Chapter 30 Reverie
REVERIE
This is bad.
This is really fucking bad.
I don’t remember handing the crimson-stained note and box over to Dread, but when I turn away to pace the hallway, my hands are empty as I delve them into my hair and squeeze tight, white noise muting sound as panic consumes my soul and my stomach twists with nausea.
“I need you to gaslight the fuck out of me right now,” I say, my voice trembling. “Please tell me those don’t look like Mindy Sackler’s eyeballs.”
He's quiet, and vomit rises in my throat with every passing second in silence.
Tears line my waterline, and my chin trembles.
Shit, this is bad.
I've been keeping up on any updates posted about her disappearance, but no one has heard from or seen her since the night she went on that date with a person using a rendition of my birth name. It's fucked up, and it's yet another thing that has the press in a fucking frenzy.
I drop my hands and pause before Dread, who's staring at the open box holding the bloody fucking eyeballs, the muscle in his jaw pulsating and his expression ice cold.
“Dread,” I urge desperately, his name cracking in my throat. It's too tight not to crush any sound moving through it.
He's slow to lift his frosted eyes to mine, his voice toneless as he says, “I can't.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck.
“Okay, wait,” I rush out, my voice squeaking with desperation and hope as I attempt to reason with him. “Eyes don’t keep the pigmentation once the tissue dies. Th-they should be milky and colorless, right?”
Dread tightens his lips. “Baby, you’re in a forensic science class,” he reminds me softly.
My face crumples, and I nod, the knowledge I shoved to the back of my brain rising to the surface.
If formalin is immediately injected into the eyeballs, it will prevent the tissue from decomposing and retain the pigmentation in the irises.
If anyone would know to do that—especially to send a message—it’d be the fucking Locksmith.
“But we still don't know if they’re hers, right?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds.
He inhales then nods once. “Right. It could be anyone's. Lots of people have green eyes.”
My expression is pained as I give him a pointed look that says, No, they fucking don’t. He grimaces, knowing as well as I do that green eyes aren’t uncommon, per se, but they still make up a very small percentage of the population, especially when they’re as vivid as Mindy’s.
“D-do you think she’s dead?” I ask hoarsely.
His lips flatten into a firm line, refusing to answer.
I blink, and a tear drips to the tiled floor. It feels as if I’m being crushed beneath the weight of the possibility that my father just murdered someone from school. She’s gone because of me—because I refused to go back home.
My fingers cover my mouth as I process the fuckery Lionel threw at my goddamn window.
He potentially killed another woman, put the incriminating evidence right in my hands, and left me with it.
He’s punishing me.
“I need to call Barry,” I croak, my thoughts racing and convoluted.
This is a conversation we should probably have back in the room so no one overhears us, but it’s the last thing on my mind.
“He can't be this stupid, Rev,” Dread reasons, though I can't tell who he's trying to convince—me or himself.
“All the other murders took place in California. Even the copycat’s.
The Locksmith killing someone from the same school as Lionel's daughter so soon after being released from prison is insane. That would make him look very suspicious.”
“Unless he creates a fake dating profile and makes it look like I did it,” I counter quietly, my nausea worsening.
Dread’s face falls, seeming to have forgotten that tidbit.
“The media have been hounding me ever since Gabi accused me of killing her. A lot of fucking people already think I did it, Dread. So even if Barry tries to pin it on the Locksmith, I highly doubt Lionel will leave any proof he was even in the state, which will lead the media right back to me. We have literally nothing to go on except a pair of eyeballs and a stupid fucking note with unrecognizable handwriting.”
This time, I drop into a crouch, bowing my head and covering my face with my hands as my panic heightens. Not only am I being stalked by a fucking serial killer, I’m being set up for a murder he committed, too.
I know Barry won’t let that happen, but Lionel doesn’t want me to go to prison, anyway—that’s not his goal. He wants me to come home, and until I do, he’s going to ensure I, and everyone else around me, suffer to the fullest, all the while he appears perfectly fucking innocent.
I hear Dread sigh before his footsteps approach, followed by his heavy presence.
I still don't know how to feel about how comforting it is sometimes, especially because for years, it’s been anything but.
That shouldn’t have changed, but the dull ache between my legs is proof a lot has happened that shouldn’t have.
Dread grabs both of my wrists and pulls them away from my face before diving a hand into my hair, tugging firmly enough to lift my chin so my eyes collide with his considerably softer gaze.
