by Vera Kurian
What the hell happened last night?
Either Will had come home early, or Charles had been right—someone was hunting us. Most importantly, hunting me. I got on my phone and searched for any evidence that Will either was or wasn’t at the frat last night. Nobody had posted anything. I texted Charles. It is 1000% critical for you to find out if he was actually at the frat event last night, and if so during what hours specifically.
I braced myself, then got up, carefully moving over to my mirror to assess the damage. I had a black eye, and a purple bruise stood out lividly on my shoulder. Crying out, I lifted my shirt and examined my back. A worse bruise speckled across my right side. I dry swallowed some Advil and took out my makeup. I am very good at makeup. It wasn’t hard to hide the black eye with a combination of cream concealer, foundation, and highlighter. I had already seen YouTube videos on how to do this before.
I stared at my reflection, verifying that my work was good. A quiet rage was simmering in my stomach. I wanted to scream and break the mirror and throw it out the window. But no, calm down. Anger never got you anywhere. Count to ten backward, like Dr. Wyman taught you.
I sat at my desk and took out my bullet journal. I never journaled about Will—God that would be stupid—but there was no harm in considering my own security. I had just picked up my pen when Charles texted back. I don’t know for certain because I didn’t go, but I can check with Chad who would know.
Thanks, I replied.
Was it Will or the mystery hunter? If it was Will, it didn’t change my endgame, only how the rest of it would play out. I would know that he was willing to use violence to quiet me. He had no idea I was planning to kill him—maybe he thought just a few punches would scare me away. Yes, I could work with that and pretend that I’d been scared off.
But what if it wasn’t Will? What if someone actually was hunting me? Why? What did I ever do to them? Whoever it was knew that I had broken into someone’s house and was snooping around. They would wonder why. Beyond having the audacity to think they could kill me, whoever it was thought they could stand in the way between me and my plan.
With grim determination I began to list out all my security concerns and how I could tackle them. I needed a real lock for the window. And, if it was feasible, better locks for my dorm room—ones that no one else had keys to. Having regularly scheduled classes was a liability. I didn’t want my grades to suffer, but I could switch around which discussion sections I went to and vary my routes each day. Social media, I wrote, underlining the words. I had gathered so much information about Will via social media—someone could easily try to do the same to me. But I wasn’t stupid like him. Instagram has a feature where you can preschedule posts. I made a note to scattershot a bunch of posts, tagging myself in locations where I never actually went to make it seem like they were my regular hangouts. Dorm security was not that great—you were supposed to swipe your card when you came in the building, but sometimes the work-study student on duty didn’t give a rat’s ass.
Well, maybe there was something I could do about that. I dressed carefully, then threw makeup and a few makeup-removing towelettes into my purse. I skated by Yessica’s door and headed for the Office of Security, which was on the third floor of the SAC. As I walked, I scanned everyone in my vicinity, looking for sudden movements. One of my weaknesses is that I don’t feel fear the same way other people do. I guess they get a spidey sense or something, but I can’t comprehend what it is. Like ESP or something? If Yessica had been in that basement, would she have somehow psychically known that she was in danger before she heard them? Or would she have known to not go into the basement at all? Once I read about psychopaths not feeling fear, I wondered if a normal girl would have known there was something wrong with Will. If she would have never gone over to his place that day.
Okay, I can still beat this. How would I hunt Chloe if I wasn’t Chloe? What were her weaknesses? For one, she’s small. Well, there’s nothing I can do about that. I can carry weapons with me and I can travel with other people as much as possible. Class security was an issue—literally any crazy person could walk into an Adams class and just sit down. Didn’t they worry about mass shooters? Then again, sitting in class gave me safety in numbers.
Suddenly I had a thought that made me stop in my tracks. I actually had a huge, glaring liability. Worse than my lack of size and muscles, worse than shitty dorm security. Chloe Sevre had a little hobby. A hobby that necessitated her sneaking around, alone, doing things in secret, going to isolated locations. Hunting Will was my biggest liability.
Fuck.
Furious, I entered the SAC and pounded up the stairs. Even now, was it safe to walk up the stairs alone? Who was this person, and who the fuck did they think they were, standing between me and a goal I’d been working toward since I was twelve? How long had they been working on their stupid plan?
