Eight
Instead of fearing the Canceled Killer, people online wanted to turn him into a hero. His victims, many said, got what they deserved.
—Crime Hive podcast
I ducked, of course.
“Mateo!” I cried.
But he was already swinging again, hard to do in this tight space, but he managed it. I blocked his punch.
He was using top-tier stuntman fighting on me. He tried a very impressive front kick, clearly designed for tight spaces (he did, I think, mention something about filming a recent bus fight scene), sending me hopping back. I opened the fridge door to block another one of his kicks.
Now I was nearly against my unmade bed. He lunged forward, and I stepped to one side, using his body weight to send him, face-first, into my tangled sheets.
“Stay down,” I warned him.
He rolled over and slow clapped me from my bed.
“You’ve been practicing,” I noted.
We sparred all the time. I taught him better fight moves for the movies, and he taught me how to stunt drive. Seemed a fair trade. Plus, really, there’s no better foreplay than punching someone.
“Thank you for noticing,” he said. “It took you five whole seconds longer to flatten me.” He flashed me a proud smile, like a kid who’d just caught his first fish.
He propped himself up on his elbows. “Feel like a different kind of sparring?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and patted the rumpled sheets next to him.
“Not now.” I shook my head.
“Okay.” Mateo didn’t even seem disappointed. He rarely did. He just shrugged, gamely changing gears. He sat on my unmade bed, bouncing on the nonexistent springs. He looked a lot younger in the daylight of Lake Sanguis than in his dark Uptown apartment.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him as I rhythmically tapped my fingers against my own hip bone.
He shrugged. “I thought it would be fun to surprise you, mi cielo. Romantic,” he added lamely. He flashed me an awkward smile.
Nothing we did was romantic. That was the beauty of our relationship.
I took a long look at Mateo, and his flattened brown curls and confused brown eyes.
He was adorably cute with his button nose and Crest Whitestrips smile, that much was true, which was why when I was in his presence, I usually got naked.
Still, I remembered Russo’s words. You can’t trust anyone, kid.
His stunt moves may not be a match for mine, but for a novice? I mean, I guess he probably could subdue someone.
“How did you even find me?”
“Spark app,” he said, and shrugged. “You left your location beacon on, sí? So I figured you might want me to come find you.” His mouth curled up in a knowing smile.
I could’ve kicked myself. How had I forgotten to turn off my location on the app? Ugh, rookie mistake.
“I think you should go back to Chicago,” I said, figuring that the best way to do this was to rip the Band-Aid off quickly.
“But I just got here,” Mateo protested with a slight pout. He fell back on my unmade bed and spread his arms. “And shooting wrapped on the movie.” He toyed with the strap of my sling bag hanging near the bed.
“Are you here because of me, or did you have a fight with your roommates?”
Mateo propped himself up on his elbows again and looked at me sheepishly. “My roommates won’t let me come back until I pay them back rent, and I’m still waiting on the last payment from the movie,” he admitted.
Now I was starting to doubt my suspicions. How could Mateo be the Canceled Killer if he couldn’t even figure out his rent situation?
“I decided to stop by and see you before I go to Milwaukee,” he said. “That’s where mi familia lives.”
They did? I actually didn’t remember this little tidbit, but I did remember him saying something about moving to the mainland from Puerto Rico when he was twelve.
I also still wasn’t sure I knew his last name.
I knew he was younger, but I don’t remember us nailing down real ages.
Again, we didn’t talk about things like birth years or family sizes (did he even have siblings?).
“I can’t believe the Turtle made it,” he admitted. Mateo owned a rusted ancient green Pinto he lovingly called the Turtle.
Mateo got it as a gift from one of the movies he’d been on because of some excellent stunt driving he’d done. He taught me how to do donuts in that car.
My head spun. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I texted you,” he said.
I grabbed my phone and realized that I did have Spark app messages. Mateo had dropped me a location pin.
“That was right before you got here,” I said.
“Sí,” he groaned. “The pin wouldn’t make sense otherwise.”
I shook my head. “It’s not a good time,” I said.
Mateo’s face fell. “You’re disappointed. You…” He glanced wildly around. “Wait. You and… Jude? Are you two…” He crossed his index finger over his middle. “Oh, no. I didn’t realize you were dating anyone.”
“No,” I said, louder than I meant. “I’m not dating anyone.” Especially not Jude.
Mateo looked temporarily pleased before his countenance grew cloudy again. “Wait. Not even that cop?”
