Her Final Victim

by NJ Moss

“Yes, hello?” I’m breathless from exertion and excitement.

  “Millicent?” he says, and darkness envelops me.

  I drop onto the bed. “I told you not to ring me. I told you never to ring me. Never. Do you have a death wish?”

  “He knows,” Moonie whines, ever the coward, except when he’s locked in a room where anything is possible.

  “Jamie came to visit you.” I make myself take slow, slow breaths. “Or was it his man?”

  “It was Jamie.”

  “And you told him the story I gave you.”

  “I did. But then he saw a photo of me and Philip, and he made me tell him. He knows, Millicent. He knows everything.”

  I fall onto the bed and I laugh, and the laughter makes my belly tight and it makes my throat hurt, but I don’t care. I keep laughing. Elijah croons down the phone, calling my name, but I laugh and laugh and laugh. There is no mirth in the noise. It is jagged, as though there’s glass in my throat, and it feels that way.

  I am being eviscerated from the inside.

  Sitting up takes considerable effort. The room is suddenly spinning. “You kept a photo of you and Philip? That was a very, very, very silly thing to do.”

  “I’m sorry. He made me tell him—”

  “I’m sure he slapped you around a little. You fucking coward. Yes, I’m sure he scared you. But listen close, Moonie, listen very closely. Are you listening?”

  “Millicent, please—”

  “I said are you listening?”

  “Yes,” he moans.

  “Do you remember the video I recorded?” He says nothing. There’s nothing he can say. “No? Very well, let me nudge your memory for you. You became very friendly with a girl – aged thirteen – in an internet chatroom, and you thought it would be a good idea to meet with this girl—”

  “Please—”

  “Interrupt me again and I will drive up to York.” He whimpers and falls silent. “You spoke to her in a… shall we say, quite forward way. You said some saucy things to her, as the Victorians would phrase it. I hired that girl. And I paid that girl to wear a microphone. I was recording the whole dirty exchange in H fucking D. The whole world is going to learn what you really are, Elijah Wrigley. Your friends, if you have any, everybody in your shithole street, the postman, your employer… everybody. And you know why, don’t you? Tell me why.”

  “Please,” he begs.

  “Because you’re a fucking idiot who can’t follow simple instructions.”

  I jump to my feet and bring my arm back, almost hurtling my phone across the room. At the last moment, I stop myself, reeling backward. I need my phone.

  All he had to do – all any of them had to do if Jamie or his hired goon came knocking – was relay the fiction I’d given them, concerning my obsession with Hazel’s social media page. Like all the best stories, it is rooted in fact. I have become somewhat obsessed with her page. But not in the sinister way I instructed them to tell it.

  I can still hear Elijah, bleating from the phone, his voice faraway and tinny.

  I end the call and open my email app, and then navigate to my drafts. I have fifty-two emails saved here, a whole armoury of blackmail ready to fire off should the need arise. I navigate to the correct one and double-check all the recipients are present.

  I don’t hesitate to click send. I should’ve done it years ago. But I’ve always liked playing with dolls, and I enjoyed letting him flounder and fall into his pathetic pill addiction, getting twitchy and paranoid as the years wore on.

  It’s over now. It’s all over.

  Jamie knows.

  “He knows. With his pretty green eyes, he knows. He knows.”

  I pace the bedroom, my phone clutched in my hand, the same way I clutched the rock in the park before this whirlpool sucked me in. Things were much easier then.

  Fine, I didn’t have the light. I didn’t have meaning.

  But I never felt like this. I never felt anything, except in those ephemeral pulses surrounding my earlier kills.

  I need to compose myself. Jamie can’t do anything with the information. I still have what I have: the video, the power.

  But do I truly have the power if he knows my motive?

  It’s like he’s inside my mind, crawling behind my eyes, laughing at me.

  He’s mocking me. I know he is.

  “I don’t want to feel.”

