate.
I was making good progress, with a pile of her cardigans folded neatly on the couch, when I got sidetracked by a photo album. Now I’m kneeling on the floor, turning through the pages on the coffee table.
It’s an old album, the blue leather and the photos inside faded.
I run my finger over an image of my mom tapping a maple tree.
She looks about ten in her dungarees and red rainboots.
I keep flicking through the photos, watching as she grows into her teens.
Photos of her hiking and hanging with friends on the beach.
Of her graduation and going to the prom with my dad.
I look a lot like my mom, a fact I’ve always found comfort in. The same chestnut brown hair and heart shaped face. It makes me feel a little closer to the woman I never got to know. I was supposed to have the childhood she did but then she was murdered and I’ve never set foot in Canada.
Maybe I should finally do it. Having a stalker is as good an excuse as any to flee to a different country and Gran would be mad that I’m still here, in this old bungalow.
She made me promise not to get stuck but that’s the thing about being stuck, you don’t realize you are until a serial killer climbs in your bedroom window and snaps you out of it.
I close the album and put it in the “to keep” pile and try to stop myself wondering about whether or not Flynn has killed the senator yet. And whether or not I should try to stop him. I groan, resting my head on my folded arms on the coffee table.
I put my phone in solitary in the kitchen earlier, so I didn’t think about him while I’m sorting but clearly that wasn’t enough. And when it buzzes on the kitchen table I last less than a minute before I’m up and checking it.
I have one unread message, it’s not from Flynn though.
Danny
Last chance to change your mind… Come save me from an evening of stuffy politicians and posh finger food.
I laugh under my breath. Danny is nothing if not persistent.
I never texted him after my little excursion to the senator’s HQ, but he found me on Instagram and DM’d me.
We’ve messaged a few times since and he’s slowly wearing me down.
Maybe it’s childish but the more Flynn ignores me the less I want to be a good little girl who does what she’s told.
I know Flynn wants me to stay away from the senator. Honestly, I don’t have much desire to go anywhere near the supposed leader of the Kings Society but the alternative, just standing back and letting Flynn kill him, doesn’t feel right either.
My parents’ killer got away without ever paying for what he did and the thought of someone like Claren getting away makes me sick, but does that make it okay for Flynn to kill him?
Surely, if we can find enough evidence, then the police won’t have any choice but to arrest him.
And what better place to find out someone’s secrets than a gala full of important people who are drinking too much?
Screw it, if I leave my phone at home, Flynn won’t even know I’m gone.
Hazel
Okay, I’m in.
Danny
You’re my hero. Let me know your address, I’ll pick you up in half an hour.
I give Danny my address then head to my bedroom to try and find an outfit that might be at least vaguely suitable for a charity gala.
My anxiety builds as I get ready and I tell myself it’s because the closest I’ve ever been to a gala is my middle school prom and not because I’m so flagrantly ignoring Flynn’s rules.
I settle on a low-cut crimson dress with a scooped back and kitten heels and Danny’s reaction when I walk outside goes a long way to settling my nerves.
He whistles low, his gaze sweeping over me. “I think I might be the envy of every man in the room tonight.”
I smile at his charm but point a finger at him. “This is not a date.”
He holds up his hands, the pristine white shirt of the tuxedo he’s wearing bright in the unlit drive. “Of course not. Just two friends keeping each other company among a crowd of rich, insufferable socialites.”
“You’re really selling this.”
“I’m kidding. Sort of.” He holds out his hand and helps me down the steps to his car. “It will be fun. I’ll even introduce you to the senator.”
I stumble, my heart tripping up my feet at the thought of shaking hands with that man now I know what he’s done.
“Woah, you okay?” Danny grips my elbow, steadying me.
I give him a shaky smile. “Yeah, sorry, not used to heels.”
Danny’s car is still warm from the heater, so I take my shawl off as we drive to the hotel where the gala is being held.
“So, how’s the research going?”
“What?”
Danny glances over at me from the driver’s seat. “The research. For your article.”
“Oh.” My brain is a blank page. Lois Lane would be appalled. “It’s uh, going good.”
Danny cuts me a look. “Uh huh. Must be an intense job being an investigative reporter.”
I press my lips together and hum in agreement.
And the Oscar goes to…
One of Danny’s eyebrows disappears under the loose coils flopped over his forehead.
I fiddle with the strap of my purse, suddenly feeling like maybe it wasn’t the best idea to get into a car with an almost stranger without my phone.
If Danny doesn’t believe me though, he lets it go and when we arrive at the gala, I no longer have time to stress about Danny. No, I’m too busy stressing about how out of place I feel in this ballroom the size of a football field.
Danny and I are clearly late to the party and dozens of guests mill around the room, drinking champagne and picking canapes off trays that may as well be floating in the air for all the attention they pay to the waiters.
I let Danny guide me through the room, pointing out various VIP’s as we head to one of the fancy tables with cream cloths. “That’s Rick Lockman,” he says, nodding to a man with shoulders that barely fit in his jacket. “Quarterback for the Seattle Strikers.”
Danny pulls out a chair for me. I put my purse on the seat but don’t sit down, too busy taking in the swathes of curtains hanging from floor to ceiling windows and the six, yes six, chandeliers hanging from above.
At the opposite end of the ballroom a stage is set with a live jazz band and a speaker’s podium.
The senator has really gone all out, and Rick Lockman isn’t the only famous face here. “What exactly is this gala for again?” I ask.
“To raise money for the new free clinic the senator’s building.” Danny nods towards the podium on the stage. “He’s doing a big unveiling of the name later.”
