CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A same-day homicide announcement has never happened before, but here we are. Grant and I are hiding in the bushes across from a block of flat brick row houses, hoping to squeeze in one last murder interception before we beg Anna to end it all.
Today’s offender abducts food delivery people, and Lesley could not be dissuaded from calling him the Takeaway Takeawayer. The plan is for one of us to commandeer the delivery and the other to break into the house and provide backup once the coast is clear.
The first thing I wanted to know during this morning’s briefing was how exactly the Takeawayer has pulled this off, given that he targets people whose locations are almost certainly tracked.
“That’s the sneaky bit,” Lesley said. “His victims get called out for a delivery, and after they go missing, there’s no trace of their last destination in their employers’ systems. No address, no GPS routes, nothing. So it would seem that he’s—”
“A ghost,” I finished.
“Obviously a hacker,” said Grant, that very specific groove forming between his brows. He has this way of looking at me sometimes, like he can’t even be properly condescending because he’s too bewildered by the things that slip past my brain-to-mouth filter.
Obviously. Such a ridiculous word under the circumstances. Even if I have to admit that Grant’s logical thinking is often useful, and that he is unfortunately right most of the time, I reserve the right to be annoyed about it.
Judging by the amount of nervous fidgeting and weight-shifting beside me now, I’m not the only one feeling edgy.
“I don’t understand why we couldn’t just flip a coin to decide who goes in first,” Grant says. “The suspense makes it so much worse.”
“Well, obviously,” I say, wringing every syllable dry, “it has to be whichever of us most closely resembles the intended victim. We obviously can’t send you in if he’s been told that Jennifer is delivering his order. Obviously.”
“Oh my God. You’re still not over that? I said I was sorry. And in my defense, hacker is a hell of a lot more obvious than actual ghost.”
“And in my defense, we’re only here because a magical barista-slash-weather-psychic-slash-Fedora-enthusiast went on a power trip. So I don’t know that anything should be off the table.”
“Fine,” says Grant. “Then I hope our training works on evil spirits.”
I hope it works, period. Despite his initial reluctance, Grant’s been a dedicated student over the past week. His improvement has been, frankly, remarkable. But if he has to face the killer first, will it be enough? And will I be able to get in there in time to help him if not?
All I can do is wait and hope that my doppelg?nger comes striding down the sidewalk with delivery bags in tow. Every passing second ties my stomach into unfamiliar knots. I’ve been spending too much time with Grant. His anxiety is contagious.
He taps me on the shoulder and points, and the sight lands like a gut punch.
Coasting down the street is a teen boy on a bicycle, wearing a coordinated green polo and Pizza Paradise baseball hat squashed down over a shock of carrot-ginger hair. He’s got a large pizza box balanced between his handlebars. My blood goes cold as I remember who and what he’s biking toward.
“That’ll be me,” Grant says, allowing himself just one second for a shaky breath before he gets up from the bushes. I grab a fistful of his shirt and yank him back down.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, as if I’m not worrying about it. “I’ll go.”
Grant looks at me with that bunched-brow look I have come to know means You’re being ridiculous. “From the look of that kid, the killer is currently receiving a notification that says Dennis is here to deliver your order.”
I shrug. “I’ll just stuff my hair up into my hat. I could be a Dennis.”
He scoffs. “As if there’s ever been a beautiful woman named Dennis.”
All at once, the bickering instinct abandons me.
“What?”
He blinks once, looking intently toward the street. “I said, as if there’s ever been a woman named Dennis.”
“No, you didn’t. You said—”
“Can we get this over with?” he says in a rush. “Please?”
I’m too lost for words to argue. Grant clambers out of the bushes and walks away before I can regain my focus. I watch him cross the road, right as the boy flicks down his kickstand in front of the Takeawayer’s house.
Grant waves at the boy and strikes up a casual-looking conversation out of my earshot. As if there’s a casual reason to ask for a pizza that’s not yours. In response, the kid frowns and shakes his head.
“Come on,” I mutter. “What’s the plan here?”
As if in answer, Grant reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. A bribe, courtesy of Lesley. Now we’re talking.