  Hazel would laugh if she could see me now, if she could hear me talking to myself. Hazel, with her shiny skin and her shiny life and her kind smile and her kinder eyes, with all the love in the world bursting from every enchanting inch of her, she’d laugh at me. She’d hate me, if she could see how mad I truly was.

  I refuse to meet her like this, oscillating on the precipice, unable to think without reliving the shape of his back, the broadness of his shoulders, the back of his head… his footsteps.

  Clip-clip-clip, so loud on the concrete.

  I run through the flat, into the kitchen, over to the pantry.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” I say, reaching into Ray’s pocket.

  I take out his leather-bound flask and unscrew it quickly. I stare at it for a moment, my nose curling as the acid stink rises into the air. This is Mother. This is my legacy. This is who I am when you scratch away my fringe and my smile and my Millie.

  I toss my head back and guzzle every last drop.

  44

  Hazel

  “I’m starting to think you made this so-called friend up,” Greta says, a look of wicked delight in her face as she takes a sip of her champagne.

  I try to laugh, but it comes out strangled and weird-sounding. I can’t stop thinking about my follower count. That’s the selfish truth. And I know it’s only a matter of time before Greta mentions it, because she watches our accounts like a prosecutor waiting for us to make a mistake. Matters have hardly been helped by my best friend, Trish, cancelling because she took a last-minute shift at the hospital, meaning it’s just me and Greta until Millie arrives.

  “She’ll be here,” I say, reaching for my glass.

  We sit at the corner of the bar, steadily filling up with students and business types. It’s a beautiful place, with big round oak tables made from recycled materials, the beers and ciders served in jars, and soft jazz playing in the background.

  It makes me want to take out my phone and snap a quick photo. But of course if I did that, Greta would leap on the chance to aim a snide dig at me.

  The last time I checked my follower count I didn’t even bother to work out how many I’d lost. It’s in the hundreds though. I know that much. And it keeps going down, down, fucking down every time I check.

  Greta watches me over the top of her glass, looking glamorous and victorious. Her bleach-blonde hair falls to her shoulders in casual waves, and her dress is runway-gorgeous. She wears the low cut confidently, drawing the gaze of most of the men – and some of the women – who pass by.

  “Hmm,” she says.

  Just hmm, but it makes me want to smash my glass over her head.

  The night wears on and the staff begin to clear away the tables and chairs to make room for their pop-up dance floor. I don’t even know how many drinks I’ve had, but the room seems less steady than before, shimmering. The music gets louder and my mouth is filled with the taste of Sambuca and Jägermeister from the shots we did a while ago.

  Greta has been talking at me – not to me – for what feels like a century about her latest post. “I just can’t believe how it flew. It was like—poof. I let it out into the world and then it was, like, oh my God… Can you believe these numbers? I had to double-check.”

  I feel like I did when I confronted Mum about Dad’s cheating, the same feeling of powerlessness falling over me. It’s the feeling that has pricked me many times with Jamie, any time I confronted him about that awful thing he does, that awful thing I wish he didn’t do but… But what? But I’m too afraid to tell him to stop, too pathetic, too comfortable with the life he gives me?

&nb
sp; I don’t know if it’s the alcohol, my plummeting social-media career, or the fact that Greta refuses to shut the hell up about her own success, but I feel like I’m on the edge. I feel like I could slap her and be fully justified.

  “Will you excuse me for a moment?” Greta says, in that faux posh way that grates on me even more tonight than usual. “I have to use the little girl’s room.”

  I nod and take another sip of my drink, and then another. I keep sipping until the rosé is gone, swirling around my belly. I regret mixing drinks already. I know I’m going to have the mother of all hangovers tomorrow.

  “Boo!”

  I jolt when somebody yells in my ear, spinning with too much panic coursing through me.

  Millie grins at me shakily. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she’s been pre-drinking. Her eyes are glassy and her normally-neat hair is jagged, her fringe wavy across her forehead. Her dress is messy around the hem, like a girl who doesn’t feel comfortable in her school uniform.

