Three #2
Trevon just barked a laugh. “Buck twenty, soaking wet,” he taunted. Eric just rolled on his side, groaning and holding his nose. He tried to get up. Trevon put a hand on his shoulder. “Stay down, buddy. Just… stay down.”
I would be happy to hit the man again, but then I thought I saw the vintage Jeep Wagoneer idling in front of the dojo.
Was it the same vehicle? Or was it just my imagination?
A shiver of real fear ran with a bead of sweat down my neck.
I needed to find out.
“Well, thanks for the workout. Gotta run,” I said, heading toward my shoes on the mat by the glass door. I stuffed my feet into my Converse, grabbed my zip-up hoodie and sling bag from the hook, and peered out the window. I couldn’t see the Jeep Wagoneer.
Irene brightened. “Tomorrow, I’ve got a new workshop about getting out of zip ties!”
“Maybe if you’re restrained, it would be a fair fight with Eric,” Trevon said. Eric wiped his bloody nose with his sleeve and glared at me, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t listening. I skipped out to the street, heart pounding, but the Wagoneer… was gone.
Outside, cool autumn wind ruffled the brown and red leaves of the trees planted along the sidewalk and hit the sweat on the back of my neck, making me shiver.
I hurriedly shrugged into the hoodie, leaving it open over my sports bra, as I glanced down the street in both directions.
It couldn’t have just disappeared. I saw it in the window.
Or was Oscar right? Was I just imagining things now? I scoured the street. It was the start of the off-season, but there seemed fewer tourists even than usual for this time of year. Just a single family walking two blocks up, window-shopping at the vintage toy store.
Where was that Wagoneer?
The thudding pulse in my temple told me it was nearby.
He was watching. Waiting. Like a lion hiding nearby in high grass. I swiveled, scanning for any signs of the car but found none.
But he was here. I could feel him. He was close.
A loud metal clank behind me made me jump three feet in the air.
I whirled, ready to punch someone. I saw a utility worker in a bright orange vest, reaching down to retrieve a thick metal chain he’d dropped on the sidewalk.
I sagged in relief as I watched him weave the chain through the door of Gordon’s Frozen Custard and snap a padlock shut across the two ends. He rattled the chain to make sure it was secure and then sauntered away, climbing into a Lake Sanguis utility truck double-parked on the street.
I walked toward the shop. The utility worker had left a bright yellow notice taped on the glass front door from the Lake Sanguis Health Department.
“Listeria outbreak?” I read aloud. I guessed nobody would be getting their frozen custard mudpacks today.
The paper was plastered right next to the oversized poster of Kenzie Gordon wearing her Miss Wisconsin sash and crown across a brilliant silver sequined gown with a leg slit up to her hip that filled the entire window.
Her makeup was flawless; her clear green eyes glittered in the poster like emeralds.
I got the sudden feeling I was being watched. A creepy, cold sensation at the back of my head. Someone was watching me.
I turned. The sidewalk was empty. If I’d been in Chicago, an army of pedestrians would’ve been marching by. Not here. After having to elbow my way down the bustling avenues of the city, Lake Sanguis felt isolated and alone. The sidewalks too clean and too empty.
My phone pinged.
You’ve been a bad girl, Ella.
It was a text message. From an unknown number.
My head whipped up and my blood ran cold. I stopped and turned, but no one else was on the street. Even the Big Pizza Pie shop was mostly desolate. Nobody was staring at me except Kenzie Gordon from the poster, her bright white smile frozen in place in the corner window of Gordon’s Frozen Custard.
You’ve been very, very bad.
I know Oscar told me not to respond. But I couldn’t help it.
Who is this?
Three dots appeared on my screen. Then disappeared. And then came the message.
You know exactly who this is.
And then came three skull emojis.
Followed by a single lemon.
My heart kicked up a notch. No one but the cops, me, and the killer knew about the lemon. I felt hot and cold. Slowly, I looked right. Then left. I felt exposed. Vulnerable.
The killer wasn’t taunting me from afar.
He was here.
Unnerved, I glanced around. There was the tourist family at the end of the street, walking into the vintage toy store.
And near them, I saw Tammy up ahead, her bright orange puffer vest impossible to miss, as she tucked a bag of groceries into the back of her minivan beneath a canopy of gold and red autumn leaves.
Otherwise, no one was out. A car horn behind me almost made me jump out of my sneakers.
I glanced back and saw a single car in front of a sauntering flock of Canada geese in the road, preparing to fly south for the winter.
