EIGHT

AMETHYST

Hours later, I’ve already forgotten about the text messages, more concerned with wiping out all traces of JakeRake69’s death. I drive across the state to a mom-and-pop hardware store on the outskirts of Carmel, New Jersey, where I make a cash purchase of hydrogen peroxide. It’s the kind of establishment that doesn’t have security cameras to record footage of me buying items to get rid of forensic evidence.

I’m resisting the urge to look up Jake’s socials to see if anyone has reported him missing. By now, a burial would have taken place where I left him at the cemetery, covering all traces of his body. I don’t need to incriminate myself by searching for him online.

After burning the trash bag full of blood-soaked products in a forest, I pay for the car to get cleaned and return home to sterilize the kitchen. When I open the fridge to check on the birthday cake, the hole in its side is missing, along with the streaks of white. I toss it out, dismissing what I saw before as a hallucination.

My doorbell rings as I’m mopping up remnants of the cleaning fluid with hot water infused with mint oil. I check the wall clock and frown because it’s only 7:15 PM. Straightening, I glance out into the backyard, where I swear there’s a figure standing among the trees. It’s too dark to make out the details, but moonlight reflects on a hood, with a long, flowing cape that makes him look like a modern-day Grim Reaper.

Squinting, I tilt my head, trying to work out if it’s a figment of my imagination.

The doorbell rings again, and a deep voice from the other side of the house says, “Amethyst?”

My attention snaps back to the direction of the sound. “Gavin?”

“It’s me.”

I jog to the front of the house and open the door. At 5’8, Gavin stands three inches taller than me and with a slender build that isn’t much bigger than mine.

Gavin bobs his Funko Pop-shaped head and grins a crooked smile with one side drooping toward his chin like a Salvador Dali melting clock. He hasn’t shaved today, so the uneven patches of ginger on his square jaw clash with his strawberry-blond hair.

When I don’t offer him a warm welcome, he strides past me and heads straight to the kitchen. “Show me what’s wrong.”

I glare at his narrow back, my lips pursing. He’s only been here twice, and he’s already making himself at home. I follow him, arriving as he settles at the small dining table.

“Just another community guidelines violation,” I mutter.

“Take a seat. Let me see.” He wraps an arm around the back of the chair beside him, but I take the seat opposite and pick up my phone.

As I log into the account, he rises off his seat and rounds the table to hover behind me like a wraith.

Sweat breaks out across my skin. My stomach twists and I shift uncomfortably on my chair. Gavin is so desperate for a sub that he’s tattooed BDSM on each finger of his right hand. He thinks he’s a Dom, but his personality is more like a dachshund. Too eager, too excitable, and too exhausting.

Leaning to the left, I glare up into his chocolate brown eyes. “Do you have to stand so close?”

He steps back, his palms raised. “Sorry.” He shuffles on his feet. “Are you still devoting yourself to that guy?”

“Yes,” I say, my words clipped.

“But he was executed…” Gavin’s voice trails off as I shoot him a venomous glare. Dipping his head, he rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just saying.”

I could explain to Gavin that death isn’t the end of a relationship but simply another phase. I could tell him that my mind hasn’t yet processed the shock of missing Xero’s execution because I’m preoccupied with something that could get me imprisoned.

Explanations would be futile. Gavin is one of those men who takes the word no as the starting point to a negotiation. Whatever I say to let him down gently will be met with counter-arguments. Hell, I won’t be surprised if he ends up begging.

He reaches for my arm, and I rise off the seat.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my shoulders bunching.

“Restoring your account isn’t just a question of tapping a few buttons,” he says, his tongue sliding across his bottom lip. “It’s a very involved process.”

“Last time, you got me up and running in seconds.”

His gaze sweeps down my top. It’s a hoodie unzipped to the collarbone and barely shows any skin, yet Gavin looks at me like I’m wearing a push-up bra. “It’s different now.”

Different now that I’m technically single, he means. Different, now that he has something I desperately need. Once again, I don’t voice this thought. Instead, I back toward the sink, where I left a mug.

He folds his arms across his chest. “I charge five hundred dollars for each account I restore. The last time I helped you out was a freebie to demonstrate my talents.”

The tight knot of anxiety in my gut relaxes. I can handle a man trying to make a living, even if the way he’s going about it is creepy. “Fine. The creator fund pays out next week. Restore my account, and I’ll send you a grand.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he mutters.

Oh, I know exactly what he meant, but I refuse to acknowledge his attempt at bawdy barter. I don’t want to get into any arguments, especially so soon after killing the last man who attacked me in this kitchen. Two kills is an unlucky coincidence. A third would increase my chances of joining Xero on the electric chair .

“If it’s an advance you want, I can forward you what I have in my account and pay the rest next week,” I say with a shrug.

He grabs my phone, exhaling a long breath of frustration. “Fine. You got any cognac?”

“Sure.” I walk out of the kitchen, the tension in my shoulders loosening.