Or maybe not. The kid dismounts his bike, grabs his pizza defensively, and makes to step around Grant. Grant blocks his path, peeling off several more bills to add to the offer. This whole thing is looking wildly sketchy.
The kid starts arguing loudly.
“Piss off! I’ve got a job to do,” he shouts, his voice echoing down the street. He moves toward the house and Grant blocks him again, looking increasingly unnerved. Much more of this and someone’s going to call the cops on the weird man harassing the teenager.
Fuck it. I take off from my hiding spot and dart across the street. Sideswiping the delivery boy, I snatch the pizza from his hands and the hat off his head and take off down the street shouting “GO! GO! GO!” at Grant.
I race around the corner at what can only be superhuman speed. I could qualify for the Olympics, probably. Then Grant catches up with a humbling quickness. We sprint a full lap of the block, then jump back into our spot in the bushes before the kid can turn the corner and see us.
We crouch down, breathing hard, peering through the leaves to keep watch for the boy.
“Something tells me this isn’t the first time you’ve stolen a pizza,” Grant whispers.
“No comment. What did you say to him? Give me that pizza and I’ll give you a hundred pounds?”
“A thousand.”
“A thousand?” It comes out in a hiss of a stage whisper, and Grant shushes me. The kid comes whipping around the corner but slows to a trot, looking around for us. “And he still wouldn’t take it? Damn. I hope he gets promoted.”
“I know. Remind me to call his boss later if I’m not disemboweled in a freezer somewhere.”
I give his shoulder a little bump. It’s hard to believe the antsy Grant of last week is now making jokes. I mean, he’s just as antsy now, but still. Jokes. It’s progress.
The delivery boy walks the length of the street and back before kicking a trash can and cursing. We wait in silence until he finally hangs his head, gets back on his bike, and leaves.
“There you go,” I say, shoving the pizza into Grant’s hands and the hat messily onto his head. He adjusts it and, with a final nod at me, stands to walk toward the house. Before he reaches the road, though, something possesses me to call his name. He turns around. My mouth feels dry.
“See you soon,” I say stupidly.
He gives me a tight-lipped not-quite-smile and a thumbs-up, then crosses the street.
· · ·
WE AGREED ON five minutes before I go in, and I do my best not to spend that time mentally cataloging every self-defense move I forgot to teach Grant. I’m just sitting and waiting in the bushes. Waiting and sitting. No big deal. It’s fine.
Five minutes isn’t so long. There are songs longer than five minutes.
I’ve gotten voicemails from my mom longer than five minutes.
I could probably hold my breath for five minutes.
I consider trying, as a distraction, then realize I’m already not breathing and getting dizzy. I gasp for air and check my phone.
A minute and a half. That’s how much time has passed since Grant knocked on the door, and a hunched old man with a walker and an oxygen cannula answered and beckoned him inside.
I wanted to believe we were wrong about all this. Maybe he was just a harmless octogenarian, too frail to carry the pizza himself. Maybe it wasn’t a cover to lure people inside.
My gut said otherwise.
I can only take a sliver of solace in the fact that, faking the feebleness or not, the man was old and thin. Grant could take him. Of course he could. Or at least fend him off for five minutes.
Unless the man shoots him point-blank.
Or sics a ravenous python on him.
Or takes a match to his oxygen tank and blows the whole place up.
I stare at the closed door. Why did we settle on five minutes, anyway? It’s a stupid, arbitrary number. I hereby abridge it to two. I pick up my phone and watch the little red second line wind torturously around the clock icon, until a thud from across the street startles me.
My head snaps up to where the old man is now locking the door from the outside.
Or should I say the formerly old man. Though he’s got worry lines to rival Grant’s, he looks decades younger than he did moments ago.
After giving himself a second to slump backward against the door, muttering and rubbing his temples, he stands straight and walks swiftly away with no oxygen in sight.
My stomach is in my throat. Is Grant hurt in that house right now, or dead? Did I vastly overestimate his ability to defend himself?
As the man approaches the street corner, it hits me that a window of opportunity is about to slam shut. I can’t just let him get away.
I also can’t leave Grant behind. I feel like the rope in a game of tug-of-war, and wish I could split in two.
Drawing in a sharp breath, I make up my mind and wait until the man disappears around the corner, then bolt toward the house.