I got onto the third floor, then slipped into the bathroom. I wiped my face with the makeup-removing towelettes, leaving my skin looking raw. I had dressed appropriately, too—khakis that weren’t tight, a cardigan over a white shirt with a Peter Pan collar, a never-been-fucked headband in my hair. Because there’s only two types of women who make the sort of complaints I was about to—virgins and whores—and only one will be listened to.
I walked into the security office and feigned nervousness as a surprised secretary took in my face. “Hi,” I said mousily. “Um, can I talk to someone? Security?”
I was quickly ushered into an office where a man with a mustache sat. He was dad-aged—perfect. “Oh my,” he said when he saw me.
“I was wondering if you could help me?” I pointed, embarrassed, at my face. “I already reported this. This is...my ex-boyfriend. He sort of followed me to college.”
He sat up, alarmed.
“Mr. Tedesco,” I said, reading his nameplate. “He violated his restraining order. He always finds out where I am.” I started to cry, making it look like I was desperately trying not to. His face crinkled and he pushed a box of tissues to me. “I already reported this, you know, to the police and talked with them about everything.”
“That’s the right thing to do.”
I blew my nose. “Yeah, I know. The one thing I was thinking... I can’t really control what happens in the dorm? I live in Brewser. Like yesterday, right after I got home from the police, all these people were just coming in, you know? I know they’re Adams students but it’s so easy for anyone to just walk in.”
“Oh, honey, we don’t want that to happen. The security personnel—”
“The security personnel are work-study students who watch Neflix and play Dog Dash on their phones,” I said, hoping my tone wasn’t too harsh for my character. I teared up more. “Sorry. Could you put out a special notice or something so they really make sure to do security in Brewser?”
He leaned across the table, his brown eyes big and sympathetic. “Absolutely, I will do everything in my power to make you feel safe.”
* * *
What I wanted, desperately, was to have time to start going through Will’s computers, but all that security stuff ate up time, then I had to put my makeup back on, then I had an experiment, and I still hadn’t had a chance to eat anything. There was a shop that specialized in pastrami not far from the psychology department. I got myself a sandwich and headed over there, not having any time to sit and eat. I’m walking alone, I realized, then picked up my pace to glom on to a group of students heading in the same direction. Every time I looked around me, my back ached.
You couldn’t even tell that anyone had been murdered in the psych department. The floor was squeaky clean and I wondered if my little experiment room was the same one it had happened in. I locked the door and looked around, as if there would be a clue floating in the air.
Of course there was no such thing, just my aching body and grumbling stomach. This experiment was boring and I was already in a bad m
ood. It consisted of a bunch of scenarios where I had to write out responses. I took out my sandwich and started working, my greasy fingers making the keyboard shiny.
You are standing by train tracks and a train is coming. There are four people tied to the tracks who will be hit by the train and killed. Your hand is on a rail switch. If you move the rail switch, the train will switch to another set of tracks. However, that set of tracks has one person tied to them who will be killed if you divert the train. What do you do?
A glop of pastrami fat landed on the keyboard.
Look for the person who tied them down, I wrote. Why are they tying all these people to train tracks?
I was moving to the next page when I heard a click, then a rattle. I looked up. This side of the hallway where the small experiment rooms were had been quiet when I had entered, although I had heard voices faintly on Dr. Wyman’s end. I looked at the L-shaped metal door handle as it slowly moved back and forth.
I got my knife out and edged around my chair. I could see the shadow of two feet in front of the door. Then they walked away. I put my ear to the door, but could hear nothing but a mysterious humming that ran throughout the building. Was that whoever attacked me? Or a student who came to the wrong room? An RA? Or a murderer?
I took a bite of my sandwich, the meat now cold. I was angry. Cold sandwich. Some dumb asshole trying to kill me, fucking up my plans. I didn’t know what was going on, but if it got in my way, heads were going to roll. I did some quick research on my phone. I then opened WhatsApp and pulled up Charles’s message. I pressed his number to call him. After six rings, he picked up and said quietly, “Why are you calling me?” I had big things on my mind and resented myself a little, but God, the sound of his voice. Like butter melting on a biscuit. “I was going to text you when I found out about what you asked.”
