Chapter 37
I’ve never seen a book club turnout like this before. It’s almost as active as the Psychological Thriller Readers FB group I’m a member of.
Wren’s house is packed tighter than a clown car, except instead of clowns, most of Hemlock Drive has shown up, which is arguably worse.
Everyone’s perched on assorted folding chairs she dragged out of her garage, all of them in a circle around her like she’s hosting a timeshare pitch.
I have a feeling there will be very little discussion about the serial killer thriller Wren selected for this month’s read, and more gossip about the actual real-life serial killer living on our street.
With my paperback copy on my lap, I’m seated on a rigid futon in between Ivory and Freida, who looks like she hasn’t slept since the cops arrested her father.
The teen resembles the cover image of my book—a lady’s face appearing to melt as she screams against a black, drippy backdrop.
Very Edvard Munch-like and understandable for a girl who has endured an ordeal that will haunt her forever.
My own insomnia has had a similar effect on my appearance, too. Trauma twins.
Wren claps her hands. “Okay, neighbors! Let’s get started. We all know why we’re here.”
“To stuff ourselves into a fire hazard?” Zala mutters from the love seat catty-corner to me. An interesting choice of seating, given how she’s cozying up to Ali, their thighs pressed together.
Wren shoots Zala a silencing glare, then puts on a chipper voice that would be perfect for a kindergarten art class. “No, Zala, we’re all here to discuss books! I hope everyone read this month’s book club pick—”
Another groan from Zala interrupts her. “Are we really not going to talk about the fact that I have a serial killer living next door to me?” She flings her arm dramatically toward Ivory. “In poor Ivory’s home!”
Freida flinches. “My dad is not a serial killer,” she says quietly.
“Oh, sweetie, yes he is,” Zala argues, voice dripping with condescension. “The police would not have charged him with murder if he wasn’t.”
“Are we really doing this?” Wren grumbles. “It’s book club, people. We’re supposed to talk about the book—”
“He only killed one person,” now Luca is chiming in, and book club is officially replaced with armchair detective club. “Since he didn’t kill Ivory, he’s not technically a serial killer, just a regular murderer.”
“I stand corrected,” Zala admits.
“Ug, I guess we’re doing this.” Wren admits surrender and tosses her book on the table in the center of the room.
“I can’t believe cops release a serial killer back on streets.” Ali squeezes Zala’s shoulder, hugging her close. “On one-hundred-thousand-dollar bond. Who has money like that?”
“A regular killer,” Luca reminds him.
“Small detail,” Ali states.
“Killing anyone is not a small detail,” I interrupt.
“Before I forget,” Wren slips into her kitchen, then returns with a package of dried seaweed and individual cans of energy drinks, “I have snacks. We can discuss books or murder or whatever it is we’re discussing while we eat.”
Wren passes the food around, and people pick at and examine the seaweed, taking tiny nibbles before setting it back down.
No one seems to be picking their seaweed up for a second nibble.
The energy drinks, while more popular with this crowd, I am pretty sure had been taken off the market due to causing heart attacks in children.
I pass on the energy drink but indulge in a flake of seaweed. It tastes fishy.
“Aren’t we supposed to have wine at these things?” Luca grumbles, noticeably staying as far away from Freida as possible.
“This is healthier for you,” Wren explains, though I highly doubt that discontinued energy drinks are healthier than wine.
“The point is, none of us feel safe,” Zala brings the conversation back to our local killer.
“You act like he’s contagious,” Ivory snaps back, and I find it odd that she would come to Fred’s defense.
“He might be!” Wren says. “Murder is contagious. In fact, I just did a killer podcast about it—”
Zala snorts. “That’s not how epidemiology works, Wren.”
“My dad didn’t do anything!” Freida shouts. “You’re all acting like he’s some kind of monster. He would never hurt anyone.”
“Freida, he abducted and hurt your mom.” Wren idles behind her and pats her shoulder. “Denial is very common in the children of killers.”
“He’s not a killer!”
I reach over and give Freida’s knee an affectionate squeeze.
A lot has happened since Fred’s arrest and subsequent release on a hundred-thousand-dollar bond that I can’t figure out how they afforded to pay.
When Fred was released back into the house, Ivory moved in with her parents.
But Freida refused, insisting on staying at home with her dad.
She keeps saying he’s innocent, and the worst part?
She believes it with her whole fractured heart.
Part of me trusts her intuition, because even I have to admit that something about her mother’s abduction and the connection to Janet Vick’s murder baffles me.
“I just can’t believe it,” Ivory’s whisper reaches my ear as the rest of the group debates what types of traits are imprinted on children of killers, and how to identify a killer. “I lived with Fred for two decades. If he was a murderer, I think I’d know, right?”
Would she, though? I want to say, but I don’t. Because she’s friends with me, and if she knew what I was capable of… well, Ivory apparently is a bad judge of character.
Wren clears her throat, forcing the attention back on her. “We need a plan. A neighborhood safety protocol. Something to keep us protected while the killer is still lurking around.”
“Alleged killer,” I correct her because I see the toll this conversation, this judgement of Fred, is taking on Freida.
“Whatever.” Wren turns to me suddenly. “Shari, you’ve been quiet. What do you think—did Fred kill Janet Vick or not?”
“How would I know?”
Something about Fred being the killer feels like trying to force a puzzle piece into a game of Connect Four. It might kind of fit if you jam it hard enough, but that doesn’t make it right. But the alternative—that another killer is still running around Doomwood Falls—is worse.
“Are you saying you think he’s innocent?” Wren demands.
“No, I’m saying…” What am I saying? “I’m saying maybe we don’t have all the facts yet.”
Freida squeezes my knee gratefully while Ivory exhales shakily. Wren opens her mouth with another retort, but suddenly the front door swings open so hard that the doorknob smashes a welt in the drywall behind it. A crumble of white wallboard chunks plummet to the floor.
I’m about to owe Zala a huge apology.