by Lucy Auburn
After a long night at the station, endless questions, and dealing with a detective clearly hungry to find a serial killer, I get to go home.
Well, not really. The detective has decided that even the garage apartment is off limits—nevermind that the killer was never there, they still want to comb it for evidence. Apparently when you convince the cops that an infamous serial killer might be caught, they decide to get very serious about their investigation. No garage apartment living for me, at least not for another day or two.
That means I'm staying at the only other place that can take me: with a friend I thought I'd never see again. One who I'm not sure is really a friend anymore. Though I told the detective I should be able to stay at her place, I was shocked she picked up the phone when I called. Even before I was arrested for Jack's murder, it'd been years since we talked. Jack made sure of that by isolating me, shrinking my world smaller and smaller until I woke up one day to discover I had no friends. That certainly didn't change when I got arrested for his murder. I wonder if it'll change now that I've been exonerated.
Standing at the doors to the station, waiting for her to show up, I wonder idly if Evelyn Lionsdale still goes by Eve and braids a feather in her hair, or if she changed that just like she changed her major twelve times. We were roommates freshman year of college, a friendship that stuck around and survived drunken mistakes, late night cry sessions, and more than one incident with the bathroom trash.
That is, until Jack showed up and rammed through my life like a bull in a China shop. One day Evelyn just told me that she didn't think I should be with him, because, as she claimed with tears in her eyes, he'd harassed her. I didn't believe her—believing her would've meant changing my whole world around. I was selfish, and insisted she had to have misinterpreted his intent.
So she stopped showing up any place Jack was invited. Eventually, that was my whole life.
Craning my head, I look for her face in every figure that walks through the door—and wind up so focused on them that it doesn't even occur to me that there's a side door.
"Hey Ellen." Whirling, I turn to face someone wholly unfamiliar to me. "It's been a while."
"It has," I acknowledge, blinking at the new Evelyn standing before me. Gone is the black pixie cut and the too-short punk bangs, replaced with long, well-conditioned orange-red hair that shines like firelight. She's wearing clothing that makes her look far more adult, like it cost actual money to buy, and no longer has any of her facial piercings. "You look... different. I guess that's what happens when you haven't talked to someone for years."
"I'm not the only one who's changed," she says, narrowing her eyes at me. "You look... different too."
"Same blonde hair. Same haircut even—I did it myself in prison."
"Still. Something isn't like I remember. Maybe that's just my memory though." Evelyn shakes it off, and motions for me to follow her. "C'mon—we'll go back to my place. I haven’t finished setting up my guest bedroom, but it's better than the alternative."
Grabbing my stuff, I follow her out to the parking lot, disoriented by the rising sun outside. I've been at the police station for hours, combing over my statement, telling the detectives on the case everything they want to know: about last night, Mom, Herb, even about me, in case this is somehow related. It's clear that having a fresh trail to follow towards the Black Serpent has gotten them excited.
I almost feel bad about that thing with the snake.
I still don't understand how I did it. In the light of day, it almost seems like I must have imagined it. Maybe it was some kind of coincidence that the black snake was there. Or maybe it really was the Black Serpent who showed up to kill my mom and Herb, and I imagined all the bits where he disappeared suddenly because I was too traumatized to see what was going on.
Eve stops in front of a black convertible, and I raise my brows at the sight of it. "This is your car?"
"Yeah. Hop in."
Frowning, I slide into the passenger seat and toss my bag in the back, staring at the console of what has to be a very expensive car. "So you changed your major from Humanities, I'm guessing."
"Nah. I just decided to apply it in a different way. Oh, and I got a Masters." She grabs a pair of sunglasses from the glove box and pulls them on, their designer label subtle but visible in the light of the rising sun. "It's been a while, I guess. What's new with you?"
"Oh, you know, I'm a killer and all that," I quip. Eve looks over at me, her brows rising above her sunglasses in disbelief. "What? I've gotta start getting used to telling people."