“Do you think it’s weird he’s putting so much effort into a free clinic when you said yourself he’s not as shiny as he seems?”
Danny cuts me a look, his usual charm slipping away under a sharp, unsettling gaze. “Did I say that?”
He reaches out and drags my silk shawl off my shoulders.
Goosebumps prick my arms.
Then Danny grins. “I’m kidding Hazel.” He wiggles his eyebrows and holds out a hand. “Come on, let’s go circulate.”
I shake off the unease and take his hand.
Danny gets me a drink from the bar, and we end up actually having a good time.
We keep wandering the room until we overhear something interesting and then we find an excuse to hover, eavesdropping on conversations by acting like we’re in love and oblivious to the world around us.
So far, we’ve learned of four different affairs and an accountant that can help you dodge taxes but nothing about the senator. By the time we sit down at our table for a break my feet are killing me and I’m more than a little tipsy.
“I think I might be bad at this,” I say, rubbing at the sole of my foot.
Danny leans his elbow on the table and rests his head in his hand. “What? Pretending to be a reporter?”
I freeze but Danny just rolls his eyes. “I’m not an idiot, Hazel.”
“I… um.” My heart thuds in my chest, the tips of my fingers tingling.
Danny’s charming smile is back, an amused quirk to his lips. “Relax, I’m not going to turn you in. I am kind of curious as to why you’re here though.”
I look down at the tablecloth, like maybe I’ll find my lines written there. “It’s… complicated.”
“I’m an art major who dropped out of Washington State, did a U-turn, and became a politician’s aide. I can do complicated.”
“You went to Washington?”
“Yeah, but then my mom got sick.”
“I’m sorry. I used to care for my gran.”
Danny nudges my leg with his. “Look at us bonding, does this mean you’ll tell me your secrets now?”
I open my mouth, words caught in my throat as I stare down at the tablecloth. “I, um—”
Beside me, Danny straightens sharply, pulling his shoulders back and my gaze flies to him.
“Senator,” he says, standing up.
“Daniel.” Senator Claren’s voice creeps down my back. Deep and caustic. “I see you took me up on that plus one in the end, won’t you introduce me to your date?”
I swallow sawdust, my fingers trembling in Danny’s as he takes my hand and helps me stand. I work on keeping my face blank, just the slightest smile on my lips as I turn to face the senator.
“Of course, sir. This is Hazel. Hazel, my boss, Senator Claren.”
Claren holds out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Hazel, you look very beautiful this evening.”
I stare at his hand for a second too long and Danny knocks me with his elbow. I snap out of it and shake the senator’s hand, his smooth skin wrapping around me like a snake. On the table, the silver shine of a knife catches my eye and for once in my life I imagine violence.
Breaking News: Senator Claren stabbed through the eye with a butter knife.
I take my hand back and resist the urge to wipe it on my dress.
“I hope you don’t mind, Daniel, but the dancing is about to start, and I was hoping I might steal your lovely date for a song?”
Danny looks at me and I try to convey to him through just my eyes that dancing with the senator is possibly the last thing on this earth I want to do. It would seem my telepathy needs some work because Danny just smiles. “Of course not, sir.”
“Wonderful.” The senator beams, just the earliest traces of crow’s feet stretching from his eyes. He holds out his hand again.
Come on Hazel, this is what you came for. Go be a super sneaky undercover reporter.
I slip my palm into his and let the man responsible for multiple rapes lead me onto the dance floor.
The music starts slow and I flinch a little when the senator’s hands land on my hips. I put my own hands on his shoulders, and we sway to the music.
There’s a reason Claren has done so well in his career. The man is attractive, with a strong rectangular jaw, clear blue eyes, and a dimple on one cheek. Even now he’s in office, he still volunteers every Sunday at his local soup kitchen. A good man who makes my stomach turn.
“So, Hazel, what do you do for work?”
My mind whirls. Telling him I’m a reporter doesn’t seem like a great idea and I’m quickly learning I’m really not that good at being sneaky because I just blurt out, “I’m a 911 operator.”
Surprise flickers across his face. “That’s very admirable and not an easy job I’d imagine.”
“No,” I say. And then I dig deeper and look him right in the eye. “The worst are the rape calls.”
I shouldn’t have said it. I know I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t stand here, dancing with this monster and pretend like everything is fine.
The senator just nods, sympathy dripping from his pores. “Yes, that’s a large part of why I’m building this clinic. So people like that have somewhere to go.”
I open my mouth but before I can say anything else I regret, a body barges into me, cold liquid running down my chest. A tray clatters to the floor, glass smashing.
Around us guests stop dancing and a young waiter stares at me, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. Please, come with me, I’ll get you a cloth to clean up.”
The cold champagne sinks into my dress, cooling my rapid heart. The senator’s hand touches my elbow. “Mind the glass.” He turns to the waiter. “Send someone to clean this up, please.”
The boy nods. “Yes, sir.” He gives me an apologetic smile, and I follow him through the ballroom, desperate to get away from the dozens of staring faces.
The waiter keeps muttering apologies to me, but I brush them off.
My dress is damp, but the champagne won’t stain and honestly, I’m more than happy not to be dancing with the senator anymore.
It’s not until we’re out in the hall and the waiter turns to face me that I get the sense I might have been safer with the senator. “I really am sorry, miss,” the boy says, regret twisting his face. “But he paid me a hundred bucks to get you out here.”
My stomach drops. “What? Who did?”
The answer comes from behind me. A voice I recognize all too well. A voice that is beyond furious.
“I did.”