THE NEXT MORNING VICTOR TAKES Daisy to Saturday cheer practice, and Justin plunks down in front of the TV. I use the time to double-check my family for my missing box. I search through Daisy’s room, Justin’s, Victor’s, and come up with nothing.
I go to my Saturday Patch and Paw shift, burn the pictures I found at Marji’s trailer and go through the motions of working, but I’m completely preoccupied.
I would naturally think Marji had taken my box, but there’s no way she could’ve broken into my room and been with me at the same time. However, Tommy . . . of course. I break into his place, so he retaliates by breaking into mine.
I sigh. This isn’t good.
I finish off my shift and drive straight to his basement apartment. I knock, he opens, and I step right inside.
He doesn’t back up. “Let me guess. You’re missing a box.”
“Who do you think you are, breaking into my room?”
He smirks. “Ah, the irony.”
I narrow my eyes. “I want my things.”
“I would like mine. But here we are.”
“I bought you a new laptop.”
Tommy’s smirk gets even bigger. “Look there. You finally admit it.”
I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath because my blood is seriously starting to roil.
He snickers and my eyes snap open. “Give. Me. The. Box.”
He takes an intimidating step toward me, all smirks and snickers gone. “Can’t. I disposed of it. What are you going to do about it?”
I shove him hard in the chest; he stumbles away and comes right back at me. I hike my chin, showing him I’m anything but intimidated, and he puts his face right in mine.
“Get out,” he commands.
He’s seen my journals. My dark side. My obsession. He has to die.
My whole body goes numb.
He has to die? What am I doing?
I broke into his place. He retaliated by breaking in to mine. Tommy’s a victim. His sister’s a victim. We’re all a victim of my mother.
He doesn’t deserve to die. He doesn’t deserve any of this.
“You come here in control. Then when I challenge you, you get angry. I give the anger back and you freak. Now you’re panicked.” His voice calms. “That’s a lot of emotion in the span of a few minutes.”
How is he so intuitive? How is it he sees so much when everyone else sees nothing in me?
I turn away, ashamed, humiliated. This isn’t me. I don’t taunt and go after innocent people. Everything Tommy’s done is out of retribution for his sister.
My journals: Sure there were clippings, notes, details, but nothing personal. Nothing incriminating. All done from an analytical point of view. In reality Tommy hasn’t discovered anything other than that I research, follow, and collect serial killers through time.
This. Me. Us. It’s wrong. I shouldn’t be here. I freaked on him for nothing.
“You need to leave,” he quietly says.
I don’t turn and look at him. I simply nod and walk from his apartment. I don’t want people knowing I’m mesmerized by killers. I just don’t. I’m not ready to share that part of me with anybody.
Reggie’s the only person who knows that side of me, and she only knows a small amount.
As I drive home, all I can think about is what just went down with Tommy. He has to die. What the hell am I thinking? That’s something my mom would have thought. Or Marji. Or Seth, my real dad. I don’t think that way. Not about someone like Tommy.
When I get home, I go to our backyard and look up at my window that I always leave cracked for fresh air. It’s easy enough to release the ladder. Even a long tree branch can unsnap it. But how did Tommy know that window was mine? My eyes narrow in on the present Justin gave me last year—a stained-glass “LANE” suctioned to the window. Of course.
All my years of research, details, methodical notes. It’s gone. It’s all gone.
I close my eyes. Tommy . . . There’d been a connection there, initially, through the grief group. He’d taken me for a ride on his bike and helped me feel free. Then the link between his sister and the Decapitator came to light. Followed by finding out he was part of the Masked Savior following. Then my sharing one of my deepest secrets with him.
How did I go from feeling free around him to breaking into his home? It’s all frustrating and puzzling, and somewhere deep down I want things to go back to the way they were, but I’m not sure how to reverse them. This is exactly what happens when emotions get involved and confuse things.
I trudge inside, and I crank my laptop up. The last time I looked, there had been no report on Marji or that young woman. Surely, there’s something now.
I scroll through my news feed and sure enough, there it is:
RICHMOND LOCAL MARJOREAM VEGA FOUND STABBED
Quickly I peruse the article. The young woman in the cage was eighteen. Marji picked her up outside a bar. The young woman thought they were going somewhere to party.
Yeah, Marji’s kind of sick party.
The article talks about little Gary Streeter, who has been missing a year, and the person in the other pictures, now identified as a sixteen-year-old girl who has been missing for five years. At least the families can have some sort of closure.
My mother is not mentioned once. The fact that they are sisters is hidden deep. Just like everything else in the Decapitator’s life.
The article goes on to speculate as to who stabbed Marji. To my surprise the Masked Savior isn’t even mentioned. Probably because a knife was used and no zip ties, and it took place outside of Richmond, not here. Though there was a Taser. Whatever the reason, it’s a blessing. For sure.
I read the rest, where they report the knife used to stab Marji is missing. They combed the surrounding area, but couldn’t find it.
My heart picks up its pace as I reread that part. Missing? No. I left it there. It shouldn’t be missing!
I press my fingers into my eyes. This can’t be happening. My copycat, j_d_l, was there. He, or she, saw the whole thing.