Chapter 6
Theo
One hour earlier
Holly’s flat
Let me be very clear. I’m not usually like this.
I don’t usually break into Holly’s flat this late at night. Not on Saturdays. My usual visits are confined to Mondays and Wednesdays between the hours of midnight and three in the morning.
But that was before the anonymous prank messages and the worrisome look on her face as she stuffed a fresh corpse inside her best friend’s car.
Tonight, I had to come here. I had to break my rules. I had to make sure her flat was safe for her return. It was the gentlemanly thing to do. Mum would have been proud.
I punch in the awfully obvious access code to her flat — 0-7-1-2 (April’s birthday) smiling when the keypad flashes green and push the door open.
I sashay down her hallway and make a right into her bedroom.
I’m already familiar with the interior. I’ve seen it many times either through her windows or the hidden cameras.
Sometimes in person. Dark green walls, black paisley curtains — wide open, putting her on display for all the world to see.
Her clothes are strewn across the floor in a tangled mess.
I pick up a pair of black cotton panties tossed at the foot of her bed, bringing it to my nose and inhaling its scent, before stuffing them into my jacket pocket.
Her dresser, as usual, is a cluttered mess with lipstick tubes and medical textbooks. There are some framed pictures on her bedside table. Four in total. Two are of her and April. One is of her with my future in-laws. And the other is…huh. I don’t recognize the girl.
Light brown skin, chestnut hair, grey-green eyes. Holly is standing next to her wearing a red tank top and a pair of star-shaped dangly earrings I’ve never seen. Her short blonde waves are tied up in a loose bun.
This picture wasn’t here the last time I visited. Odd.
The two of them are at some sort of a park, laughing, arms twined around one another’s necks, not a care in the world. Holly looks happy with her. Effortlessly so.
Hm.
I pick up the framed picture of Happy Holly and decide to take her home with me.
Then I pace about the rest of the room. There’s a few vintage movie posters above her bed.
Mostly horror. Her favorite genre. A tall wooden shelf next to her closet, brimming with books.
I stand there, picturing her long, dainty fingers caressing each page, her manicured fingernail caught ever so lightly between her teeth as her deep, brown eyes take in the words sprawled in front of her.
I imagine reading to her as she rests her head on my chest listening to my heartbeat.
I imagine running my fingers through her hair until she falls asleep.
I imagine waking her up with my mouth between her legs. Soon.
I walk out to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water.
I chug the contents in under ten seconds and wash the glass along with a few more dishes she’s left in the sink.
Careless Holly. She’s so lucky to have me.
I retrace my steps and flop down on her bed.
Her sheets smell just like her. Daffodils with a hint of vanilla.
I’m careful not to let my shoes touch the sheets.
Holly has enough on her plate as it is. The last thing I want is for her to come home to dirty linen.
My gaze sweeps over her bedroom and falls on the atrocity sitting on the table across her bed.
A large capybara plush doll. It’s blue in colour and has a very tiny, very useful red button nose.
The label on its foot says: FRED. It was a present from April.
A bad one, but a present, nonetheless. Sentimental Holly.
I take out my phone and open the video surveillance app. A screen full of black and white static pops up. Frowning, I scoot forward and gently tap Fred the Capybara’s red button nose twice. My screen glitches and live footage of Holly’s bed replaces the static.
There we go. All better.
I smile and wave at the camera. My hair looks particularly striking tonight. I wish I could take a picture and leave it for Holly to find. She deserves to appreciate it. Instead, I just lean back against the headboard and close my eyes.
I pretend to think of something other than her face, or at least I try to. But it never works. She’s always on my mind. Every second of every day. Woven into the fabric of my thoughts. Occupying every moment from when I wake up until I drift off to sleep.
Her lustrous blonde hair. Her creamy, ivory skin with seven freckles dotting her nose and cheeks.
Her cheeks that turn pink every time she catches me looking at her.
Her lips. Heart-shaped and perfect. How they sometimes, very rarely, stretch into a smile when no one is watching.
I would call her smile exquisite, but that seems like a bland shadow to the truth.
There isn’t a good enough word in the English dictionary to describe the kind of beauty Holly’s smile holds.
