Page 36

THIRTY-SIX

AMETHYST

Chappy is dead. His tongue is in an envelope under my pillow. I nearly got hanged, and I’ve run out of vodka. Xero can’t expect me to lie on my bed all day just to wait for him to start severing body parts.

After the world’s fastest shower, I walk through the cemetery to catch the bus that goes to my favorite discount supermarket. They do home delivery, but I might be dead in twenty-four hours.

If Xero plans on dragging me into the afterlife for eternal punishment, then I’m going to need a motherfucking drink.

When I reach its double doors, I grab a basket and head straight for the booze. Thanks to Gavin, I have only $48 until Mom sends my monthly allowance.

I cringe at the thought of still being dependent on my parents at the age of twenty-four. It’s hard to keep a job on strong medication that fucks with my sleep schedule and short-term memory.

Some days, all I want to do is rot in bed. Then bam! I wake up, ready to kick ass. The only time I feel normal is when I’m not taking the pills. That’s when ideas flow to me like water. I can regulate my weight. I even have the motivation to write.

However, the medication acts as a buffer from trauma. If I take it for long enough, I can look in the mirror for a count of three without seeing a monster. And I’m not haunted by people who don’t exist.

Besides, Mom and Dad will withdraw their financial support if I don’t pretend to take my pills, and I might even get institutionalized. It’s not like I sit around doing nothing. I’ve written manuscripts and tried to get them published. I also got several jobs. The last was at the karaoke bar across the road from Wonderland. It was great, until the manager fired me for turning up late for my shifts.

I did ghostwriting for a few clients, but they hated that I couldn’t stick to their outlines. My mind doesn’t work in straight lines like a normal wannabe author. It’s more of a free spirit. I can’t tame my thoughts, only suppress them.

The store’s liquor section spans four aisles, with a significant portion of it dedicated to vodka. Since I have no idea how long Xero will continue tormenting me on this mortal plane, I load the cheapest brands into my basket.

“Amethyst?” says a deep voice.

I continue walking toward the cash registers. My mind is either playing tricks on me, or someone has recognized my face from social media. It happens more times than I would like and never ends well, especially with men. They either sneer at me because I’m simping for a serial killer, want to sleep with me because they know I’m not getting laid, or want to snuff out my life. It’s one of the reasons I don’t enjoy leaving the house.

“Amethyst,” the voice says, sounding more insistent.

I quicken my pace and dart into the frozen aisle, where I pass displays of ice cream. Heavy footsteps hurry after me, but they could mean anything from a stalker to an auditory hallucination.

When a large hand lands on my shoulder, I freeze.

“I thought it was you,” says the voice. “Not many women have your hair color.”

Cringing, I turn my head, only to lock gazes with Whatshisname, Mrs. Baker’s hot priest. “Oh, hi.”

He beams. It’s one of those genuine smiles that makes the corners of the eyes crinkle and transforms him from intimidatingly handsome to endearing… if you like them wholesome and cl ean-cut. I want to glance over my shoulder to see who he’s grinning at, but I remember he already called my name twice.

“Reverend…” Heat floods my cheeks at already forgetting his name.

“Tom. Call me Tom,” he says, his gray eyes sparkling.

He’s far too good looking to be a priest with his strong brow, perfectly straight nose, and a jaw like Batman. In the store’s strip light, his caramel-colored hair even sweeps around his face like a halo.

I try not to gaze at lips that look soft enough to kiss. Men like him prefer church girls, not sinners. That’s if they’re not already bound by vows of celibacy. But I’ve read enough smutty romance to know that sort of thing won’t stop a pervy priest.

“There was a lot of police activity on the drive this morning. Do you know what happened?”

My heart sinks a little into my stomach. I have no idea why I’m disappointed he only wants gossip about the street. It’s not like I wanted to get anything started. Besides, if Xero can kill a man and carve out his tongue for offering to lick my pussy, then chatting up a sexy priest would be like writing his name in a Death Note.

Reverend Tom leans into me, his lips so close to my ear that my skin tingles with static electricity. “You can confide in me anytime.”

Tingles spread across my skin. I jump back, my eyes flying open, my cheeks burning. “I think one of Relaney’s friends was found hanging,” I blurt. “And the police came to investigate.”

His brow furrows. “But it wasn’t a suicide.”

“What makes you think that?” My voice rises several guilty octaves.

“They only send in forensic teams for murders.” He nods, as though he knows all about about criminal investigations.

I shuffle on my feet, not knowing what he wants me to say. Chappy sure as hell didn’t cut out his own tongue and hang himself from the ceiling.

