Page 18

EIGHTEEN

AMETHYST

Even at the height of my peril, I know it’s bad manners for a house guest to leave behind their severed fingers. I place them back into the envelope, slide it into the overnight bag, and straighten up the sheets.

It’s seven in the morning, and the hallway echoes with distant snores. I tiptoe down the stairs, not wanting to wake anyone with the sounds of my panic, and step out through the front door.

The morning sun trickles down on the trees lining Parisii Drive, casting dappled light on my car. A quick glance at the back seat confirms that it’s empty, and I stride toward the driver’s side door.

Maybe I should have called the police, but I’m afraid of repercussions. Xero has already murdered one person with a distant connection to me, perhaps even two. I still don’t know what happened to Gavin, and I’m too afraid to investigate.

I scoot inside and glance through the rearview mirror to recheck for random corpses. Finding it empty, I start the engine, call Myra, and drive.

She answers in two rings. “Hey.”

“Xero’s ghost killed Kayla.” When she doesn’t reply, I check the handset to see if the call is still connected. “Are you there? ”

She clears her throat. “What makes you think Xero has become a ghost?”

“Sometimes, Xero sent me things in the mail which were never forwarded.”

“That’s not an answer. And things get lost all the time,” she says, already defensive.

I purse my lips, feeling like shit for speaking ill of the dead. “Was Kayla a Xero fan?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Myra asks.

“What if she was late forwarding a few items? By the time Xero re-sent them, she might have had two of the same thing and decided there was no harm in keeping the duplicate.”

Myra falls silent again, seeming to think through my logic. I turn out of Elgin Road and onto the highway connecting my suburb of Beaumont City with Alderney Hill. Mom and Dad own one of the houses on the lower part of the hill, where property prices are seven figures instead of eight.

One would think a couple with a mini-mansion and pool house would be able to accommodate their daughter, but they shoved me away into No. 13 Parisii Drive after pulling me out of college.

“Okay, let’s say Kayla kept a few items for herself. Why would Xero’s ghost even care?” Myra asks.

“One of them was his mother’s locket,” I say. “That was the only thing he had of her before she died.”

Myra clears her throat. “How do you know Kayla took it?”

“Yesterday, Xero sent me two photos. One of him holding the locket and the second of a woman with my hairstyle sucking down a big black dildo.”

“Did you call the police?” she asks, her voice rising several octaves.

“They came to the house last night, but I was more concerned about the letter he slipped under my pillow.”

She splutters. “What letter?”

I continue down the highway, recounting everything that happened after she left, excluding the part where I bought hydrogen peroxide to clear up the last traces of Jake’s DNA. I also skip the episodes where I encountered Jake’s corpse. Trauma dumping has a limit, and I believe that limit is murder and its repercussions.

Myra doesn’t speak much for the rest of the journey, already seeming drained by my troubles. I can’t blame her. She’s tolerated my drama for over a decade, all the time expecting me to get better.

Nothing strange has happened to me for months, and now there are two possible deaths. Three, if you count the one I’m keeping quiet. Besides, being haunted by a vengeful ghost is pretty exhausting.

As I take the turn to Alderney Hill, she say, “Don’t freak out when I ask you this, okay?”

“Go on,” I reply, my stomach tightening in anticipation.

“When was the last time you took your meds?” Before I can protest, she adds, “Remember that time you were hooking up with that Jaimie guy, and Mr. Lawson appeared with you in the bed?”

“He was at the edge of the mattress.”

She pauses. “Really? I thought he was in it?”

“He tried to get in,” I reply through clenched teeth, already knowing she’s steering the conversation toward my mental health. “But let me ask you some questions.”

She hesitates for several breaths before replying with, “Okay.”

I reach the foot of Alderney Hill, one of the most dangerous roads in Beaumont City for its sharp gradient and hair-pin turns. The visibility here is terrible, even in broad daylight, due to the oversized juniper trees lining both sides of the road.

The evergreens that grow toward the sky only cast shadows, while other trees have low-hanging branches that stretch over the narrow lane, creating a canopy that plays tricks with the mind. Thankfully, I’ve never had an accident, since my parents live close to the bottom. My thoughts shift back to my argument.

“Question one, do I know where Kayla lives? No, I don’t. Two. Remember how I texted you to check on her because I was worried and a day later, you told me she was murdered with one of Xero’s gifts? Did I hallucinate that? No, I didn’t.”

“Amy—”

“And you might want to check on Gavin.”

“Because Xero’s ghost cut off his fingers?” she asks, still sounding doubtful.

“Want me to take them to your work?”

“Don’t,” she shrieks. “Take them to the cops.”

I turn through the gap in the juniper hedge and pull into Mom and Dad's driveway. The iron gate is always open because they hate when delivery people toss their packages under the shrubs.

“Listen, I’ve got to go,” I say. “Just take care of yourself. Xero’s out there, hurting everyone even vaguely connected to me. You’re my best friend, and I don’t want you getting caught up in the rampage.”

She sighs, and I can already tell she’s skeptical. “Alright… I’ll sleep with my crucifix. Love you. Got to go.”

I park in the carport and open the door, letting in the overwhelming scent of juniper, which makes my sinuses itch. Sneezing, I walk across the gravel courtyard toward the front, knowing I’m ruining my parents’ aesthetic. Their house is one of the oldest in the district and was originally a brothel. The mock Tudor architecture, with its pitched roof, intricate brickwork, and exposed wooden beams, creates the feel of an old tavern.