There’s still an underlying iciness to him, but the longer he stares at me, the more it seems to melt.
I glance away, uncomfortable with how that has my heart fluttering in my chest and my stomach filling with warmth. Then, I drop to my butt, keeping my knees bent, feeling so goddamn defeated.
“I need to go—”
“Don’t fucking say it,” Dread snarls, his voice quiet but insidious. “I will sooner chain you to my fucking bed than let you go back to California.”
My chin trembles, more tears welling in my eyes, but from frustration this time.
“You not letting me is why someone just died!” I shout, but I instantly regret it, and slap my hands back over my face and shake my head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say her death is your fault.”
Again, he pulls my wrists away, dipping his chin to catch hold of my watery stare.
“You can blame me, darling. I don’t mind.
Because in some ways, it is my fault. He’s pissed you’re not listening and going back to California, so he’s clearly escalating.
You’ve tried multiple times to leave, but I won’t let you.
So I’ll accept her blood on my hands if it means yours stays firmly inside you.
I’ll sacrifice every goddamn person on this planet so you stay safe, Reverie. ”
My eyes are wide by the time he’s finished, and, even through blurred vision, the intensity in his stare is breathtaking. My heart beats rapidly, and I can’t tell if I’m horrified by that sentiment or find it endearing. Maybe I’m both. But mostly horrified, I think.
“O-oh, that… that’s really intense,” I croak, having no clue what the fuck else to say to something insane like that.
His small huff of laughter is brief before he stares at me with a softness and sincerity that has goosebumps spreading across my entire body.
“I know Lionel has proven to be smart, but he's still a human, baby,” he says softly. “Humans make mistakes, and he's bound to make one eventually. He's not a god, and he's not invincible. Don't make the mistake of seeing him that way. It's exactly what he wants.”
I nod, the phantom fist around my throat easing a fraction from his soothing tone.
“Call Barry and let him know what’s going on. Let's just see what he says, okay? He'll know what to do.”
“Okay,” I whisper, prompting him to release me.
I slip a trembling hand in my back pocket and pull out my phone. It takes a few attempts to get the screen unlocked with how hard I shake, but I pull up Barry’s number and hit call.
He picks up after the fourth ring. “Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay?”
His voice is gentle, but it sounds incredibly tired and heavy.
God, I miss him, and I miss his bear hugs that always made me feel so safe.
“No,” I rasp, my bottom lip instantly trembling.
“What's going on?” he asks quickly, immediately alarmed.
“I-I got a delivery thrown at Dread’s window. This time, it’s a black box with…” My stomach lurches, forcing me to stop and swallow down the vomit threatening to spew from my throat. After a moment, I try again. “With eyeballs in it, and a n-note that says: ‘I don’t see you, Angel.’”
My eyes burn as another tear trails down my cheek.
“Are you fuc—” He cuts himself off with a frustrated growl, and I can picture him running a hand through his thick, black-and-gray hair.
I sniffle, only for a hiccup to escape. “They looked like the same color eyes as Mindy’s, Barry,” I say, my voice cracking.
His voice is far away, having clearly dropped his phone from his ear as he bellows, “FUCK!”
Then, something large crashes in the background. I close my eyes, hating how deeply this is affecting Barry, too. It’s why Brenda gets on him so much about his blood pressure, because some days, she and I fear the stress from working the Locksmith and copycat cases just might kill him.
A few more moments pass before I hear an angry exhale through his nose, indicating the phone’s back to his ear.
“Barry, your blood pressure,” I remind softly.
“Yeah, I know, honey, I know,” he mutters. I stay quiet as he takes a few deep breaths, though I get the feeling he’s wearing a hole into the floor from pacing. “I-it’s just… I can confirm it's not Lionel who threw it. Hillcrest did a drop-by just an hour ago and confirmed him home.”
I’m not even surprised by the news. It's exactly what I expected at this point, though it doesn't frustrate me any less.
“It has to be Roxi,” I mumble.
There's no question Lionel has a partner; there’s only the question of whether it's the copycat helping him, or if not, then who?
But it has to be… right?
If the copycat was born solely to further validate Lionel’s innocence in the first place, why wouldn't they also be used to stalk and harass me while he keeps his hands clean and continues to maintain his innocent facade?
Barry is silent for a moment. “Why would you think that?”