I don’t remember Gavin acting so thirsty at the academy. In fact, I barely remember him at all apart from the few glimpses from across the dining hall. Gavin kept to himself, sat with a bunch of day students, and never gave anyone much trouble. I, on the other hand, was the school pariah until I was expelled.

Most of my alcohol is out of sight, in the living room, which I only use for guests. A year after moving in, I found a liquor cabinet at a junk store for a steal. It was originally mahogany with intricate carvings and gilded accents, which I kept after painting it black. I lined its interior with black velvet to add a touch of luxury.

I take a bottle of Armagnac, hoping he’ll be satisfied with it, and return to the kitchen to find Gavin hunched over my phone. Without looking up, he mutters, “I ordered us some food. We can watch the execution while we wait.”

“No, thanks,” I say with a shudder and set down the Armagnac with a glass.

Gavin pours himself a generous portion and takes a long gulp. “Suit yourself.”

“Did you restore my account?” I ask.

He raises a finger. “These things take time.”

I lean against the kitchen counter, watching him tap a few commands into my screen before picking up his phone.

“Are you sure you don’t want to see? I paid X-Cite Media $99.99 for an hour’s rental.”

“What?”

He glances up, his eyes dancing. “Whoever shot that footage took a massive risk. That sort of thing doesn’t come cheap.”

“Why would you even pay to see someone die?” I ask.

“Same reason women set up entire fan clubs for serial killers, I guess,” he replies with a shrug .

“What is that supposed to mean?” I fold my arms across my chest.

He gazes into my eyes and smiles as though he’s delivered a barb that’s landed. That, or he’s finally managed to capture the attention of a woman. Breaking eye contact, I walk to the stove and pick up the vintage kettle Xero ordered for me online. Not personally. He explained he had a friend on the outside taking care of his affairs.

I fill the kettle with water, return it to the stove, turn on the gas, and ignore the sensation of Gavin’s eyes on my ass. The only reason I’m tolerating him is to restore my only source of income outside of Mom and Dad. Several of my videos have gone viral, and that money can buy my independence.

That, plus a mourning dress and a grand flower arrangement for Xero’s funeral.

Gavin turns up the volume on his phone, taunting me with the sound of Xero’s fight with the prison guards, followed by the tasing. He snickers as a guard declares him immobilized, and they drag him to a holding cell.

Whoever said hell hath no fury like a woman scorned hasn’t met Gavin. Gavin’s anger at his involuntary celibacy could rival the rage of heaven. The kettle bubbles as the priest gives him his last rites, and it whistles as I hear the governor order the executioner to turn on the electric chair.

“Isn’t it boiled yet?” Gavin asks.

“No,” I reply through clenched teeth.

He snickers. “Your man is a resilient fucker. Look at the way he’s jerking on the chair. He’s taking ages to die.”

My sinuses throb. I want to tell Gavin to stop torturing me with the sound of Xero’s death, but there’s a part of me that’s still curious about the text messages claiming to be from him. Maybe there’s an infinitesimal chance he cheated death.

The kettle continues to whistle, the shrill sound making my ears ring. When a male voice on the edge of my awareness says that Xero survived the electrocution, I double over and steady myself with a palm on the counter.

“Shit,” Gavin says, his voice breathy with awe. “They’re doing it again. ”

I whirl around, my eyes widening. “What?”

“Come and see.” Gavin rocks back and forth in his seat with the force of his excitement.

“No.”

He rises to his feet. “You need to see this.”

“Why?”

“So you can stop clinging to the past.”

I huff a laugh. “He’s barely been dead for twenty-four hours.”

Gavin holds out his screen, which reveals Xero still convulsing on the electric chair, his large body barely restrained by the leather straps. Flames erupt from the back of his head, followed by black smoke. It fills the execution chamber and spreads toward the camera.

One of the guards flaps his arms about, and with the help of some powerful fans, he eventually manages to clear the air. Xero’s body continues to jerk and spasm within the restraints until he finally falls limp.

Every muscle in my body tenses, and I stand frozen with my back to the kettle’s shrill whistle. My gaze is glued to the screen as every detail unfolds before me with a surreal clarity that roots me to the spot.

Xero’s chest remains still as a man in a white coat approaches and performs several tests before declaring, “Time of death, 6:05 PM.”

“You see?” Gavin sneers. “He’s dead.”

“And this is why a man like you can’t get a girlfriend, let alone a submissive,” I reply, my voice breaking. “You’re a creep who preys on women at their most vulnerable.”

“What did you say?” he hisses.

“A coward, too.”

He advances, his nostrils flaring, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. I raise my chin, look him in the eye, and dare him to try it. Gavin is about to find out who he’s fucking with. And there’s a kettle behind me, whistling his name.

The doorbell rings, and his gaze darts toward the hallway. Without another word, he walks out of the kitchen. I blink, loosening tears that roll down my cheeks. I follow him to the front door, watching him take possession of his food delivery and walk down the street without a backward glance before sliding into the driver’s seat of his red sports car.

