Chapter Twenty-Nine
TWENTY-NINE
“Fliss, slow down!” Izzy trots behind me, puffing in the heat as I race along the pavement.
“In a minute,” I pant back, one hand searching blindly in my tote bag for the house keys as I march toward the apartment. Why do I use totes so much? I can never find what I’m looking for—they’re like one giant pocket, no organization at all. I might as well be carting around a trash bag.
I stop abruptly and Izzy almost trips over me as I crouch down to search in the bag.
“Fliss, look at me! It’s just a weird coincidence,” she says, taking hold of my hand. I’m still clutching the necklace, so tightly I can feel the letters cutting into my flesh, but I don’t let go.
“No, it’s not,” I mumble.
I know it’s not because I remember looking at this exact necklace on Jen last night.
Why did Noah have it? I feel jittery, wired, like if I don’t get this jumble of thoughts out of my brain somehow, then they’ll implode.
I see a flash of neon pink in the bag, and I grab my keys, straightening up and practically running the rest of the way to the flat.
I tear down the path and up the steps, unlock the door and shove my way in.
I drop the keys and my bag on the floor as I go, leaving a trail to my bedroom.
“Fliss!” Izzy shouts behind me, slamming the door.
“I’m fine!” I yell back.
A tiny part of my brain acknowledges that Izzy’s really annoyed, and rightfully so, but the rest of my gray matter is way too busy to worry about her feelings.
I know I’ve really aggravated her when she doesn’t follow me into our room, instead hearing the sliding doors to the living room rattle closed, followed by the low rumble of the TV. Good, I need some time to myself.
I peel the necklace away from my hand and lay it on the dresser next to the little red flower that Noah left for me.
I can’t look at it, so instead I unfold the board and flip it over.
The expanse of cardboard that we’ve jokingly referred to as the murder board all week now looks inadequate for such huge thoughts.
I start ripping articles and printouts from the cardboard and make an untidy stack, then grab the tape from the dressing table.
I shove the cardboard to one side and stare at the blank expanse of my bedroom wall instead. There’s definitely more space here.
Let’s go.
I tear off bits of tape with my teeth and stick the pictures of The Four along the sage green wall, making sure they’re displayed in the same order they hang in the gallery.
Then I uncap a black Sharpie. The rational part of my brain tries to tell me that this is not a good idea, but the urge to see my thoughts laid out means that rationality is completely overtaken.
I need to get all this out of my head. I focus on the first portrait and think about everything I saw on Monday night, then start to write beneath the portrait, the Sharpie biting into Kim’s careful paintwork.
Victim One: Helen Coleman
Date: Monday 3rd August, between 8 and 10 pm
Age: c. 20 years old
Occupation: Second-year university student/agency staff
Description: White female, dyed blond hair, dark eyes, approx. 5 ft 9 in, slim build
Cause of death: Homicide. Throat cut/lacerated. (Weapon???)
Unusual aspects: Posed with a blindfold. (Belt from a coat—note: coat appeared missing—possible trophy???). Lots of blood at scene and scattered disposable cups—may point to an unorganized suspect
I stand back, briefly seeing a future where Dad and Kim disown me, but instead I focus on the last thing I wrote.
Maybe the blood was meant to be collected in one of those cups?
And was there hair missing? I wish I could read the crime scene report.
Knowing what I do now about The Four having blood and hair mixed in with the paint makes that seem like a plausible idea, especially if I’m right about there being a copycat in town.
I move along to the second picture and repeat the process, filling in Jen’s details this time. It’s harder to fill in the gaps because I never saw her body, but thanks to Detective Romig being so loose lipped around Jake, I know enough to make a start.
Victim Two: Jennifer Lee
Date: Friday 7th August, after 10:30 pm/early (before 6 am?) Saturday morning
Age: c. 18 years old
Occupation: College student
Description: British Korean female, black hair, brown eyes, approx. 5 ft 6 in, athletic build.
Cause of death: Homicide, method currently unknown
Unusual aspects: Flower crown (?) at scene/on body
I hesitate before writing the next bit. If I’m right about this, then everything changes.
I tear a couple of pieces from the roll of tape and stick them on the back of my hand as I pick up the necklace.
I hold back a sob as I take it back to the wall and tack it under the portrait.
I draw a shaky breath as I finish the final line.
Possible trophy—nameplate necklace reading “Jennifer” found after suspect dropped his bag
“What the hell is all this?” I fumble my pen at the sound of Izzy’s voice. She crosses into the room, a look of horror etched on her face. “Fliss?”
“It’s a collage…?” I try an ill-timed joke, which is usually our love language, but it falls flat. Izzy’s eyes race back and forth as she reads the notes on the wall, and when she reaches the end she audibly gasps.
“Suspect? As in Noah? You think Noah did this?”
“No,” I say, my voice unconvincing even to me. “I’m just throwing out ideas.”
“Fliss, this is mental,” Izzy hisses. “Seriously, if anyone else saw this, you’d be a suspect. It looks like the work of a psychopath!”
“I’m trying to stop a psychopath,” I say, my voice louder than I intended, but it’s so frustrating that she can’t see what I’m trying to do.