It’s a beacon of light. It’s such a rare sight, that when she smiles, it feels like a reward, like I’ve earned it somehow, even though I know I’ve not.
Not yet. No, Holly’s smile is more than just beautiful.
It’s the perfect balance between danger and charm.
A poem. It’s fatal. Lethal. Intoxicating. Like blood on snow.
I’m completely enraptured by it. By everything she does.
The way she moves, the way she speaks and breathes.
Every time I’m next to her, my emotions spiral all over the place, entangling each other.
Fear becomes desire. Sadness becomes hope.
Uncertainty turns into courage. I want to know her.
I want her to know me. Fuck, yes. My fixation with Holly might push me to the edge of a cliff one day, but as long as I get to keep her, falling into the abyss is a risk I’m willing to take —
A sharp beeping sound interrupts my train of thought.
My eyes snap open.
The keypad. The front door opens. Footsteps. Everything inside me shatters.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, FUCK!
Moving as noiselessly and swiftly as one can, I jump off the bed and slink into the bathroom. I step inside the bathtub and hide behind the dark blue opaque shower curtain.
Two minutes later, the bathroom door swings open and Holly steps inside, mindlessly humming a tune I don’t recognize.
I’m a fucking idiot! Why didn’t I track her location before deciding to lounge in her fucking bedroom?
In my defence, I really thought it’d take her longer to bury the body.
I should have never underestimated her. If I get caught, it’s going to be so goddamn embarrassing.
She’s going to think I’m some kind of amateur.
I don’t dare move. Not a single muscle. I just stand there with my back against the tiled wall and draw in little sips of air.
She turns on the sink and starts washing her face, lathering for what feels like hours before rinsing.
And then a terrifying thought hits me: What if she wants to take a shower?
Fuck. My. Life.
Of course, she’s going to want to take a shower! She just got home after a gruesome night shift, a murder, and the disposal of some dipshit’s body. Of fucking course, she’s going to want to take a shower, you arsehole!
What am I going to do? How am I going to get out of this? Maybe I can sweet talk my way out of this. I’m good at that. If I play my cards right, we might even end up taking a shower together. No, that seems a bit far-fetched. Focus!
My thoughts cut short when the sink turns off, and without yanking the curtain aside, she slides in her hand and turns on the shower.
Water. All over my fucking clothes.
No, this is great. Absolutely fucking splendid.
She grabs a plastic bag from underneath the sink and starts slipping out of her jeans.
Then her top. I’m unable to help myself.
I gently slide the curtain aside — just a little.
Just enough for me to see her better. To watch.
She’s wearing a matching set. A lace purple bra and underwear.
I like it. I get a full view of her ass when she bends down to stuff the clothes inside a plastic bag.
My cock hardens. Fuck, this woman is dangerous.
So fucking dangerous. I want her so bad.
The more I look at her, the more the sight satisfies me.
Watching Holly is like eating or drinking.
Breathing. It’s second nature to me. I can’t live without it.
I have to get out of here. I hear a noise.
I don’t move an inch as Holly pokes her head out the bathroom door. “Hello?” she calls out. “Who’s there?”
She takes her scalpel and phone, and steps outside, walking down the hallway and into the kitchen.
A few more seconds pass, and I hear her pour herself a glass of water.
My heart is pounding. Is she drinking from the same glass?
Is her mouth touching the same spot as mine was?
The possibility makes me smile. For fuck’s sake, focus!
I have to get out. Now. How? Her phone! She took her phone with her. I grab mine from my back pocket and call her. It rings once. Twice. Three times —
“Hello?”
God, how I’ve missed that voice. “Holly?” I whisper. “Is that you?”
There’s a brief pause before she replies, “No, it’s the Queen of England. What the fuck kind of a question is that? You called me.”
I try not to laugh, but it’s all in vain. Sassy Holly is hilarious. “Just checking, love.”
“What do you want?”
Very carefully, I step out of the bathtub, one foot at a time. “What are you wearing?” I wait by the bathroom door, hoping — praying she doesn’t return.
“Your great grandmother’s wedding thong,” she says.
“Hot.”
