Chapter 26 #2
I received these photographs three days ago.
They were rolled up and wrapped in blonde hair.
My hands tremble, and the ringing in my ears becomes shrill as I look up to the TV screen again. As if some divine being decided to do me a favor, the news station cuts to the same image of Jennifer Holbrook smiling at the camera.
She has blonde hair.
What… the fuck.
For several moments, I completely lose time and stare mindlessly at the screen while I try to make sense of what the fuck is happening. The scattered puzzle pieces in my brain slowly move, shifting and clicking into place until the full picture begins to emerge.
I blink and scramble off my bed to rush over to my desk. I sit down and set the photos aside. Then, I grab the first notebook I find and a pencil, flip to a blank page, and write out the timeline of events.
Mindy Sackler went missing on February 5th.
February 6th, I received the first note from Lionel demanding I come home, along with a pink barrette.
On the 7th, Gabi Loren accused me of having something to do with Mindy’s disappearance.
That same day, I searched through Mindy’s photos and found a picture of her wearing the very same pink barrette I received with the note.
On the 10th, I came home to find my dorm room trashed, with a newspaper clipping and another note demanding I come home stabbed into my desk, and a chunk of black curly hair beside them.
Dread refused to let me go to California, and truthfully, I was too much of a fucking coward to go, anyway.
So, on the 14th, Jennifer Holbrook goes missing. Then on the 20th, Lionel calls me. I ask him about Mindy, the dating profile, and all his little gifts, but he plays innocent and asks me to come home again, specifically stating that he has been very patient.
Maybe it was an olive branch, a way of sending me one last warning before I suffer more consequences, but I, of course, don’t fucking go.
The 23rd comes around, and Barry informs me Jennifer Holbrook’s remains were discovered that morning at Blackwood.
On the 26th, I receive two photos, one taken by Margaret Lever with Blackwood pictured in the background, and the other of the crime scene photos of Margaret’s remains.
And wrapped around them was a chunk of blonde hair.
I set down my pencil and sit back in my chair, my stomach twisting as a mixture of disbelief, horror, and guilt floods my system.
He’s been sending me messages to come home while warning me not to defy him, and each time I did it anyway, there was a consequence.
But what’s even more sickening is how he’s doing it—by playing fucking twisted, mind games, sending me warnings that I couldn’t possibly understand unless I disobeyed, all the while purposely misleading me.
I had no goddamn idea who the pink barrette belonged to until after I didn’t heed Lionel’s first request. Then, not only did I not heed it, he saw my transfer papers to London and knew I was actively trying to escape him.
So he trashed my dorm as punishment, and gave me a newspaper clipping lamenting about what a wonderful father he was, along with a bundle of black curly hair.
Except, I thought it was Roxi’s, and he fucking knew I would assume it belonged to her.
But now, with the crime scene photo laid out before me, he’s showing me it was actually Margaret’s, who was the mother of the little boy who bullied me and broke my wrist. Lionel laid her hair next to the article as if it’s proof of him being a good father for killing my bully’s mother.
And how fucking ironic that is.
Regardless, I still refused him, so Jennifer Holbrook’s death was my next punishment.
He gave me these two specific photos not only to give me the answers I was missing—who the black hair belonged to, and why next to a newspaper article praising him as a father—but to show me how easy it is for him to fuck with me.
Proven by him spreading Jennifer’s remains at the location pictured in the background of the photo Margaret took of us.
He didn’t even need to leave a note this time.
We both know I’m well aware of what he wants.
And the blonde hair he gifted is yet another warning.
Especially because, unlike Margaret’s hair, he left the follicles attached to the strands this time, meaning he wanted Barry to be able to trace the DNA.
Which, in itself, is slightly terrifying.
All I know is it can’t be Mindy’s—she has dark brown hair, though it’s extremely unsettling that she’s been missing longer than Jennifer, yet no one has discovered her remains.
It’s intentional. But why?
She can’t possibly still be alive. Based on the autopsies of every known victim from both the Locksmith and copycat, they were all killed within two days of the dates they disappeared.
