Harlow
I sit in my walk-in closet, scrolling through videos on my phone in an attempt to distract myself from what’s happened.
I scoff, annoyed by my own hypocrisy. A half hour ago I was downstairs with Sam, claiming to be fierce and unafraid, but now I’m hiding like a coward, while he rallies my security team.
Just look at the damn footage, I think, forcing myself to click the notification. It’ll just be an overeager fan or paparazzi. Nothing that bad.
My heart hammers in my chest as I press play and the grainy figure comes into view.
Goosebumps cover my arms, one inch at a time.
I gasp, hand flying to my mouth as I register who it is.
My phone slips through my fingers and crashes onto the hardwood floor.
I try to breathe, but it’s as if someone has punched me in the gut.
Because it’s not some crazed fan or stalker at the gates.
It’s you.
*
I stand as still as a statue as I process the moment. A moment I’ve always dreamed about. And dreaded.
Did you find the clues I left in my songs?
I left so many. It started as a coping mechanism, an outlet for the overwhelming emotions of missing you.
But then somewhere along the way, I hoped maybe they’d lead you to me.
I was inspired by the Beatles, of course.
You remember, right? All the stories Mom told us?
I hope you being here doesn’t mean you were agonizing over me all these years, though, missing me like I missed you.
When Faye “died” and I became Harlow, you were happy, had your life together.
That had been my only solace, that you had Matt—your own life, unchained from me. Your reckless little sister.
God, I’ve dreamed of this day for so long. To hug you again. Tell you everything—the good and the bad. Tell you I’m sorry. How I missed you every single day. How you’d been my muse.
But the problem with that is then you’d know what I really am: A killer.
For so long, I tried to think of ways to tell you. To let you know I was alive. But I swore to Sam I wouldn’t tell a soul. He said the only way this could work is if everyone thought Faye Barnes was dead instead of Harlow Hayes. It was either that or prison.
But as I replay the video and hear you utter my real name for the first time in years, I know it can’t wait.