  “You bitch. You almost knocked me off my chair.”

  She tries to bow, but it becomes a stumbling dance. I hop from my barstool and grab her by the shoulders, steadying her. “Let me get you a glass of water.” She just looks at me. I raise my voice over the hammering music. “Water, Millie?”

  “Water?” she yells, so loud several people snap their heads to look at us even over the music. “What in the name of all that is holy would I do with water, my sweet Hazel? Fine, I will take water… but please mix in some whisky, and maybe some wine too.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “I think you’ve had enough already.”

  “Oh, a few drops here and there. Nothing to be dramatic about. Where are your friends?” A childlike grin spreads across her face, infectious despite how unhinged she looks. “Is it just going to be the two of us? What a wonderful surprise.”

  “No, Greta is here.” I lean close to her ear so I don’t have to shout as loudly. “She’s just in the toilet. She’ll be out in a second.”

  “Fine, fine. Yes. Fine. That’s fine.”

  I’m sure I detect some anger in her voice, but then Greta arrives and I quickly introduce them. Greta pulls Millie into one of her OTT hugs, making a fuss of her like she’s a prized poodle. “I was starting to think you didn’t exist. So, Millie, tell me something very, very, very important. Do you like shots?”

  “What sort of self-respecting woman doesn’t?” Millie yells, and Greta lets out a fake-sounding peal of laughter. I find myself laughing along with them, even if I don’t find it funny, even if I wish I was back at home with Jamie so I didn’t have to deal with this.

  I wish Greta would just come out and say whatever insult she’s saving, but it seems she’s decided to keep quiet for the time being.

  The night spins on and on, as we get more shots and then go to a different club to dance. The music is far louder in this one, and that, combined with the alcohol surging around my body makes it so I don’t have to think about Greta or my digital life. I lose myself in the simple act of dancing, the three of us cordoning off a section to ourselves.

  There’s something primal and carefree about letting loose like this, grabbing Millie’s hands as we swing around together. She giggles and let’s herself fall back. I laugh and grab onto her tighter, making sure she doesn’t fall as we flow together. She breaks off and spins into an adjacent group, ignoring their bemused looks as she leaps up and down, weaving her hands through the air like she’s trying to catch falling leaves only she can see.

  I’m not sure how many songs we dance to, how many shots we drink, but I know I’m pretty drunk because one second I’m in the club and then the next – like magic – I’m leaning against the wall of the smoking area.

  I’ve got a cigarette in my hand with no idea who gave it to me.

  I take a long inhale, the nicotine rushing around my body, making the world sway. I look around and find Greta pushing her way through the tight-packed bodies, clutching her handbag with one hand and holding her phone with the other. She talks into the camera, her voice raised, not caring when people glance at her like she’s crazy.

  Normally I respect her ability to go live without caring what people think, but any reminder of social media makes my belly swirl right now. I stub out the cigarette on the wall and walk toward the club’s entrance, meaning to disappear onto the dance floor.

  “Wait a sec, Hazel.” Greta grabs my arm and spins herself around so we’re both in frame. Instinctively I plaster a fake shiny smile to my face, aiming it at her phone. There’s no way I’m going to make my situation worse by being grumpy on Instagram live. “Here she is, my lovely followers, the poor lost soul I was telling you about. Hazel Smithson needs all our help in these tough times. You see, her posts aren’t getting the attention she desperately wants…”

  I squeeze my hands into fists, somehow maintaining my smile as humiliation flows over me. I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter. I expected her to do something like this. But it stings.

  Especially when my gaze flits to the stream of comments.

  Who?

  Kiss, you sluts.

  Who the fuck is that redheaded bitch?

  She looks gormless.

  Imagine begging for followers.

  LOL, this is sad.

  “Greta,” I murmur, trying to keep my voice level. “I don’t think—”

  She throws her arm around me, squeezing me close to her as she lets out a vicious laugh. “Don’t be silly. Every newbie needs a helping hand. Go on, Hazel, beg my followers to go to your page. They will. I know they will. But you have to beg.”

