Chapter 5
Holly
Now
In the middle of the fucking woods
A strong breeze blows past my hair, wailing between distorted tree trunks, carrying the sickly stink of wood rot. I pause the digging, afraid that my phone is about to receive another one of those creepy little messages.
One that says: Aren’t you cold in those thin clothes? Or: Stop looking, you’re not going to find me.
My stupid fucking brain is a getting little bit too imaginative.
After receiving the second text, I went back to Cami’s bar and told her all about it. We waited an hour for her shift to end, then drove back to the dead guy’s apartment, stashed him in the trunk of Cami’s car, and now we’re here.
In the middle of the fucking woods, covered in dirt and sweat, burying a body. Typical best-friend stuff.
I look down at the hole in front of us. And the dead body inside it.
The blood around his wrists is all dried up now.
The gaping slashes are now filled with dirt.
There’s dirt in his mouth too. His arms are awkwardly bent to fit inside the small space and there are two purple bruises around his eyes.
There’s one on his forehead too. That one’s prettier.
Cami stops mid-shoveling, bending forward to catch her breath. “What happened?” she asks. “Why’d you stop?”
There’s a mix of sweat and dirt coating her forehead, her long blond hair a tangled mess. Still, it looks nice. Unlike the crow’s nest on my head. “Someone knows, Cami.”
Cami frowns. “Knows what?”
I point to the disfigured body in front of us. “That I did this.”
“No, they don’t,” she states matter-of-factly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear and wiping some dirt off her face like we’re just doing some light gardening.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because if they did, you’d be behind bars already.”
“Thanks. That’s reassuring.”
“Oh, calm down. I’m just kidding.” She goes back to pouring dirt over the grave and I go back to worrying.
Is Cami right? If someone did know I killed a man, I would — I should be behind bars.
That makes sense. If someone does, in fact, know, then why haven’t they called the police?
They should have done or said something.
What kind of a person witnesses a murder and sits back and does nothing?
Does worse than nothing, actually. They send me a creepy, fucking text complimenting my hair.
It just doesn’t make sense. The tiny voice in my head goes off.
Why is this weirdo texting me about it? Why aren’t they turning me in? What does this person want from me? Who is this fucking person? Is someone toying with me? What exactly have they seen? And when? Have they witnessed all the other countless murders I’ve committed too?
A headache begins to mount in my skull as I run the numbers through my head. I’m not sure how many men I’ve killed over the past three years, but it can’t be less than twenty.
Cami shrugs off her denim jacket, hanging it over a tree branch behind her. “Do you want to grab some pizza after this?”
I look at her like she’s gone insane.
“Uh, okay…we can grab ramen if you want.”
“Cami, someone knows I killed a man and I’m not in jail yet.”
“I can drive you to the precinct if that’s what you want.”
“That’s not funny.”
She smiles. “It’s a little funny.”
I roll my eyes. How is she not freaking out about this? I have a goddamn problem on my hands. The magnitude is still unknown, but it’s a problem, nonetheless.
“Well, maybe if you’re so stressed out, then you probably shouldn’t have killed anyone tonight.”
I scoff. “Please be reasonable.”
“All right, how about this? Why don’t we take it one step at a time? Let’s just get rid of the body first and then I’ll drive you back home, make you something to eat, and then we can talk all about it. I’ll even stay the night if that makes you feel better.”
The sickest sense of dread takes over me.
“What is it?” she asks, somehow reading my mind.
“Nothing.”
“No, what is it?”
A sigh travels up my throat to the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it. “I…I don’t want to start a fight again, but I don’t think you should stay over. It’s nothing personal and I’m not accusing you of anything. I just…I need to be alone for a while.”
Translation: You’re the only one who knows I’ve killed people and I’m not sure I trust you right now.
Cami’s response is instantaneous and equally surprising. “Okay.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Really? You’re not mad?”
Her shoulders relax as she draws in a short breath. “Of course, not. I’m never mad at you. You’re my best friend. You need some space. I get it.”
And now I feel like an asshole for doubting my friend for the second time tonight.
I whip out my phone to check the time and a notification on my lock screen grabs my attention. “Fuck.”
“What?” Cami asks.
