Chapter 32 Reverie
REVERIE
The second I park my ass in Dread’s passenger seat, I’m hitting the call button on Barry’s contact.
My heart is pounding, my clit is still throbbing from when he had me pinned against the cottage, and the butterflies have wormed their way into my brain, demanding I go back to obsessing over Dread professing his love.
My internal ecosystem is going through a catastrophic extinction event, and instead of trying to salvage my burning organs, I’m paralyzed.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Barry greets, his voice instantly soothing a little of the chaos inside me.
“Hey,” I say, my cheeks instantly flushing from how breathless I sound.
It hasn’t even been five minutes since Dread had his tongue down my throat, and I’m still trying to collect all the oxygen he ripped out of me so ruthlessly.
Barry heaves out a heavy exhale, and I’m having trouble computing what kind of sigh it is.
“What I’m about to tell you is highly confidential.”
My mouth flops, and I glance at Dread, who’s staring at me intently.
My heart instantly flutters, and my brain trips over how insanely attractive he is.
There’s definitely a brain cell or two still latched on to his absolutely insane declaration of love not ten minutes ago, but I force myself to stay focused.
“U-uh, okay. Well…” I cringe and sheepishly admit, “Dread’s here. Can he know?”
Barry is silent for a few beats. “Is he bothering you?”
His voice is considerably lower, a serious edge to his tone. I have no idea why—maybe because I’m frazzled as fuck and don’t know which way is up right now—but it makes me smile. I bite it back while Dread opens his mouth to respond to Barry.
My hand claps over it, my amusement replaced with horror. I literally cannot even begin to fathom what he was going to say, and it sounds like an absolute nightmare to find out.
“He’s always bothering me,” I say assertively, narrowing my eyes at him in warning.
His gaze twinkles with mirth now, but I don’t find any of this funny anymore.
“But no, the whole rottweiler attitude was all an act, and he’s more like a husky.
Looks intimidating, very sassy, doesn’t shut up, but is an otherwise derpy dog that follows you around everywhere. ”
Dread’s eyebrows fly up on his forehead, wickedness mingling with his amusement. Even with his face partially obscured by my hand, his expression is undeniable, and I can hear his unspoken words loud and clear: ‘Oh, you think so? Very interesting.’
My heart flutters, and the butterflies in my stomach take that as their cue and follow suit. It doesn’t help that his hand is still firmly wrapped around mine.
However, Barry hums, sounding both unconvinced and unimpressed, which is honestly super smart of him. He’s not my biological father, but I still really wish I got that gene.
“Well, you know what to do should he become too much of a problem,” he says, his tone firm.
As far as Barry’s concerned, Dread has been a huge dick and convinced the majority of the school to hate me along with him, but he knows nothing of his cruel pranks.
Not because I wanted to protect Dread, but because I couldn’t stand the thought of needing saving again.
Regardless, Barry has always been the type to trust I’ll come to him if I need to, but otherwise, he lets me experience life for what it is.
“Anyway, if he wasn’t wrapped up in this as much as you are, I would lecture you for asking me that.
But…” He sighs again. “Yes, he can know.”
I quickly pull my hand away from Dread’s face and put the phone on speaker, holding it between us just as Barry begins speaking again.
“We got a match to the hair wrapped around that note,” he continues.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Isn’t it Jennifer’s? The victim they found scattered across the back seats of people’s cars?”
“No, sweetie.” I frown. “The hair belongs to Georgia Farrell.”
This time, my free hand slaps over my own mouth, and before I can truly process a single word, tears rush to the surface of my eyes. I couldn't stop them from spilling even if I knew how.
For several heart-stopping moments, I’m in utter shock, and then a rush of emotion rolls through me, and I’m gasping.
All those memories come storming back in from when I ran into that shed and saw something that forever changed my brain chemistry. The horror. The confusion. The disgust. The absolute terror.
The cottage outside the windshield fades away, and I see nothing but my father’s evil black eyes and Georgia’s slackened face as he removes her head from the rest of her body.
“Rev? You there? Honey—”
The words are there, floating somewhere beyond me, but it sounds muffled and distant, like I’m trapped beneath water again.
“She just needs a moment, Barry. I got her.”