“Do you know anything about evil spirits?” I ask.

His eyes widen. “You think he was possessed?”

“Umm… maybe? I’m just asking. I thought, because you deal wi th the supernatural, you might know something about getting rid of ghosts.”

He looks at me for several heartbeats, like he’s trying and failing to solve a nonsensical riddle. “So, you’re afraid the man’s spirit will linger?”

My jaw tightens. Why am I continuing this conversation? I should pay for my booze and leave. But Catholic priests cast out demons in the movies. Maybe vicars of his denomination can do something similar?

“I’ve heard salt can create a barrier,” he says, his eyes dancing with amusement. “And, of course, there’s holy water.”

“Where can I buy it?” I blurt.

He chuckles, the sound rich. “Come with me.”

I walk with Reverend Tom through the supermarket, to the aisle that sells bottled water. A few women we pass cast him admiring glances and smiles. I can’t blame them. He’s stunning if you like them vanilla. I, however, do not.

All the while, the phone in my purse buzzes with messages. Knowing my luck, it won’t be Myra telling me she’s found my manuscript and has set up a bunch of meetings for the book fair.

Reverend Tom picks up a bottle of Evian and wiggles his fingers. “Watch this.”

“Wait.” I rush down the aisle, my vodka clinking within the metal basket, and grab two plastic water bottles of a brand I don’t recognize. “Can you do it with a cheaper one?”

He smirks. “Of course.”

I bounce on my heels, my heart soaring as he blesses the water. When he places it in my basket, I beam.

“Thank you. This is awesome!”

He gives me that look again. The one where he thinks I might be unhinged. His gaze flickers with questions he’s too polite to ask. Smile fading, he says, “Amethyst, are you alright?”

“Of course. What do you mean?”

As his gaze travels down to my neck, my stomach plummets to the linoleum. If Officer Vayne noticed red marks on it hours ago this morning, then they’ve probably already turned purple. Dipping my chin, I try to make them less noticeable, but it only makes his brows pinch with concern .

“I’m only next door if you need to talk about anything. You know that, right?” he asks.

My throat tightens. Does he think I’m suicidal?

“Amethyst.”

“Right.” I rub the back of my neck. “I appreciate your offer, but I’m fine.”

He glances down at the vodka before meeting my eyes with a knowing look. It’s like he can read everything I’m trying to hide. “There’s always hope, even in the darkest times. You only need to ask.”

“Sure.” Bowing my head, I pick up my shopping and scurry away like a rat.

As I round the corner, an older woman cries out his name and hurries over to him with a group of friends. I need help, alright, but he’s not the man for the job.

Only a heavy-duty exorcist can solve my problems, but I don’t have a hotline to the Winchester brothers, Abraham Van Helsing, or any other legendary supernatural hunter. Relaney is right. Google is my friend.

When I return to Parisii Drive, it’s still rammed with police vehicles, blocking everyone else from leaving the road. I pause at a lamp post, and gape at a picture of JakeRake69 on a poster.

MISSING PERSON

Name: Jake Ryland

Age: 32

Height: 6 feet

Build: Athletic

Hair Color: Brown

Eye Color: Blue

Last Seen: Last Friday at 6:00 PM

Last Location: Parisii Drive

Description: Jake Ryland was last seen wearing a black leather jacket, blue jeans, and white sneakers. He has a scar on his left cheek.

If you have any information regarding Jake’s whereabouts, please contact Dale Ryland at (555) 789-4321.

A reward is offered for any information leading to Jake Ryland's location. You can reach us confidentially at [email protected].

What.

The.

Fuck?

That company name sounds familiar. Reaching into my bag, I pull out my phone, finding dozens of messages from the unknown number. Right now, my troubles are bigger than a possessive ghost. How the hell did Jake’s family track him down to Parisii Drive?

I fire up the app and navigate to the UnofficialXerofan club, where Lizzie Bath has already uploaded fifteen new videos since the last reaction one she made of me reading out Xero’s last letter.

On her bio are a bunch of URLs, including the affiliate link for the company selling Xero’s execution video.

Just as I suspected. It’s X-Cite Media.

Shit.

A group of men in white jumpsuits amble toward me, too preoccupied in their conversation to notice I’m freaking out. How the hell is Jake connected to the people who are renting out execution videos for $99.99 a day?

As the men approach, I notice another pair emerge from my doorstep, one of them looking suspiciously similar to the man I killed. They each hold stacks of paper, which I assume are more of those missing person’s posters.