“It’s my sister. She wants to know what time I’m coming over tomorrow to try on the maid of honor dress.”
Cami arches an eyebrow. “That’s what she’s texting you on a Saturday night? Jeez, you Moore girls are boring.”
“You don’t get it. I hate that dress. It’s bright blue and satiny with like these weird fucking flowers all over.”
“Holly, I don’t want this to come across as mean, but I don’t think anyone’s gonna be looking at you. They’re kinda gonna be focused on the bride.”
“There’s more.”
“Oh, it lights up? Changes colors when you twirl?”
“She wants to know if I’m bringing someone.”
She narrows her eyes. “To try on the dress?”
“To the wedding.”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“Why are you asking me like you don’t already know the answer?
” There’s an eighty-hour work limit set in place for resident surgeons.
Eden General Hospital loosely follows that rule.
When you’ve just finished ten hours of surgery and someone comes in with a severe blunt trauma, you’re not exactly allowed to say “oh, actually, I’ve worked too much today. Try again tomorrow?”
Whatever free time I do get, I’m doing…other things, occasionally taking a break to rot in bed and watch (fine, rewatch) BBC’s Flowers for the thirtieth time.
What? Amy Flowers is my fictional soulmate.
I would have just taken Cami to the wedding, but April doesn’t know about her.
No one does. Given what we spend a huge chunk of our time doing, it’s for the best to keep this friendship a secret.
My phone buzzes again.
April: Did you just leave me on read?
April: Holly!
April: …
Holly: See you tomorrow at 6pm.
I stand up straight and stuff my phone back into my pocket.
Honestly, it’s not that big of a deal. I just don’t have the time, nor the desire, to “date” anyone or make any more friends.
And that’s okay. Some people are just meant to be alone.
Some people are good at it. Sure, there used to be days that I thought I wasn’t one of those people.
That I was okay, or at least that I was going to be.
But nothing ever stays the way it is. Forever is a myth. An empty promise.
I may never be able to fully connect or trust another human, but I’ve made my peace with that. I don’t necessarily like it, but I’m okay with it.
It’s hard for me to encapsulate these feelings.
To fit them in some sort of box when there are so many different aspects to it.
I love myself, but I don’t like who I am.
I want to be happy, but I can only think of things that make me sad.
Most times, I don’t make any sense. I’m a living paradox. A puzzle that refuses to be solved.
Or at least, I used to be.
“So how does it feel? Killing someone.”
A fresh surge of annoyance rushes through my bloodstream. What the hell did Theo mean by that? Does he know something or am I just being unnecessarily paranoid?
It’s not the stupidest thing to be extra suspicious and careful when you’re out and about stabbing people's throats and slitting their wrists, but there is one tiny problem. It sucks out all the fun. I live for theatrics. The muffled screams, the gurgling, the slurping, the sensation of blood splattering over my face. The begging for mercy while trying not to shit themselves. The feeling of my blade pushing through their tough skin, like slicing apart a watermelon, bones cracking just ahead of the blade’s edge, revealing their soft and crisp insides.
The crimson liquid spewing and gushing from their wounds, warm and sticky to the touch. My pleasure is their pain.
It truly is the stuff of nightmares. And I can’t fully enjoy it if I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, now, can I?
Don’t get me wrong. There’s a reason I haven’t gotten charged with murder yet.
A nice, fun-loving blonde woman — that’s all people see when they look at me.
That’s all I let them see. Utterly helpless and so, so harmless.
Nothing to worry about. While I make it a point to make most of my killings look like “suicide” or “accidental,” there are times when I give in to my more violent cravings and slit someone’s throat instead of their wrists.
But we live in an age of mass murder. And I live in New York City.
One or two dead bodies spaced apart by a few weeks just doesn’t cut it here.
It's not like I do this every second day.
Only when someone really fucking pisses me off.
Simply put, people are easy to fool. They tend to believe whatever makes them feel safe and less threatened.
Unfortunately, “people” doesn’t seem to include Theo Carter.
God, maybe I should’ve said something. I should’ve denied it or laughed it off or something.
What I shouldn’t have done is volunteer to give him a demonstration.
But it’s not my fault! I’m not used to feeling exposed and vulnerable around men.
Just anger.