Memories of the house's history flood my mind as I approach the oak door. Legend has it that gangsters used tunnels at the top of the hill to roll barrels into the storeroom. I once traveled up there out of curiosity, but all I found were dense evergreens and a pair of rude assholes armed with machine guns.

Mom and Dad are so proud of the house’s checkered past that they restored the wood beams and leaded glass windows to impress their fancy guests at their candle-lit suppers. They’d be horrified to find their half-crazed daughter here, screaming about seeing corpses. They act like they’ve lived here my entire life, but I remember them moving in furniture while I was recovering from the accident.

Forcing down a flurry of nerves about their reaction to my unannounced visit, I ring the bell and listen for footsteps. When there’s only silence, I glance at the garden path, debating if Mom will get mad if I use the spare key under the rock by her hedge maze .

The door opens, and I flinch backward. Mom stands in the doorway, her smile morphing into something sour.

Standing in front of Mom is like looking into an aged filter, providing a major glow up. She has the same emerald-green eyes as me, with deep gold flecks, the same button nose, and full lips with high peaks. Her bone structure is more defined than mine and framed with shoulder-length hair that’s so brown it appears black.

The personal trainer, Pilates and protein diet have given her lean muscles, affording her the appearance of a woman in her thirties, even though she’s just turned fifty.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her gaze dropping to my bag. “I already have my hands full with Clive.”

“Something’s happened, Mom. Let me in, please?” I clasp my hands, cringing at having to beg for crumbs.

It’s been like this since the accident. Maybe even before. Dad once explained that Mom can’t stand to look at me out of guilt, but does she always have to be so cold?

I’m not usually so needy or desperate for her validation, but she’s been a lifeline since my last prescription got changed. Sometimes, the drugs are like trying to fight through Jello. Other times, it’s like trying to navigate dense fog. Everything is muffled, making me feel like a prisoner in my own mind. I can barely function, let alone manage to get employment.

My social media platform was supposed to earn me some independence. I planned on using my completed manuscript to earn an advance, so I could start paying my own medical expenses. Dr. Saint is an okay enough psychiatrist, but she reports everything to Mom.

Mom purses her lips and glances over my shoulder, as though she’s checking to see if anyone has spotted her in the presence of her mildly unhinged daughter who’s bleached the left half of her hair blonde.

“I wouldn’t ask, but I don’t have anywhere else to go,” I add.

Her eyes harden, making me feel like I’m ten again and a burden. After the accident, there was a time when I was wholly dependent on Mom for everything, including going to the bathroom. I shift on my feet and try not to squirm. After what feels like an eternity, she turns on her heel and walks down the wood-paneled hallway toward the kitchen.

It’s Tudor style, like the rest of the mansion, with a pair of oak beams running along the ceiling and into a wall of matching cabinets. Strangely, for a couple with so much money to spend, they don’t have a housekeeper or even a part-time cleaner. Mom takes care of everything, which is why she can’t stand having guests… At least that’s what she says whenever I ask if I can spend the weekend.

Uncle Clive sits with his head bowed on a high stool at the marble island. I’ve never met the man in person and have only seen him in old photos, but he’s instantly recognizable. He’s a paler, gaunter, beaten-down version of Dad, with dirty blonde hair falling around his face in greasy clumps.

“Clive,” Mom says, her voice suspiciously bright. “Say hello to Amethyst.”

Flinching, he stares across the kitchen at me through shifty eyes, his fingers tightening on his glass. Nostrils flaring, he stares up at me and scowls. “Amethyst.”

Goosebumps break out across my skin. Something about this man is off, and I’m not just talking about his appearance. My gaze wanders down the rolled-up sleeves of his rumpled shirt, where I find bandages.

“What happened?” I ask.

Mom rushes across the kitchen and ushers me out. “Don’t talk about that,” she whisper-hisses. “He’s… sensitive.”

“What happened to his arms?” I whisper back.

“Vigilante mob.” She lowers her voice until it’s barely audible. “They tracked him down to his new address and set fire to his house.”

I glance into the kitchen. Maybe my memory is fucked, but I’ve barely heard of Uncle Clive, let alone about him having problems with the law. “What did he do?”

Mom yanks me further down the hallway. “He just got out of prison.”

“For what?”

“He’s innocent. Do you hear me?” she asks, her tone laced with venom .

“O-Okay. When did he get out?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“And how long was he inside?” I ask, my voice artificially light.

“Nearly fifteen years. Why do you ask?”

I shake my head, my mind whirring with possibilities. All this time, I assumed Jake was responsible for the threatening note and the photo because he attacked me on the same day. That assumption was too simplistic, too convenient.

Creepy stalkers don’t send a message one hour, then pounce the next. They like the suspense. Jake’s build-up were all those trolling comments he wrote on social media and the DMs threatening my life. His threats were always digital until he turned up on my doorstep.

What if the polaroid and scrawled note came from someone else who’s out of touch with the internet age? An older psychopath who likes to terrorize young women using analogue methods? A chill races down my spine at the thought.

Besides, only a handful of people know my real address, so I assumed there was only one enemy. My new stalker could get every detail they want about me from Mom.

Fear coils in my gut, tightening its grip, but I still manage to nod.

That’s a brilliant deduction.

Jake wasn’t more than a few years older than me and couldn’t have taken that photo. The culprit had to be older and more likely someone who knew me before the supposed accident.

I finally have a potential lead: a strange uncle of dubious moral character who’s just been released for a crime so heinous that people are still trying to set him on fire.