  Tears make my sight blurry, filling my eyes, even as I keep the pretend smile fixated to my face.

  Go on, beg for us.

  Move the camera down and maybe I’ll follow your shit page.

  Are they going to kiss or what?

  BORING.

  “Just say pretty please.” Greta titters, and I wonder why the hell I’m even friends with her. But this is the reason. To leech off her follower count. She’s just never been this cruel before. “Or maybe you should start an Onlyfans instead. What do you think? Would you like to see Hazel Smithson’s sweet naked—”

  Suddenly a hand darts out and grabs her phone, tossing it over the wall that separates the smoking area from the street.

  Greta gasps and I turn to find Millie standing there, a dead look in her eyes, her lips peeled back in a sneer.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Greta yells. “That phone cost more than your rent.”

  Millie moves forward slowly, eyes narrowed. “Apologise.”

  “What?” Greta looks around at the gathering crowd, her mouth falling open. “For helping her? For giving her a shoutout?”

  “Apologise. To. Hazel.” Millie leaps forward drunkenly, almost stumbling as she darts her hands toward Greta.

  Seeing her move so violently snaps me out of my daze and I leap forward, looping my arm around her waist.

  “Millie, stop,” I hiss in her ear when she lashes out like she’s trying to scratch Greta’s face off. “You’ll get arrested. Fucking hell. Millie. You’ve had too much to drink. Come on.”

  I pull her toward the exit, straining under the pressure as she bucks around, like a wild animal trying to get to her kill. I never expected her to react like this. I never dreamed she’d do something so violent, so… what? So uncivilised. It doesn’t seem like her, but then again, she was drunk when she got here and we’ve been necking shots ever since.

  “I’m taking you home.” I grab her shoulders and make her face me. “Millie, calm down. I’m taking you home. Okay?”

  She gazes at me with wide eyes, tears pricking the edges. “What did I do?”

  Is she joking? It just happened.

  “You broke Greta’s phone and you tried to assault her.”

  “I didn’t hurt her?”

  “You’re in no state to hurt anybody. Come on.”

  “You owe me a phone!” Greta yells
after us as I lead Millie through the doors and into the club.

  Millie leans heavily on me, her head on my shoulder, forcing me to basically carry her. I’m worried the bouncers are going to stop us from leaving, but they just glare at us as I drag her onto the street and around the corner, sitting her down on a bench.

  “I’m sorry, H,” she says, hardly able to force her words out past her slurring. “I didn’t mean to… I’ve ruined it… I’m sorry.”

  I sit down next to her, taking out my phone. My heart’s going a million miles per hour.

  Then I laugh. I sound crazy, deranged. “I can’t believe you did that. Did you see her face? Nobody’s ever done anything like that to her before.”

  Millie giggles as her head comes to rest drunkenly on my shoulder. “She’s not allowed to talk to you like that. Nobody is. You’re my best friend.”

  It sounds childlike, ridiculous. And yet it touches me.

  “All right, drama queen,” I say, bringing up the taxi app on my phone. “Just try not to attack the driver, all right?”

  45

  Jamie

  Just helping one of the girls get home, Hazel tells me in a text, and I’m left wondering if it’s Millicent. But that can’t be right. Millicent isn’t a girl or a woman or even a human. She’s a monster who killed her own father, who slit his wrists and hanged him. She’s slaughtered countless since then. She’s evil, right down to her bones.

  And now I know why she chose me.

  Come home soon, I write. I miss you, H xxx

  Something about Elijah’s news has made me understand how badly I need my wife. No other woman would give a damn about this side of me – not Lacy or Sadie or any of the others I seduced and stalked. None of them would care about how badly I’m hurting.

  Hazel’s the only thing in my life that isn’t a lie.

  The flames flicker in the metal pit. We last used the fire a couple of months ago, before I’d ever heard the name Millicent Maidstone. We drank wine and we laughed and we made love right here in the garden.