"Everyone who's alive and breathing has seen the nightly news, Ellen. We all know you killed that abusive jackass." Pausing as she turns the engine on and revs it, Eve adds in a quiet voice, "I just wish I had been there to help you dismember him."
"Ah, yeah." In reflection, that was probably the part that got me all the media attention. "Looking back, that was a bad choice. If you ever kill your abusive boyfriend, I highly suggest pouring acid over him in the bathtub instead. But I didn't see Breaking Bad until I was locked up, so. The past is the past."
"Still." Eve shakes her head at me, red hair gleaming in the sun as she pulls out of the parking lot. "You couldn't have considered something besides putting the pieces in your suitcases and floating them down the river?"
"He always said he wanted to travel."
Eve laughs, the sound like a braying donkey, just as unladylike as ever. I love it. I love her. And I wish that I'd done this sooner. Maybe now that I'm out, I can.
The truth is, it feels good to laugh about this with someone. Maybe that's how I start to feel normal about being a killer.
As she peels out of the parking lot, I find myself staring down the sidewalk, my senses tingling. Four guys, about our age—mid-20s or so—are walking towards the police precinct, and none of them look like they belong, either together or in this part of town.
They stick out because, for one thing, they're drop dead gorgeous. Searing eyes with thick brows. Plush lips and perfect jawlines. Height to make a woman want to climb them like a cat in heat. Looking like all the European runway models and celebrity trainers in the world got together to make handsome offspring.
Each of them is different—one pale and dressed in black, one dark and impossibly handsome, one covered in tattoos, one walking with a cane—but they're all the type to drool over. So different they couldn't possibly be friends, but are walking in sync anyway. Wearing clothes you don't wear in this neighborhood unless you're dumb, rich enough to lose them, or know how to fight somebody to the death. My instincts tell me these guys are the fight to the death type.
I only get a quick glimpse of them, but it's seared into my retinas in an instant, like a bit of flash photography.
And I know, somehow, that they're looking for me.
Chapter 5
Eve has a huge fucking house. It's amazing, and not just because it's big. It has everything anyone could ever want.
You know that house you dreamed of when you were a little kid, the one that was full of every type of candy, that had three game rooms and a pool the size of a city aquarium, with a moat and a fireplace in the middle? That's what this house is like, except it's the adult version instead of the stupid kid dream.
She has, for one thing, a full bar, with wide doors that lead to a stunningly manicured backyard and a pool so blue that Ian Somerhalder's eyes must be jealous. It's the kind of house that screams, "Money, I have money! Lots and lots of money!"
I find myself staring at Eve with shock, fully uncertain if I ever even knew her. The girl I knew with the pixie cut black hair and enough facial piercings to get kicked out of a job interview was not the girl who planned on having a career where she made this kind of money.
“I thought you said your guest bedroom wasn’t set up yet.”
“It isn’t.” She sighs, frowning at the inside of her gorgeous house. “The interior designer I hired took a job for some celeb’s vacation house in Milan, and now I
have to wait to get the furniture updated.”
Jokingly, I ask her, "Who did you kill to get this house?"
"A wannabe dictator or two, plus a few Wall Street types and some rogue CIA agent." The smile she sends my way is sharp and cutting, and she delivers the joke so deadpan you'd almost think it was true. "What can I say, Ellen. I decided the humanities weren't for me, and if I wasn't going to go backpacking across Europe or cure cancer and save puppies, I wanted to at least live in comfort."
Stunned, I tell her, "I thought you wanted to save the world."
"I did. Still do. It turned out that my degree was useless in the real world, and broke girls with dumb degrees and no money to pay their rent can't help themselves, much less anyone else. Saving the world is a lot easier when you've got more than two pennies to rub together." Eve raises her brows at me. "What, do you think I'm a sellout?"
"I'm not one to judge. I chopped a man up into little pieces, after all." Staring out at the pool in her backyard, I feel my heart ache. "Mom would've loved to find out how well you're doing now. But I never got to tell her."