“No. I’m not dating anyone,” I reiterated.
“So we can…” He began taking off his shirt.
“No. Definitely not.”
He shrugged, and tugged down his shirt.
“This is a small town, and everyone gossips, and…” I tried to explain anyway.
Mateo raised his eyebrows. “Sí, your hometown. Is this about the mayor?”
Whatever I was going to say flew out of my head. “Mayor? What about him?”
“The cabrón—your, eh, prom date?”
I blinked at Mateo. Had I told him about Stokes? I suddenly had a vague memory of grabbing perhaps one too many Palomas after one of his shifts at TGI Fridays the night Stokes had been elected mayor in the first place.
“You…” Mateo made a punching motion near my nose.
So I had told him. That really went against my policy of sharing no vital details about myself with people I got naked with.
I nodded. “Sure, him too. It’s all a problem.”
Just then a small spider scampered down the wall near Mateo’s head. In seconds, he’d smashed it flat with a balled fist so hard, he made the wall of my trailer shake.
“Die!” he growled, voice low with a menace I’d never heard from him before.
“Hey!” I protested, too late, as he swiped at the dead carcass of the spider, flicking its crumpled body onto my floor. “You didn’t have to kill it.”
“Some things deserve to die.” Mateo’s voice sounded flat. His eyes, dark and emotionless.
Huh.
Maybe he did have a killer instinct after all.
“You need to go,” I told Mateo, firmer this time. Maybe Russo was right. I did need to send this man packing.
“What about the mayor?” Mateo punched his own palm with this fist. “We can take care of him together.”
“Tempting, but no,” I said. Especially not now since he’d killed Charlotte the spider and she lay in a crumpled mass near my toe. “Besides, you can’t stay. You need to get moving. To Milwaukee.”
Mateo’s face fell. I felt a small tug of guilt.
“You’re breaking my heart, you know this?” Mateo’s sweet goofy expressions were back again. “I fall for you. I give you my heart, and then you treat me like this?” He pressed both hands together in prayer. It was hard to tell if he was being serious or not.
My money was on not.
What we had could barely be called a situationship.
“Can you just let me stay?” he pleaded. “Until I get paid?”
I glanced at the crumpled spider carcass. “No. Sorry. I just can’t.”
He sighed and hung his head. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Then can I use your shower? Please?” He put his hands together in prayer. “I just need a shower and shave, and then I’ll go to Milwaukee.”
I let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine. But then you’ll leave?”
“On Spider-Man’s honor,” he said, and held up three fingers. “Sure you don’t want to join me in the shower?” He raised his eyebrows.
“No,” I said.
Mateo shrugged, again nonplussed. He whipped off his shirt, tossed it on my bed, and then squeezed into the small Airstream bathroom with the accordion door.
Seconds later, I heard the water running.
I reached for my sling bag but missed the strap, knocking it off the hook to the floor.
It was half unzipped, and my keys fell out.
So did a small white triangle.
A tracker tag.
I felt a shiver of unease pass through me as I glanced at the small, almost paper-thin triangle on the floor.
The blocky logo TRACE was embossed in silver on the white tag.
Trace had been in the news recently as the go-to tracker of stalkers, coming under fire for not allowing transparent tracing of trackers and for being smaller than other devices, therefore easier to slip into pockets or bags.
Most other luggage trackers had apps where you could search to see if you were being traced by one. Even better, some notified phones when one might be close by.
Not Trace. They were unapologetically creepy.
I realized two things at once:
Someone had gotten close enough to me to slip this into my bag.
This wasn’t bogus numbers sending messages to my phone from who knows how far away. This was right up close and personal.
Whoever did this wanted to track me covertly, and if I did find it, they wanted me to be unnerved.
Goal accomplished.
The Canceled Killer. If he was tracking me, he’d always find me. It wasn’t a fair game of hide-and-seek if he always knew where I was hiding.
I snatched a paper towel from the roll above the sink and grabbed the tag. I studied it, looking for a serial number, or anything else that could identify it or help me track it back to an owner. I found none. I gently laid it on the counter near the sink and took a picture of it, just in case.
I heard Mateo singing in the shower. What if my friendly neighborhood Spider-Man was more stalkerish than he let on? Suddenly, no one seemed safe. I lifted the tabletop and tucked the device next to the cleaning supplies.
No one got to track me without my permission. I grabbed my sling bag and slipped out of the Airstream. I was in the process of trying to send Russo a picture of the tracing tag when I bumped into Jude on the Zen garden path.