Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
HER
R ed dye was the first thing I bought with my very first paycheck at fifteen years old. I was so proud of that paycheck, and I knew exactly what I was going to spend it on. I have always loved the color red. It’s so vibrant and exciting. I used to dream of having hair the color of cherries. Black ones.
I had worked all summer at the local ice cream shop in Lakestone to afford that dye. It was a small, family-owned business, and I loved working there. Despite my lineage, they didn’t treat me with pity or fear like so many others did. The free ice cream was a plus, too. I experimented extensively with different flavor combinations that ended up on the menu. Vaguely, I wonder if the place is still even open.
Now, the same box of red peeks out from the bag nestled in the passenger seat of my car.
I turn off the engine and sit in the grocery store parking lot. It’s across town from my apartment, but it’s one of the few semi-affordable options in Fallbank. I adjust my baseball cap, pulling my limp ponytail through the back, and make a mental note to hurry. I’m desperate for a shower.
Normally, I prefer putting together some semblance of a meal plan. To at least not head into the store blind. But not today. I figure I could always pick up some staples like eggs, bread, and milk. And then just wing it from there. I get out of my car and head for the store. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself, unsure if it’s the unusually crisp air. Or something else.
I refuse to entertain that line of thought right now.
My jangling nerves subside as I enter the building. The smells of fresh produce and baked goods waft into my nose, making my stomach rumble. After grabbing a cart, I wander around the aisles, familiarizing myself with the layout. I pick up ingredients that catch my eye and remain open to anything remotely nutritious that will last me until my next check.
I glance down an aisle, seeing that there are some chicken breasts on sale. Deciding to pick up a couple of packs of those to portion out and freeze, I push the cart—but another cuts me off. The wheels squeal as I force mine to a stop. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.” I pause, realizing who the person I barely avoided a collision with is. “Blake?”
He looks up from his notepad and blinks, recognition lighting up behind his eyes. “Hey, Mia.” He straightens up, his mouth setting into an easy but friendly smirk. “What brings you out shopping at such an hour? ”
I shrug, knowing I’m cutting it close to closing time. “Trying not to starve.”
He steals a glimpse of the contents of my cart. “Looks like you’re well on your way to a feast.”
“I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to cook chili this week.” I want to duck out of here, so he doesn’t see my greasy hair. But I don’t want attention drawn to it, so I force my tone to remain neutral. Unbothered—but it’s difficult when it feels like he has an uncanny ability to see right through me. “It’s my favorite comfort food.”
“Chili, huh? That sounds delicious.” He pauses for a moment, then asks, “Do you want any help carrying your groceries to your car?”
I hesitate for a moment; I’m still not used to accepting help from strangers. But he seems like such a nice guy. And cute. Stop rushing into things , I chastise myself. “No, I’m fine,” I blurt out. We stand there for a moment, awkwardly. I don’t know what to say, and he doesn’t seem to either. “Can I take a raincheck on that offer?”
“I guess so,” he replies, nodding over his shoulder. “But at this rate, that ‘rainy day’ will be tonight.”
I chuckle at his cheesy attempt at a joke. “Then I should probably get going. It was nice meeting you in these parts.”
“You too,” he says, turning to walk away. “I hope I see you around.” I can’t help but feel a bit disappointed that he’s leaving. But suddenly, he stops and whirls around. “Do you want to hang out sometime? There’s a nice coffee place downtown … ”
My stomach flips, and I tug at my ponytail to distract myself from the giddiness. “Sure. I’d like that.”
He grins. “Great. I’ll call you. We can set up a time.”
He leaves for real this time, and I watch him go. I can’t believe this has happened. I just met the guy last week, and I’m eighty percent sure he’s asked me out on a date.Or perhaps it’s just wishful thinking. But I can’t absolve myself entirely of guilt by not being the first to make a move.
I grin like a stupid idiot as I finish my shopping on autopilot and check out.
As I drive home, thoughts of Blake consume me. I dissect every word of our conversation, trying to figure out if he actually asked me out. And this whole ‘hang out’ thing? It’s gotta be his way of getting to know me, right? Like some kind of test to see if I’m some weirdo recluse. Or a serial killer.
I scrunch my face at my terrible joke as I throw my bags on the kitchen table. After I put the groceries away, I decide to make myself a cup of tea to calm my nerves. As I wait for the water to boil, I glance at the phone. Even though it’s late, part of me wishes he would call me. Or visit. It’s not like we live far apart. I mean, I could call him too. But the last thing I want to do is seem too eager, too desperate.
Not the impression I want to make, like I’m just some easy lay.
The pot boils, and I turn off the stove. I add the chamomile tea bag to my mug, pour the water, and let it steep. I allow myself a moment to rest—but find myself nodding off. The lack of food seems to have taken its toll, not to mention the paranoia from the park. I drink my tea, savoring the liquid, and imagine Blake. Unlike Briar, he seems to have his life together. I could use some stability.
And maybe I’ll finally be able to settle down, for real.
A ring sends my heart racing. Tea sloshes the side of the mug, dribbling down the side, and I’m grateful I dozed off long enough for it to cool a bit. I rise, padding across the apartment, and pick up the phone. “Hello?”
