Chapter 21 Coming Out on Top
Coming Out on Top
The room is eerily silent as I unlock Brandon’s phone, turn off location services, and then power it down.
I search his body for his keys. They jingle as I fish them out of his pants pockets, and I wince.
Even though I’m the only living soul in this house, I can’t help but feel like I should be quiet, which is ridiculous.
The stairs creak beneath my feet as I head to the garage to retrieve the Gatorade bottle. I’m doing my best to ignore the unease pooling in my stomach. I’m sure the rest of my plan will work. I’ve run through the timeline every day during the past week.
My body is on autopilot while my brain is distracted by my own intrusive thoughts, and before I know it, I’m standing beside Brandon’s SUV, looking in through the open door.
I have his keys. I could take it. It’s not part of my plan, but taking it would save me a lot of time.
It’s Halloween, though, I remind myself.
Police will be out in force tonight. Saving half an hour isn’t worth the risk of getting pulled over while driving Brandon’s unnecessarily flashy G-Wagon.
I sigh, then grab the bottle, hit the button to open the garage door and walk out, tossing his keys in the bushes along the driveway as I move past.
The temperature is probably in the low fifties, but I’m barely wearing anything, and it feels colder. I only have to make it a couple of blocks, though. Well, as long as no one found the bag I stashed in the park yesterday evening, I think unhelpfully.
I fold my arms across my chest—empty Gatorade bottle in one hand, Brandon’s phone in the other—and pick up my pace.
Ten minutes later, I’m on my hands and knees, reaching under the blackberry brambles.
The ground is cold and spongy, and dampness is seeping through my tights.
I’m fighting the shivering that’s threatening to roll through my body as I search for the bag I left.
If I start shivering now, it’ll only make me more likely to slice my arms open on the thorns surrounding me.
This was a lot easier yesterday when I had a jacket for protection.
After another moment, my hand lands on the bag. I have it almost all the way out when it catches on the thorns. I try to work it free, but it only catches more. Finally, I yank it toward me in frustration. The bag moves, but my forearm scrapes over the thorns, and pain flares across my skin.
“Fuck!” I hiss, dropping the bag as it comes free.
There’s blood welling from a long, thin scratch running down the inside of my left forearm, and I press it against my torso.
The leering white mask of the Ghostface Killer from Scream stares back at me as I open the bag using my right hand.
I pull out the black robe and put that on first. I need the extra warmth, and I’d rather bleed on the robe than the ground.
After that, I slide the mask over my head and pull the hood up.
Once my new costume is in place, I trade the bus fare sitting at the bottom of the bag for the empty Gatorade bottle and phone that I’ve been carrying since I left Brandon’s house.
Then, I tuck the bag under my robe and walk across the park to leave opposite where I entered.
If there are any cameras in the park, it may throw the police off if they check the surveillance footage.
By the time I’m back on the move, it’s just after ten and the trick-or-treaters have vanished.
The houses in this area are spaced far apart and set back from the road.
Many of the windows are dark, and any jack-o’-lanterns have long since burned out.
It’s a five-block walk down empty sidewalks to the bus stop, which is only marked by a sign with a bus symbol on it.
A flickering streetlight casts a dancing puddle of light around the sign.
I should feel out of place in my costume on this desolate road, but the night is atmospheric enough that I don’t.
Several minutes pass prior to the bus appearing.
It lumbers toward me, its headlights slowly illuminating the night, before rumbling to a stop.
When the doors clatter open, the middle-aged woman driving the bus doesn’t give me a second look as I climb on and shove three dollars into the fare box.
I take my ticket so I can reboard later and then find a seat toward the middle.
There are about ten other passengers. Half are wearing costumes, probably on their way to a Halloween party, like me.
Of course, when I signal the bus to stop near the Tilikum Crossing Bridge, I’m the only one—costumed or no—who gets off.
It’s a ten-minute walk to the bridge. I stand against the railing at the midway point for a few minutes, pretending to admire the view, as I pull Brandon’s phone from the bag concealed under my robe.
Once I’ve got it out, I let it slip from my hands.