My mind instantly reaches for the second voice, even when my body can only heave out sharp breaths. The deep timbre is like salve over a burn, and the screaming quietens just a little.
Then, I feel his fingers thread through mine.
He must’ve taken my phone, but I’m too lost to understand anything outside of the warm hand engulfing mine.
I squeeze tight and inhale deeply before I shove the images branding the inside of my brain into a drawer and slam it shut, allowing my vision to return.
I drop my other palm from my mouth, and rush out shakily, “Sorry. I, uh, I-I just wasn’t expecting that.”
“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to ease you into that one. If I’m being honest, I’m still trying to process it myself,” he admits.
Truthfully, the least surprising bit is the hair not belonging to Jennifer, despite him sending it with the note about teaching me to lock my car doors on the very day news broke about Jennifer’s remains being found.
It goes beyond Lionel playing mind games simply because he enjoys it.
It’s to remind Barry and me of how even when we think we know exactly what he’s doing, we never really do.
A clear message of how easy it is for him to lead us like a dog caught on a scent into a cage, only to rip the rug out from our feet and send us plummeting into a hidden trapdoor beneath.
It’s why he makes a huge production with the victim’s remains, to show Barry and Jeff they’re only finding bodies because Lionel wants them to, not because they’re onto him.
It’s also why Barry and Jeff believe he’s responsible for a lot more murders than Lionel’s revealed.
Not only does he choose when and where they find the victims, but who.
He wants us to feel like we’re rats faithfully following the trail of cheese he carefully lays out for us, too hungry and desperate for clues to step out and find the path leading straight to the refrigerator.
I wipe away the tears leaking down my cheeks with the back of my hand while Dread still holds tight to the other, silently funneling his strength into me.
For now, I avoid his stare, lest I do something stupid, like fall completely in love with him.
“So, what does this mean?” I ask hoarsely.
I carefully extract my hand from Dread’s, though there’s an odd pang when I do, like my body is protesting it.
But it would make me a crazy person to miss holding his hand, so I ignore it and swipe the back of my hand beneath my nose as I sniffle.
I take the phone back from him, as if bringing it closer will somehow make Barry feel closer, too. “Like, what now?”
“It means an accomplice of the Locksmith was outside your window.”
It’s a strange mix of dizzying relief and utter fear that Dread wasn’t pulling another cruel prank on me.
Part of me almost wished it was, because even with a broken heart, at least I’m alive.
But being stalked and harassed by a serial killer and his partner?
I can’t confidently say I’ll survive it, and it leaves a cold feeling in my chest.
“We’ve already acquired footage from around campus to see if we can catch the person on any cameras, but no luck so far, which doesn’t surprise me much,” Barry continues, drawing me back to the conversation. “With the paparazzi crawling around everywhere, they had to take extra care.”
That’s disappointing to hear, but it doesn’t surprise me. Nothing is ever easy where Lionel’s concerned.
“Do you understand what we have now?” Barry asks, sounding almost… excited.
Knitting my brows, I sniffle again, my mind far too filled with noise to comprehend what he means.
“Uh…”
“This is confirmation Lionel has his lockbox, Reverie. You’ve been questioning yourself for years if you imagined that thing, and he confirmed that not only is it real, but he possesses something that could prove without a doubt he’s the Locksmith. It could convict him for all his crimes.”
My eyes widen, and my veins fill with an emotion so unfamiliar, it’s almost unnerving.
Relief.
I was so goddamn overwhelmed by hearing Lionel sent me Georgia’s hair, it didn’t even occur to me that he still has her hair—which means that box was never a figment of my imagination like I feared.
For several moments, all I can do is blink in stunned silence.
“Holy shit,” I whisper once I find my voice, my stare reflexively snapping over to Dread.
He has his elbow propped on the door while he runs his long fingers over his lips contemplatively, sightlessly staring straight ahead out of the windshield. Tension radiates from him in waves, but I can’t decipher what exactly he’s feeling.
“Can you get a search warrant?” I ask Barry, turning my stare ahead and giving Dread the space to process.
This time, it’s very clear what type of sigh Barry gives me. It’s full of frustration.
“Not without probable cause,” he answers, his voice more despondent.