Silence.
Wrong number? A prank call?
I’m about to return the handset to its cradle when music blares from the speaker. I look down at the phone, momentarily confused—until I realize which song the caller is playing. My hand shakes as the first verse of (Don’t Fear) The Reaper plays on repeat like a skipping record. What the fuck ?
I keep the phone away from me like it’s diseased. A chill creeps up my spine as the lyrics repeat over and over until it suddenly stops. I hold the handset to my ear. “Hello?” I say, my voice trembling.
No answer.
I listen for a few seconds, but the line is dead. Slamming the phone down, I stare at it for a long moment. I don’t know who’s calling me. But somehow, I know they didn’t play that song by accident. It’s too specific. Are they trying to tell me something? Is it a threat?
Or a warning ?
I can’t rid myself of the feeling of dread that’s settled over me. Has someone figured out who I really am? Fear claws at me, threatening to pull me under and never let go. But I can’t let it win, can’t let whoever this is freak me out. Though I’m not sure what to do. Deep down, I’m scared, but I’m also angry.
Trying to calm my racing heart, I inhale deeply and exhale slowly. I need to focus on something, anything other than this. I spot the hair dye on the table, finding my distraction. Against the instructions, I wash and dry my hair in desperation to take my mind off everything. After that, I gather my supplies and set them on the bathroom counter.
Combining the dye and the developer gives me a sense of calm control. The mixture is a dark, vibrant red, and I begin applying to my hair. The cold dye warms up as I work it through every strand. After finishing, I discard the gloves, set a timer, and sit on the toilet.
While waiting for the dye to develop, I continue reading my book, which I picked up at a gas station in New York on a whim. According to the cover, it’s a best-selling thriller about a woman trying to solve the mystery of her best friend’s disappearance. It’s not written as exciting as it sounds, but it’s enough to pass the time.
My mind wanders from boredom—before the sound of my stepfather’s voice fills my head. My heart pounds and my hands tremble. The book tumbles to the floor. Shit, he’s angry again.
With quaking fingers, I reach down to grab the book. But my heart leaps into my throat as I see his face before me, twisted in anger. His vicious words cut through me like knives. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, and the stench of neglect. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping he’ll be gone when I open them.
Hot pain sears through me as his fist connects with my face, the taste of copper filling my mouth. Then he hits me again. Over and over. I want to escape, but I’m petrified. Everything is too loud, too real. My stomach lurches, churning acid; I’m going to be sick. I take a deep breath, knowing that I need to focus on the present and ground myself. My consistency with medication assures me I can overcome this.
I open an eye, and his visage has vanished. But in the corner of my vision, I notice a red puddle the size of a dinner plate on the floor in front of the sink. I stand up carefully and walk over to it, bending down to touch it. It’s warm and sticky, definitely not hair dye. A wave of nausea washes over me as I pull my hand back and realize it’s blood.
A dozen drops lead away from it, and a long smear extends into the hallway, staining the old carpet. Like someone had dragged something—or someone—across the floor. Against my better instincts, I follow the trail of blood back to my bedroom. I flick on the light and poke my head in, but I see no one.
I make my way back to the bathroom, but my breath catches in my throat, shock rendering me immobile. There’s blood everywhere—on the floor, the walls, even on the ceiling. The toilet is overflowing with blood, and there are bloody footprints in the shower. Even the mirror is covered with splatters.
Uncertain of what to do, I stand rooted in place, staring at the carnage. My head swims and I lean against the wall for support, but soon I sink to the floor with my head in my hands. Just earlier, everything seemed fine , I think. But now …
I hear my stepfather’s footsteps coming down the hall. My spine goes ramrod straight, and I quickly put on a poker face, trying to act like nothing is wrong. When he enters, he sees the mess, and his eyes narrow in anger.
“What the hell is this?” he asks.
Silently, I stare at the crimson-coated floor, saying nothing.
“Did you do this?”
I shake my head.
“Look at me when I ask you a fucking question!” he yells, hauling me up by the arm. “I said, who did this?” He rips open his button-up shirt to reveal the bloodied stab wounds on his chest.
I’m at a loss for words, scared of what he’ll do to me if I tell him the truth. So I do what I always do—I lie. I misdirect. “I don’t know. The bathroom was like this when I came back.”
He shakes his head. “You’re lying.”
“I swear it wasn’t me.”
He stares at me for a long time. I can see the anger in his eyes, but also something else.
Fear .
I’m on the floor again. And I sit here for a while, legs tucked against my chest, my eyes closed. I don’t realize how much time has passed until the timer goes off. Opening my eyes, I find the blood gone, as if it was never there. The book sits untouched on the tiles near the toilet. Standing up, I walk over to the sink and splash water on my paling face.
After taking care of my hair, I head straight for bed. I’m exhausted, both physically and emotionally. I haven’t had an episode quite like that in a while. It has to be from the stress of the move. And the murders back in Vermont . I lay in bed, listening to the hum of the fan, and stare at the ceiling. I just want to sleep and forget about everything.
Exhaustion drags me under, but nothing but nightmares await me.