The pair move onto number 11, where a burly officer shoos them away. One of them hands him some papers, but I’m too busy crossing the road and ducking behind a van to notice if it’s accepted.

My heart pounds hard enough to alert them of my presence as I continue on the other side of the road, watching them move from number 9 to 7 to 5. As they reach number 3, I cross over to Mrs. Baker’s and knock on her door .

The old woman answers with a bright smile that falters the moment she realizes I’m not Reverend Tom. “Amethyst. How lovely it is to see you again. What can I do to help?”

Out of desperation, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m locked out,” I rasp. “Is there any chance I can wait here until my friend comes with the spare key?”

She steps aside and gestures for me to enter her drawing room, which is identical to Relaney’s living room in size, with a trio of tall windows that flood its gray walls with light. A pea-green sofa sits beneath the windows, opposite a pair of brown leather armchairs.

Tall flames crackle in the fireplace, filling the room with the scent of burning resin. I glance in the hearth to find it crammed with pinecones. On a low coffee table in the middle of the room sits a chintzy tea service, complete with a bowl of sugar cubes and silver tongs.

“This is… nice,” I murmur.

“Reverend Tom appreciates all these little touches.” Mrs. Baker guides me to sit on the armchair and plops down on the sofa with a happy sigh. “He wants me to help furnish the rectory after the fumigators have left.”

“Oh.” I glance out of the window, where police vehicles still jam the road.

“Did you hear?” she asks, her voice lowering. “Relaney Cymbal got taken away in handcuffs.”

My eyes widen. “Why?”

“They found a cannabis farm in her basement.”

“What?”

“It’s true,” she replies with a nod. “I saw a team taking out all the paraphernalia. There were fully grown plants, grow lights, hydroponic systems, irrigation equipment, and pots. All loaded into a van.”

My jaw drops. “No way. I didn’t even know she had a basement.”

Mrs. Baker flicks her head toward the back of the room. “Haven’t you noticed Parisii Drive is built on a slope that inclines down to the cemetery? ”

“Yes?” I reply, remembering how easy it was to drag Jake’s body downhill instead of on flat ground. “What about it?”

“Each house contains a crawl space for access to plumbing, electrical wiring, ventilation, and HVAC systems. Some use them for storage or utilities, but it seems like Ms. Cymbal employed hers for more nefarious purposes.”

“I had no idea,” I say, my voice breathy.

“Of course you wouldn’t.” She waves a hand. “Your house is a new build and probably doesn’t require a lick of maintenance. Tea?”

I gulp. “Yes, please.”

Mrs. Baker rises off the sofa to pour me a steaming cup. As she hands it to me, I stare down at its contents, still reeling from the news. Poor Relaney. In the space of a few hours, she went from losing one of her friends to getting arrested for the production of drugs.

She would have gotten away with running a cannabis farm if it hadn’t been for Xero hanging a man from the ceiling.

My phone buzzes, breaking me out of my thoughts. I take a sip of tea, remembering why I came to hide out with Mrs. Baker.

“Have you seen the missing person photos?” I ask, prompting her to spill some more gossip.

She takes a long sip, keeping me on the edge of my seat. As a former actress, Mrs. Baker is an expert in theatrics, and I don’t begrudge her attempt to draw out the suspense. Thanks to her generosity, I’ve avoided encountering Jake’s brother.

“Well,” she says, her voice breathy with excitement. “Two men knocked on the door, asking if I’d seen the missing man. Apparently, he parked here on Friday and just vanished.”

“Really?” I reply, my stomach churning.

She nods. “The missing man left his car parked outside number 11.”

My throat tightens. Jake fucking led them straight to my doorstep. Humming, I hold my features into what I hope is a mask of curiosity.

“Do you know what I think?” she asks.

“What? ”

“Relaney Cymbal is always entertaining unsavory characters. I should have known she was up to no good!”

I tune out the gossip, my mind whirring. If Jake’s brother suspects he’s dead, it’s only a matter of time before suspicion falls to his killer.

Me.

The doorbell rings again, and Mrs. Baker springs out of her seat. “That will be Reverend Tom!”

My phone buzzes once more. With a sigh, I glance down at the screen to find a string of messages from Xero. The last of them says:

You are racking up the punishments.

Come home, now.

YOU BELONG TO ME.

A photo pops up on the screen of me with Reverend Tom, taken from the water aisle. The priest leans into my ear to say something, but that’s not the most disturbing element. Xero has drawn a noose in red around his neck.

I don’t need any further explanation. If I keep talking to Reverend Tom, he’ll be the next to die.