I needed to get ahold of myself. I was letting my imagination run wild, just like Oscar said. This was Lake Sanguis. Boring old Lake Sanguis. No serial killer was stalking its Hallmark holiday movie set streets.
I toggled my settings in my phone to block unknown numbers. That should silence him.
Seconds later, I got another lemon.
What the hell?
The phone number was there.
Sloppy, bro. Really sloppy. Now you’re cooked.
I googled the phone number. Reverse lookup sent me to an app designed to send anonymous messages to the phone of a creep’s choice, without any way to trace it back to the real culprit.
The site claimed it would help lovers connect by offering ways to have “secret admirers” and people who wanted to send anonymous compliments.
Right. Because that’s exactly how creepy weirdos would use it.
Loved when technology helped the bad guys do worse. Fantastic job, Silicon Valley.
Yet, this didn’t seem like an incel’s work miles away in his mother’s basement. I was being watched.
My heart hammered in my chest. I told myself to look again.
I scanned the street, and that’s when Tammy’s minivan pulled away from the curb, revealing a white car ahead of hers. The Wagoneer? Maybe. I started jogging toward it.
Then, as I got close, I realized it wasn’t the same car at all. Not a Jeep Wagoneer.
“Hey, kid.” The low, gravelly voice was in my ear, and I sprang back from the car, adrenaline pulsing in my veins.
I whipped around to see Aaron Russo standing beside me, wearing his signature outfit: an expensively tailored blazer, crisp white shirt open at the collar, slim-fit pants, and suede loafers. He never wore socks, not even in winter. His sky-blue eyes fixed me with interest.
“Detective… Russo?” I blinked again, holding my chest as if my heart would fall out. What the hell was he doing here?
His nose was still slightly crooked, broken from the time he had to take down a murder suspect who elbowed him in the face, but it was the only flaw in his countenance, which was all hard angles: square jaw, cheekbones that could cut glass, and his only slightly flawed thin, Roman nose.
He looked less like a cop and more like the star of his own action movie. I was glad to see that he had his charisma set to broil. How did the man show off his biceps through his jacket? He was the reason they invented the athletic cut.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” he said, brow wrinkling with concern. “Everything okay?”
No. Everything was definitely not okay. Because I think I was having my first hot flash.
At twenty-seven. Or maybe it was just standing so close to Russo, whose proximity made me want to go all gooey and giggly and start twisting a strand of hair around one finger.
I told myself it was not at all because he flicked a quick but appreciative glance at my leggings.
“I… well… er…” Russo’s dominant pheromones might be interfering with my brain’s ability to speak full words. “I… uh… I’ve been getting some hateful texts. Trolls, I think.”
Russo held out his palm, and I dutifully put my phone in it. He scrolled through, frowning.
“Lemon emoji?” Russo sent me a dark look.
“Yeah,” I said, and swallowed, throat dry. “You think it’s bad?”
“I don’t think it’s good.” He frowned at the screen. “You didn’t tell anybody about the lemon at the crime scene, did you?”
I shook my head. “You told me not to.”
“Okay, then.” He glanced back down at my phone. He took a few screenshots and then AirDropped them to his phone before he handed mine back to me. “When did these start? All from the same number or different?”
“The texts? Today. The DMs? Those came yesterday from a social media account named CanceledKill, all one word.”
Russo nodded. “You should be careful. Especially when at the gym.” He nodded to my sweat-soaked sports bra, mostly on view since I’d neglected to zip up my hoodie.
I told myself it was probably wishful thinking on my part that his gaze lingered just a beat longer at my neckline.
There’s no way an elite specimen like Russo could be interested in me.
“Not gym,” I corrected. “Dojo.”
Russo raised both eyebrows, his blue eyes impressed as they met mine.
“I see. Well, I’ll handle this,” he said, and instantly, I felt better about everything.
Not that Oscar wasn’t helping, but Russo just seemed…
so damn capable. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy his attention. Maybe being stalked had its perks.
“I’ll check into the account, and then have this number traced and make this guy sorry he ever reached out to you.” A muscle twitched in Russo’s jaw.
I bet he would, too. I felt a blush bloom on my cheeks.
“Don’t bother with the trace,” I managed. “I looked it up. It’s from an anonymous messaging site.”
Russo’s frowned deepened. “Damn coward,” he muttered.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” I felt jittery, and I wasn’t sure if it was because I saw the Canceled Killer around every corner or because Russo just had that effect on me.