“I knew there was something more to what happened to Helen. We’ve been in danger the whole time, Izzy.
We probably still are! I’m trying to keep us safe.
For all we know, last night your drink was spiked and you were the intended victim, not Jen! ”
“You can’t be serious,” she groans, walking back to the door.
“Fliss, you’re paranoid! Everything that’s happened is just a horrible coincidence.
Noah is our friend! There’s more chance that painting has cursed us all with bad luck than us being trapped in a real-life horror movie where he’s the bad guy.
There aren’t serial killers around every corner, as much as you want there to be. ”
“I don’t want there to be.” I clench my jaw and look back at the wall.
Yes, fine, now that I’m standing back, it does look a little unhinged, but why can’t Izzy see how obvious it is that these deaths are linked?
“And I’m not saying Noah did anything, I’m just saying he’s a suspect.
If you and I weren’t together all last night, we’d be suspects too.
We were some of the last people to see Jen alive! ”
Izzy shrugs. “I don’t remember you being here all night.”
My heart rate speeds up as I digest her words. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shuffles her weight uncomfortably, shifting from one foot to the other. “I was fast asleep. You could have gone out, and I’d never have heard you, would I?”
“So I could have killed Jen?” I say, throwing my hands up in exasperation. There’s no way she actually believes I’d be capable of doing something like that, does she? “Don’t be ridiculous!”
“It’s only as far-fetched as thinking Noah did it! I thought you liked him!”
“I did!” I scream, trying to raise my voice over hers, but to my surprise it breaks, and I choke back a sob. “I do. But we have literally just seen that he had a necklace in his bag with Jen’s name on it.”
“Fliss, we found it in the grass. There’s no proof that Noah had it. It might not even be Jen’s.”
I shake my head. “No, it definitely is. I saw her wearing it last night. And I’ll bet she didn’t have it on when she was…when they found her.”
“Maybe she took it off when she was here, or she gave it back to Noah.” Izzy shrugs.
“But that doesn’t make sense. Why would she give it to him?”
“He could have given it to her when they were together.”
My blood runs cold. “What?”
“Jake told me they dated a few months ago,” Izzy says, her voice almost apologetic as she studies the floor.
“I didn’t want to tell you, but I’m saying it now because it could explain why Noah had the necklace.
” She looks back at the wall and her shoulders sag.
“I think you need therapy, Fliss, if it’s easier for you to think Noah is a murderer than to feel your emotions. ”
I flinch as though Izzy has physically hit me.
“Is that what you really think of me? That I’m some kind of robot who doesn’t have feelings?
” Izzy doesn’t answer, just stares at her feet.
“You don’t get it,” I say, pointing at the wall.
“My feelings don’t matter here! What matters is that ever since I found that stupid painting, someone has been killing girls. ”
“Because it’s cursed.” Izzy shudders. “You just have to look at that thing to know it’s evil.”
“Curses aren’t real! How many times do I have to tell you? The painting is involved, yes, but not because it’s cursed. The new killer is copying the original murders. Just look!” I fling my arm toward the wall and shout the last words at Izzy, whose face is red with frustration.
“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this!” she yells back.
“Like what?” I sniff, holding back tears. I am not going to let her make me cry.
“Single-minded! I know you, Fliss. You get fixated on things and you don’t let them go until you’ve worn yourself out.
I can’t handle another person I love losing themselves to a dangerous obsession.
” To my surprise, Izzy is the one with tears rolling down her face.
She turns on her heel and disappears down the hall. “I’m going for a walk.”
“What?” I say, my voice rising in alarm as I go after her. “Izzy, you can’t, it’s not safe!”
“Fliss, it’s two p.m. You’re paranoid. I need to get out of here and away from your bullshit!” She swipes her bag from the coatrack and pulls the door open. “Just give me some space.”
“Fine!” I shout as she slams the door behind her. I walk into the living room so I can watch her from the window and at least see which way she’s heading. Stubborn girl.
I slouch back to my room and the wall rushes to greet me, almost slapping me in the face with its garishness.
I try to see the links, but I can’t. All I can see now is what Izzy saw when she walked in—the work of someone who lost their mind for a few minutes.
She was right: It looks like something you’d find in a padded cell, not a seventeen-year-old girl’s bedroom.
My eyes lock on the necklace, and I hear everything Izzy said about Noah all over again.
I race over and rip it from the wall, then tear down the paintings, flecks of green paint exploding into the air.
I try my best to wipe off the writing, but it doesn’t budge.
Of course it doesn’t; it’s permanent marker.
My breath starts to come faster and faster.
I try to catch it, to stuff my feelings back into my chest, but it’s no good, and seconds later I break down.
I lean my back against the wall as I bend at the waist, weighed down by the pure anguish that’s pouring out of me in big, racking sobs.
My knees buckle and I slide down, feeling like an overdramatic idiot but having no control over my own body as I land heavily on the wooden floor.
The small of my back burns as it scrapes against the baseboard, but I don’t care.
I lean forward to hug my knees, crying so hard I think my heart will break as Jen’s necklace twinkles up at me from the floor.