“Fuck you, Gavin,” I snarl and close the door.

If tolerating his presence is the price of getting back into my account, I’d rather starve.

When I return to the kitchen, steam surrounds the stove, and I turn off the gas. My phone buzzes with a text message from the delivery app, announcing that my order arrived in ten minutes and asking if I’d like to give the driver a tip.

I scroll to my order history, where there’s a receipt for $549.54 from the Phoenix Wine & Spirits for two bottles of Chateau de la Croix XO cognac, candy, chips, beef jerky, and a bottle of lube.

“That slimy scammer,” I snarl.

A message pops up on my phone from an unknown number:

Is this your type? Losers?

My jaw drops. I check the device, making sure it’s my actual phone and not the burner I use to message Xero. That one is upstairs in a drawer without its SIM. Xero never knew this number. Even if he did, he sure as hell wouldn’t have written it down for a prison guard to pick up after his execution.

I stare at the screen, wondering if Gavin is texting me from around the corner out of some sick drive for revenge.

Another message appears:

That man is lucky to have escaped with his life.

I type out:

Who is this?

He replies:

You know.

I shake my head.

I don’t.

Seconds pass, keeping me glued to the screen, desperate for his reply:

Would it help if I told you something only you and I would know?

I don’t respond, too freaked out that my anonymous creep has tracked down my real phone number .

Early in our relationship, I called you from the blind spot and you told me your darkest fantasy. Remember?

I nod. That was the morning of the thunderstorm when lightning struck the old sycamore tree at the end of the road. It was raining so hard that I needed to stick a finger in my ear so I could hear Xero’s deep, smooth voice. But of course, I don’t reply.

The next message says:

You wanted me to escape death row for one night, climb into your bedroom while you were sleeping, and fill your holes.

He adds:

In the morning, when you got up for a shower, they would be dripping with my cum.

Throat tightening, I run through the possibilities. One, a guard standing close by Xero overheard this conversation. Two, these text messages are another compound hallucination, brought on by the trauma of watching Xero’s execution.

Because option three is impossible.

There’s no way he could survive two rounds of the electric chair and getting set on fire. Even if he could, he sure as hell wouldn’t be texting me obscenities from the prison infirmary.

He messages again to ask:

Was your love for me bullshit?

“No,” I whisper, my throat thickening with anguish.

Were those letters you sent with your fantasies a lie?

“No,” I reply with a sob.

Xero died yesterday in front of cameras and witnesses, including the reporter for the New Alderney Times. No guard could have overheard our conversation during a noisy thunderstorm.

I’m having a breakdown, brought on by guilt and grief and shock. I need urgent medical help.

Another message pops up.

The next time you allow a man to touch what’s mine, you’ll find his body parts under your pillow.

My breath catches, and I navigate to my contacts. Dr. Saint has an emergency number. I could call it, get some help, and put an end to this imaginary stalker .

Because there’s no such thing as ghosts. There are, however, such things as psychos and copycats.

When my fingers hover over the call button, another message arrives.

Don’t believe me? Look under your pillow.

“No,” I whisper.

I wasn’t giving you an option.

My breath quickens, and the pulse between my ears drums a frantic beat. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to will away the imaginary messages.

The phone buzzes again and again and again, the vibrations seeping into my bones. My mind won’t stop fucking with me until I go upstairs and check.

On legs that won’t stop trembling, I trudge out of the kitchen, my feet dragging across the floor tiles like they’re weighted down by chains. Chains of my sins. Chains of my broken promises. Chains of every way I failed Xero. As I force myself up the stairs, I try not to think about what the hell I’ll find.

The discarded SIM card, or something more sinister?

Each step on the stairs comes with a spine-chilling creak, and the air grows colder as I ascend. Every breath rasping through my throat feels like a plea for mercy.

What did Dr. Saint tell me about giving in to my delusions? I don’t remember. That conversation is as blank as the first ten years of my life.

I reach the bedroom door, ignoring the shiver running down my spine. Will JakeRake69’s corpse wait for me in the closet or under the covers? Should I give up on my delusion and seek help, or should I take a photo of the hallucination and prove to myself that it’s all in my head?

Take the photo.

The words slide through my skull as though they’re coming from someone else with the same voice, and the same inflections, but the personality behind it isn’t mine. I focus on the task ahead and push open the bedroom door.

Moonlight streams in through a chink in the curtains that I swear that were open this morning. I swallow back a whimper and walk to the bedside, where the SIM card lies on the nightstand.

Look under the pillow.

With trembling fingers, I peel it back and find an envelope the exact shade of blood. Recognition has my stomach plummeting to the floorboards. It’s the exact type of stationary I used to send letters to Xero.

Readying my phone, I fire up the camera app and film the envelope’s front. In my handwriting is the address:

Xero Greaves

Inmate ID 99931

New Alderney State Penitentiary

10 Longis Street

Beaumont, NA 83725

My mind has even conjured up a stamp and a postmark.

What the hell am I going to find inside?