Eve comes to stand next to me, sympathy written on her face. "I'm sorry, Ellen. Is there anything I can do?"
"It doesn't feel real yet," I confess. "But I saw him kill them. All of it just... happened."
"You're lucky you're still alive." Reaching out, she squeezes my shoulder. "It could've been you chopped up into little pieces this time."
I let out a little strangled laugh, which sounds more like a donkey is choking than anything. "I should've done something. Fought him off, or followed him out. He was just so... fast." I don't tell her the part about the unnatural speed, or the fog in the air that made me drowsy. "I just don't get it. He killed Cheesecake, but not me. Did he not think I was a threat? Or was he just focused on his targets?"
"They say the Black Serpent plans his murders methodically and far in advance." I swallow at the reminder of the lie I let the police believe, one that may very well lead to the real killer getting away. "There was nothing you could've done, Ellen. He's a fucking serial killer, after all. What were you going to do, beat him in some kind of combat showdown?"
That was exactly what I was picturing in my head, which is absurd. The only person I've ever fought was Jack, and sure, that ended in my favor. But it was fear and rage that motivated me, and it took months—years, really—for me to get up the courage. There's no way I could fight a real killer. Even though I am one myself.
Eve adds, "You don't have the strength or stamina to fight off someone like that. So just be glad you're still alive, and leave the rest of it to the officials."
"Right." As she pulls her hand off my shoulder, something new catches my eye, and I frown. "Is that a class ring?"
"Oh—this." Eve looks down at the large ring on what should be her engagement finger, her expression saying that she forgot it was even there. It's a large silver and black band, etched in a strange pattern I don't recognize, two yellow gemstones like a predator's eyes reflecting light in an eerie ouroboros setting. "It's just a ring from work. They give it to all the top employees. Part of some dumb old school male fraternity tradition." She turns the ring around on her finger, absent-minded. "It's stupid and gaudy."
"Why do you wear it outside of work, then?"
Eve shrugs. "I guess I would forget it if I didn't have it on all the time. You know how I am."
I do; Eve is far from absentminded. She wouldn't lose an important ring, especially not one as big as this one. For some reason she's lying to me about the ring's purpose, and I don't understand why.
Maybe someone gave it to her, and she doesn't want to tell me who. Or maybe she's developed an affinity for creepy, gaudy-looking things in the years since I last saw her. But the oddness of it strikes me, and even as she gives me a tour of her house, I can't shake the feeling that she's hiding something from me.
Something far bigger than a ring.
Eve's house is so big that my room, the guest bedroom, is in another part of her house entirely. She asks me if I want to sleep closer to her, in case I'm still nervous, but I tell her that I'm not worried about the Black Serpent coming back.
To my surprise, it's true: I'm really not afraid. Not just because the Black Serpent didn't kill my mom, but because I don't think the killer is going to come for me. Not again.
Maybe that makes me a fool. After all, he could want to come back and tie up loose ends. If he does, though, he'll have to get through Eve's security system, and I have the feeling it's a lot harder to silence than Cheesecake.
Laying in the vast bed of her guest bedroom, my feet and fingertips coming nowhere near the edge, I think about my mom. And the fact that she's dead.
Like a masochist, I try to cry.
For some reason, though, the tears evade me. I feel hollowed out inside, alone in the world without an anchor to moor me. Mom was the person I loved most in the world, and I've had her taken from me three times now: first, when the chemotherapy made her brittle and unable to get out of bed, second, when Jack refused to let me see or speak to her anymore, and now again, because she's dead. The only significant time we've gotten together since I was in high school was when I went to prison and she visited me every chance she could, but that was nothing like the time I thought stretched in front of us now that I got free.
All of it snatched away.
And I can't even shed a single tear.
There must be something wrong with me. Mom said that my dad, Vincent Arizona, was a killer like me. She must've meant that he was a sociopath or something and I inherited some of those genes. There's no other explanation for my dry eyes and inability to sob my way through grief for her. I must have a part missing.