However, Mindy is different. Neither the Locksmith nor the copycat has killed anyone outside of California before.
If Lionel were to publicly dispose of her remains, whether it’s in Colorado or California, it would be instantly tied back to her attendance at mine and Dread’s school.
Obviously, that would make Lionel look really suspicious, which is likely why he created the dating profile, a fail-safe to lead people to believe I had something to do with her disappearance rather than him.
It’s still a risk and likely to make people question Lionel regardless, considering I’ve never been suspected of killing anyone before.
So, why would I wait until now? If my only motivation is to make people think it was Lionel and connect him to the Locksmith, even if only to cast doubt on him and ruin his pretty reputation, why would I purposely model the fake profile to look like me taking after him?
Maybe Mindy is alive. Maybe he killed Jennifer as a punishment—but within the safety of Locksmith territory—so he could keep Mindy as a last resort. A warning he’ll ultimately follow through with should I push him far enough.
There’s only one way to find out, and the answer is in California.
Groaning, I prop my elbows on my desk and drop my head into my hands, an ache forming between my brows and throughout my neck and shoulders. All this stress and tension is taking a toll on my body. I’m only twenty-two, yet I’m beginning to feel like I’m in the body of an eighty-year-old.
The thought of returning to that house and living out the rest of my life under his roof makes me want to fucking die.
With each passing day, I’m starting to wonder if I just should get it over with.
As long as Lionel is alive and well, I will always have one foot in the grave.
How I fall in is a matter of who says fuck it first—him or me.
A loud, quick rap on my door startles me out of my thoughts. I just barely bite back a scream, and earn a bonus of biting my damn tongue, too.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, my heart pounding a mile a second while my tongue pulses.
Exhaling heavily, I get to my feet and stomp toward the door. I’m pretty fucking sure I know who it is, and I’m already groaning again before even swinging the door open.
Yup.
Exactly who I thought it was.
“For the actual love of God, can you two please leave me alone?”
“No can do, sweet cheeks,” Rogue sings, his grin taking up half his stupid-ass face. He may be a beautiful specimen of a human being, but it does nothing but piss me off.
“And here I thought you guys were done torturing me,” I grumble.
He grins. “It’s a natural ability of mine.” He spreads his arms out to his sides. “Come on, it’s our last day together before your man comes home.”
My upper lip curls with distaste.
‘My man’ left me sitting naked in an oven, covered in human remains—which is exactly why he’ll never be my man.
I still don’t feel clean.
Once I got home from the crematorium that night, I took the longest and hottest shower of my life, nearly scrubbing my skin raw to rid myself of the feeling of the ash coating my skin.
I also held my breath for two hundred and four seconds.
By the time I got out, I was so exhausted, I didn't even have the energy to acknowledge Rogue, who was waiting for me outside the showers, looking every bit as tired as I was.
I slept until almost noon that Saturday, only to wake up to a string of texts from a new group chat called ‘1 girl, 2 cocks.’ Rogue and an unknown number were texting back and forth, and, amongst all the blabbering, I discovered the other person was Severen, who joined Rogue as a babysitter for the week while Dread is training.
The two of them took shifts with me, passing me back and forth like one of those flour babies my home econ teacher assigned us to care for in high school.
They followed me around everywhere, not allowing me out of their sight except for restroom breaks and showers.
At night, they continued to stay right outside my door, which inevitably attracted all sorts of attention.
They were already questioning why Rogue slept outside of it those couple of nights before Dread left, so when Severen popped up, they started treating the hallway like it was a fucking catwalk, hoping to take one of them to their rooms instead.
It didn't work, and truthfully, it's surprising Rogue hasn't complained once about having to reject them.
Both laughed in my face when I offered them to sleep on my floor, citing how they’re attached to their dicks and not willing to risk losing them for me.
Valid, but I still felt bad.
Purely against my will, I learned way too much about them.
Like Rogue’s yearly trip to Tennessee, where he enters a food challenge requiring him to eat one hundred of the hottest wings within twenty minutes.
The prize is free food for a year, and he hasn’t won yet, but he swears this year is the year.