It plummets almost eighty feet into the water, barely making a splash when it hits.
The river is deep enough here that it’s unlikely they’ll ever recover it.
Even if they do, the depth is well beyond any phone’s water resistance rating.
I walk the rest of the way across the bridge to find the next bus. I’m back on the Eastside.
It’s eleven-twenty, and I’m in my car, staring into the visor mirror, scrubbing the makeup off my face.
These makeup remover wipes aren’t working quite as well as I was hoping, but my skin is slowly emerging from beneath the face paint, and at least the bruise Matt Davidson’s fist left on my cheek two weeks ago has finally faded to nothing.
By the time I’m nearing the end of the pack, it seems like the makeup is all gone. I tilt my head from side to side in the dim light, trying to get a full view of my face in the four-inch mirror. I think I got it all.
I shove the used wipes into a trash bag, along with the Ghostface Killer mask.
Then, I gingerly pull off the red wig, using my fingernails to scrape away the adhesive.
The wig goes in the trash bag too. I’m still wearing the robe, using it as cover to change under.
My arms are pulled into the body, and I’m stripping off the teddy, the four pairs of tights, and the hip padding I was wearing for my original costume.
Once I’ve got it all off, it also goes into the bag.
Putting my Morticia Addams costume on beneath the robe is more challenging than undressing was—but a naked woman changing in a car is memorable, and I don’t want to be memorable, so I suffer through it.
I’m on the verge of breaking into a sweat by the time I slip my arms into the sleeves of the dress and pull off the robe.
Thankfully, the sleeves on this costume go all the way to my wrists, covering the scratch on my forearm.
But Mark is bound to see it later, and the best excuse I’ve been able to come up with so far is that I caught it on an exposed framing nail, which isn’t great but might be boring enough not to raise questions.
I finger-comb my hair, put on some blood-red lipstick, line my eyes with black liner and smudge it out a bit, then call it good.
I take my phone from the glove box, turn it on, and start my car to look for a parking spot closer to the club.
I don’t need Mark asking why I parked three blocks away if I can avoid it.
I move the trash bag to my trunk once I’ve found a new parking spot a block-and-a-half closer and check my watch as I slam the lid closed. It’s eleven-forty-one. I’ll be early.
The same bouncer is at the door, only this time when I skip the line and approach him, I say, “Hi. I’m Alyssa Reed. My name should be on your list as a guest of Mark Eriksson.”
He angles his clipboard toward the light, scanning the list. His eyes find my name. “Do you have ID?” he asks without looking up.
I pull my license from the pocket of the dress and hand it over. He takes a cursory look at it, glancing briefly at my face before handing it back. It’s a very different reaction than I received when I was here earlier with my tits on display.
Fog still comes rolling out when I enter the club, but a trap remix of Monster Mash is playing this time.
I move to the wall beside the door and send Mark a text saying, I’m here, where are you?
Assuming he’s still in the same area, I know exactly where he is, but he doesn’t need to know that.
I look up like I’m searching for him, and half a minute later, he’s at the edge of the raised platform, looking for me.
Movement behind Mark pulls my eyes away from him. Garret Fischer is about fifteen feet over Mark’s shoulder, and he’s definitely watching Mark with more than passing interest.
I tear my eyes away from Garret in time to see Mark’s face light up as his gaze lands on me, and he steps down to the main floor, pushing through the crowd.
I match his expression despite the sinking feeling in my stomach as I watch him walk toward me, trying to ignore the other thoughts competing for my attention.
The first is that as soon as Garret hears about Brandon’s death, he’s going to know someone is coming for him.
The worry might already be there, eating at him in quiet moments, but what I did tonight will change worry to certainty.
Garret Fischer is scum, but he’s not stupid—he got away with a well-orchestrated gang rape scot-free.
If Garret is watching Mark, that will inevitably lead to watching me.
And the last thing I need is for him to remember I exist. To wonder about me.
Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about it.
The second is that Mark is going to lose his job because of me. I just killed the second member of his second line. That seems like the sort of thing that would be hard to recover from on its own. And when the team finds out he was murdered…? Well.