Most people turn into puddles of tears when their mothers die. But not Ellen Arizona, killer and daughter of a killer, useless at human emotion. Even when I pull up pictures of Mom on my phone, I can't seem to make the tears come. Jack was right about one thing: I am a piece of shit. Only a monster doesn't cry at her mom's death.
Wrapped up as I am in trying to make myself cry, I forget to make even the tiniest attempt to fall asleep, even though I'm exhausted after a whole evening at the police station. You'd think that in this great big bed I would somehow manage to drift off eventually, but when I hear the creaking of floorboards down the hallway, I'm up and awake even though the clock by the bed reads 3:02 AM.
At first I think the creaking sound is just one of those things rich houses do sometimes. Like all this empty space for one person came with ghosts pre-installed. But then the creak comes again, and this time it has the distinct sound of a foot being placed on Eve's expensive hardwood flooring.
My pulse skyrockets for a moment, then settles into a steady, alert rhythm. Throwing the covers off, I get to my feet and survey the room around me, looking for escape routes and weapons.
There's a door out to the balcony just around the corner, and from there I could drop down to Eve's manicured lawn and run out the back gate towards the highway. That would mean leaving Eve behind, though, and I can't do that. Not after what happened to Mom. I have to warn her that there's someone in the house—knowing my luck, probably the same mysterious someone who showed up at Herb's house last night.
On the nightstand is a lamp with a thick ceramic base. Reaching out, I unplug it and wrap the cord around the heavy base a few times, then pull the lampshade off so it's balanced and easy to swing as a weapon. Tiptoeing to the door, I press my ear against it and listen to the sounds in the hallway.
Crrr-reeeaaaakah. You'd think a woman this rich could get wood flooring so tightly laid and perfectly sealed that it's quiet as a whisper. Not this monstrously loud bullshit.
Based on the direction the sound is coming from, the intruder entered from the back door and came up the stairs. My door swings inward and to the left; getting on the side of the door opposite the hinges, I hold the lamp in my hands and wait for him to make his move, my eyes on the doorknob.
Time passes imp
ossibly slowly, each creak of his feet on the flooring getting closer and closer. I hear a soft, muffled curse as one of the floorboards creaks extra loud. No doubt he planned on being much quieter than this when he came into Eve's house to kill me.
I hold my breath as he gets close to my door, the sound of his footsteps so close that I swear I can almost hear his breathing. A shadow passes underneath the doorway, blotting out the ambient light.
It's strange, but I don't feel the fog like I did before, and this time he's not impossibly fast and quiet. Maybe I was just tired the other night when he came. Or I imagined all of it, including the way he vanished.
I hold the lamp base as tight as I can as the doorknob slowly turns. This is it—either I prove myself and take down my mother's killer, or I die just like she did, drowning in a pool of blood. The door opens inch by inch, and I wait for him to step through it so I can bash his head in. Something about just seeing his shadow hit the ground makes an electric energy move through me, setting every nerve in my body on fire and putting my senses on edge. The desire to hit him with the lamp, to watch the blood pour from his head, is so alive that I nearly jump out just to attack him, pulse racing at the thought of how good it'll feel to watch him suffer and die.
Yeah, I'm fucked up.
Before I can get the chance to fight, someone else steps into the fray. I hear the yell of a woman's voice raised in a warrior cry, followed by the sound of metal ringing out against metal.
For a moment I don't know what to do. Three heartbeats pass, and there's another clang of what must be weapons hitting each other, though I have no idea what metal blades are doing here, unless Eve has some medieval armory hidden in one of her many rooms. The confusion of it makes my bloodlust drain out of me, and I barely remember wanting to kill the guy.
Then there's a cry of pain, followed by the sound of something hitting the floorboards. Footsteps ring out as the figure at the door runs down the hallway—then crashes outside a glass window and into the backyard.
