22. Kayden
KAYDEN
I cuss under my breath as a shrilling noise wakes me up from my precious nap, startling me out of my curated sleeping pose. I’m not the type to sleep at work. I do my work diligently, most of the time.
But taking care of my sister, with both my body and mind, has taken a toll on me.
Volunteering my thigh for her pleasure? Totally my fault.
I’ll take that.
It’s the insomnia that followed that wasn’t part of my plan.
Staying up and getting ahead of work seemed like the better idea. And by work, I mean trying to figure out who’s behind this game of cat and mouse, playing with me and hurting my little demon.
I didn’t get far. I still don’t have enough information.
There are a few things I know. This guy knows me. The message on the note he left me was clear. We’ve met before—he’s the sole reason I got sent away and separated from Madelyn. The one who leaked our sex tape.
And now he’s back to disrupt my plans again.
What followed was an extensive online presence search. Looking up both Maddy’s and my social media accounts to make sure no one suspicious is following us.
Needless to say, I came up empty. When I was done with that, I prepared Maddy’s oatmeal.
I read somewhere that oatmeal helped with hangovers, and I was sure she’d wake up with one.
So I gathered the ingredients, including a quick run to the grocery store, because who has ginger in their house? But anything for Maddy.
My phone’s on the far corner of my desk, and I straighten up to snatch it.
As I do, and my eyes unravel, it sinks in. I didn’t set any alarm clock.
My eyebrows lift even higher with confusion when I stare at my screen.
It’s not an alarm to wake me up. It’s a reminder.
12:20 Be sure to take out the trash while you’ve got time. Or it’ll stink out the whole house.
Since when do I set reminders to take out the trash?
Clicking on it, there’s a detailed message underneath it.
Make sure you drive into town to do so. You don’t want the police finding out it’s your trash. Trust me on that one.
I frown. It’s not that I don’t remember. I’m certain I didn’t write this reminder for myself.
My jaw tightens. It wasn’t me.
It was him. This psycho somehow got a hold of my phone, hacked it or some shit, and set this reminder to taunt me.
And now I—I have to check that trash before my little demon gets home.
He must have broken into our place while neither of us were home.
I close the reminder and check the time.
Twelve twenty-three. Thirty minutes left of the lunch break.
I’ll have to leave now and come up with an excuse for why I can’t finish my classes.
Snatching my jacket from the back of my chair, I sneak out of my office and storm past the halls until I’m out of the building. There’s a diminutive ray of hope within me that this is just a warning. That I’ll get home, pick out the trash, and find out nothing.
A bigger part of me has a bad feeling.
I’m out of breath by the time I storm through the door of our apartment, but I don’t stop until I’m in the kitchen, flipping open the cabinet doors under the sink.
A thin stream of electricity runs through my spine. My eyes focus on the big black plastic trash bag.
I crouch and pull it forward with one hand, adding another to drag it out.
Why is it so damn heavy?
Once I set the bag aside, I bend down by the sink and stare into the darkness of the cabinet. There’s another bag there. This one, slightly less heavy.
A strong disinfectant smell lingers in the cabinets when I’m done.
My focus returns to the bags. Two bags that are filled with cement, for all I know. I shouldn’t look inside. Everything in me tells me not to. That I should listen to that reminder, and get rid of them, dump them somewhere far, far away.
Drops of sweat form at the back of my neck, sliding down my spine.
There’s a sour taste in my mouth.
Nothing prepares me for the stench I release once I undo the knot on the first bag.
“Fuck!” I stumble back, landing on the floor, my hands bracing my fall.
The foul smell invades my mouth and causes me to cough it up.
“What in the world is that?”
I take careful steps toward it again. Inside it, there’s another bag.
I pull that one forward and undo the second knot. The foul smell becomes putrid, unlike anything I’ve ever smelt before, making me recoil and almost gag.
I open the bag wide, holding my hand to my face to avoid sniffing any more of that disgusting odor.
I do a double-take, before my eyes widen and I avert my gaze.
Are those…fucking bloody limbs?
I crawl back on my hands, moving away to regain composure.
This can’t be it. It can’t.
But it is.
Now, the terrible smell makes sense, the double coating of the bags, trying to cover up a crime.
This is…this is murder in a bag.
If there was any hint of doubt in my mind that this was his doing, now it’s clear.
This was him—and he’s putting it on me.
Unless I get rid of it.
That’s why he rushed me here. Told me to get rid of it somewhere where the police can’t tie it to me.
If that’s only one bag, I don’t want to know what’s inside the heavier one. Still, images of a human head penetrate my every thought.
I stroke my throat and grimace. I need to get rid of this. ASAP.
Bringing the back of my palm to my nose, I squint my eyes and try to tie up the one bag again, ignoring the pungent aroma that’s spreading throughout the house, and refusing to let my gag reflex win.
Tying up a bag one-handed is more difficult than it looks, but I get it done.
The next thing is spraying the whole house with air freshener.
It takes me two trips to bring the bags to the parking lot and into my car, with endless staring around involved, to make sure no one catches me in the act.
I swallow and get in the car.
It doesn’t take me long to find the farthest landfill.
It does take me a while, however, to find an unattended one.
I drive way out of town. A good hour and a half away.
I call Principal Schultz at the first stop light, when I know I won’t be back for class, telling him I had to leave because of a stomach bug, which, in reality, isn’t too far off from how I’m feeling now.
It all comes out after I’m done dumping the body. I stop at the nearest park and empty my stomach on the ground outside. Puking the dread out of it, the memories and trauma I’m left with after this.
If there was evil on earth, I know now I’ve found it. I thought I was bad—but he’s worse.
I clean my mouth with the back of my sleeve and straighten my clothes, ignoring the growing dizziness that’s fogging my mind.
I just threw out a real human being. Dumped him in the trash.
There’s nothing I could have done for him at the stage he was in, but that doesn’t mean that’s the treatment he deserved. It doesn’t make me feel any better.
One thing doesn’t quite fit the narrative for me, though. It’s nagging at the side of my brain as I step into the car again and drive back home.
If this psycho wanted me to go down and frame me for a murder I didn’t commit—then why did he warn me in time?