by Frankie Rose
I reply and tell Luke not to worry about it, and then order two extra large coffees for me and Morgan to drink once I’ve made it home. My hands are in heaven the whole journey back to 125th Street thanks to the scalding takeaway cups, but the rest of me is a frigid ice block. Worse still, it starts snowing halfway home and my hair is damp and ratty, running melted water down the back of my neck by the time Morgan lets me into her apartment.
“Sheesh, you look like crap, Patterson.”
“Thanks. You look terrific, yourself.” She actually does look pretty good, aside from the shadows under her eyes and the way she seems to flinch whenever she moves, like every joint in her body aches.
“Is that a coffee? For me?” she demands, relieving me of one of the takeaways.
I snatch it back and thrust the other one out to her. “Trust me, you don’t want that one.”
Morgan shakes her head and eases herself down onto her computer chair. “I’m surprised you have any teeth left with the amount of sugar you imbibe.”
“Yeah, well, we can’t all be sweet enough without it.”
Morgan snorts and wraps herself in a thick blanket. I take off my boots and flex my toes out, trying to get the feeling back.
“You’re gonna dirty up my place with your foot stink,” Morgan moans. I ignore her and snap the cookie I bought along with the coffee in half to share with her.
“Ooh, chocolate. You know what an occasion like this calls for, don’t you?”
I quirk my eyebrow at her and drink deep on my coffee, needing the heat to defrost my insides. “Go on. Enlighten me.”
“Charlie St. Cloud.”
I laugh and make myself comfortable on her sofa. “Y’know, I’ve tried to watch that movie twice now but things just keep getting in the way. My uncle doesn’t appreciate Zac Efron the way he should.”
“The way everyone should,” Morgan corrects.
“Right?”
She cues up the DVD on her laptop, and we both snuggle under a blanket, watching the titles and getting chocolate chip crumbs everywhere. Wouldn’t happen in my apartment, but Morgan doesn’t care about things like that. It feels good that I can be a slob here and then maintain the order and routine of my own space. Kinda selfish, I know, but still. The movie is about fifteen minutes in when my phone buzzes in my bag. I panic, thinking it might be Noah already upstairs waiting for me. The clock on the wall reads one-forty, however, so it can’t be that. But the text is from Noah, and there’s an attachment on it. I hit open, half watching the screen and wiggling to keep Morgan from shoving me off the couch while I wait for it to load. The cookie in my mouth turns to sawdust when I see the picture he’s sent me.
It’s me.
Really me.
Iris Breslin.
The poster bears the picture from my high school yearbook, under which my real name is printed in neat italics. Along the top of the poster, the words, ‘Way Out Of Wyoming killer’s daughter among you. Columbia’s very own murder spawn.’
SamO’BradyJeffersonKyleAdamBrightSamO’BradyJeffersonKyleAdamBright. Morgan’s laptop nearly crashes to the floor when I jump up, staring at my cell phone screen. “No, no, no, no!” I sob, collapsing a little with each repetition. The print at the bottom of the picture is too small to read but I know what it says. My fingers are useless, and I barely manage to close the attachment so I can read the line Noah has sent.
Noah: Looks like we have ourselves a lying little psychopath! :) I knew you weren’t an Avery. Perhaps I should call you Murder Spawn?