“What do you want, Carter?”
“What do you mean, what do I want? Can’t I just call a fellow colleague for some late-night chit-chat?” My clothes are dripping wet. There’s water all over the bathroom floor. She’s going to know someone was here.
“It’s four in the morning.”
I check the time. “Three fifty-two, actually. What are you doing up so late?”
“Thinking.”
“About me, I hope.” I really do hope.
“Is there a point to this call or can I go back to fantasizing about shoving a knife in your throat?”
“Kinky girl.”
“Goodbye, Carter.”
“Wait!” I say with hushed urgency.
“What is it?”
“I’m at the hospital.”
“The psychiatric kind?” she asks.
“The ‘I met with an accident’ kind.”
“Really?”
No, but I will be the second you catch me lounging in your bathroom. “Yup. Broke both my legs. It’s quite bad, actually. The doctors say I won’t be able to walk again.” I need to do something. Think, think, think.
“How the fuck did you manage that?”
Think, think, think. “Fell down the stairs daydreaming about your pretty face.” There’s a floss packet on her sink. I grab it. I peep out of her bathroom and throw the floss packet into her bedroom. It knocks over one of the frames on her bedside table. A loud noise. She stands up.
“Holly?” I say.
“Shut up. I gotta go.” She disconnects the call and walks towards her bedroom. If this doesn’t work, then I’m going to have to lie on the floor and pretend to be dead. Although, given whose house I’ve broken into, I won’t have to pretend for very long.
She nears her bedroom door. Her footsteps are as light as a cat’s. She doesn’t notice the fallen picture frame. She checks under her bed. Nothing. She checks inside her closet. Nothing. She checks behind her curtains. Also nothing.
Obviously.
She sits down on the edge of her bed. Her back is facing the door.
This is my chance. With a deep breath, I inch away from the bathroom door, my blood roaring in my ears.
Water pools beneath my shoes as I gradually step outside, leaving a trail all over the floor.
I grab the bedroom doorknob and just as I’m about to slam the door shut — I don’t.
Even with her back towards me, I can make out she’s upset.
Her shoulders are tense. Really tense. I think she’s about to cry.
I’ve never seen Holly cry. I don’t know how I’ll react if I do.
I should shut the door and leave her be.
But what I want to do is go inside and give her a hug.
I want to gently run my fingers over her spine and ask her what’s wrong.
I want to make her some tea, listen to her problems, and offer a solution, but only if she wants me to.
It saddens me that I can’t do any of this. Not yet.
So, I pull the door shut and lock it from the outside. It’s fine. Holly’s the smartest person I know. She’ll figure something out. Guilt gnaws at me, but I stand firm, hoping that my trust in Holly’s resourcefulness isn't misplaced.
Angry footsteps come running towards the door. “You fucking asshole!” she shouts. “Let me out, you motherfucker! I’m going to gut you like a fucking pig! OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”
Oh, dear. Tetchy Holly. Best to get out of here to give her some space. I ignore the violent banging on her door, grab the plastic bag with her clothes and start heading out.
By the time I'm out of her building and inside my car, my heart is beating so fast that my chest hurts. I set the bag down next to the passenger seat, letting the weight of what just happened sink in. The back of my throat burns. My heart hammers against my chest. The stale air inside the car presses against my skin like a moist towel, humid and suffocating. I feel sick. She really needs to change the access code to her flat. She needs to be more careful. Look how easily I got in and got out. What if it wasn’t me?
What if it was someone else? A burglar? Or someone with a weapon?
The thought sends a chill through my spine.
I take out her top from the bag and take a deep inhale.
It still smells like Holly. Daffodils and vanilla.
It calms me down. It’s fine, I tell myself.
It’s why you’re here. It’s why you do this.
To protect her. To never let anything bad happen to her.
Quickly turning off the light inside my Prius, I pull away from the curb and crank up the heat.
I play some music to help take more of the edge off.
The title of the song flashes across the screen: One Direction’s Kiss You.
I start to hum along when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I take it out and see a text. Only this time it’s not for Holly. It’s for me.
+1 (917) 555-9012: may the best man win
Attached below is a picture of me exiting Holly’s building.