Why was he being so cryptic? WhatsApp is encrypted. Maybe his girlfriend was in the room. “I think we have a problem,” I said.
“What problem?”
“Can I borrow your car?”
“For what?”
“So I can go to a gun show. I don’t have a car and it’s too far for an Uber.”
“Am I going to lend my rather expensive car to a girl who doesn’t have a license so she can go to a gun show?”
“How do you know I don’t have a license?”
“Because I looked through your purse that night when you were cleaning up.”
Shit, he’s smarter than he looks. My mother had not let me get a license. She thought making me mobile would turn me into “terror on wheels.” Probably the same reason I’m eighteen and have never been on a plane. I had been meaning to get a license, but it would require signing up for driving lessons, and I was busy with school and everything else.
“I need to protect myself.” An idea occurred to me. “Your dad’s a hunter. Don’t you have a gun I could borrow?”
“Borrow? They aren’t library books. Do you even know—never mind. Why this all of a sudden?”
“I shouldn’t have blown you off before—I think someone is hunting us.” I needed Charles to believe that I was genuinely scared and fully on board with his theory.
There was a pause. “Why do you say that?”
I told him what had happened with the door, but made it sound more dramatic and unambiguous. I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him that someone had beaten the shit out of me. And I left out the part about how a gun would be super convenient to have now that Will knew I might be a problem.
“I’ll take you to get something,” he said finally. I brightened. Far better than tooling around in Charles’s car—Charles himself. “But if you think someone’s lurking around, you should call the campus escort service.”
“Those boobs? It’s daylight.”
“It might not be safe.”
“I thought I was the one who was dangerous.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Can you be ready at four?” I agreed and he said he’d text me with where to meet up.
I called the escort service, curious to see who or what would show up. If the service was good, it could be a decent way of getting around campus. I can’t always go it alone, even though I’m young and in shape, and a Krav Maga teacher once told me I’m special. Although once Charles mentioned it, it occurred to me that the escorts probably had easy access to all campus buildings. A few minutes later, a university cop arrived, looking a little bewildered to be called during the daytime. I didn’t tell him about the door, just gave him a smile and said, “Better safe than sorry,” as I got in his car.
“Especially these days,” he added, grinning. He was thirtysomething. “Where to?” I gave him the intersection. He proceeded to ask me basic questions and kept up the chitchat like he thought we were on a date.
“Do you guys get a lot of escort calls?”
“Sometimes.” He shrugged, palming the wheel. “But also sometimes I’m driving around at two or three in the morning and you see these girls walking home holding their shoes.” He shook his head. “I mean, it’s not a safe world out there—you girls have to know that.” He pulled up to the curb and then, seemingly out of nowhere, produced a business card. “You ever need anything, you can call me directly, okay, Chloe?”
I was confused about how he knew my name, then I remembered that I had to give my student ID number when I called for the escort service. “Sure thing,” I said, tucking the card away in the garbage pocket of my purse, where I kept wads of chewed gum wrapped in old tissues.
Charles showed up at four on the dot at the corner of P and 6th in a silver Porsche. He was sporting a pair of sunglasses I wish he wasn’t. They made it harder to tell what he was thinking and I needed to be on the top of my game despite all my distracting aches and pains. “Full disclosure,” he said as, wincing internally, I got into the car. “I’m not taking you to get a gun—that doesn’t sit right with me. But I know a place where we can get a stun gun.”
I pouted.
He glanced at me, but all I could see was my reflection in his sunglasses, then he began to drive down P Street.
“Someone was definitely trying to get into that room to get to me,” I said.
“There’s no chance it was just someone trying the door?”
“No, they were definitely after me. I think you’re right about the murders.” I couldn’t let on that I had a vested interest in everyone thinking it was a serial killer. Everyone needed to believe the killing was going to continue. Ideally, Will would be next, which would break the pattern, because if a third person in the program got killed, Will would stand out as a different MO. Two dead psychopaths could be a coincidence—three could not.
“Suddenly you’re a convert to my theory?” he asked, his pleasant tone belying the suspicion I knew he felt. He turned onto Rhode Island Avenue.
“Not a full convert—it could just be a serial killer who’s after college students. It’s not like there’s a public list of people in the program floating out there.”
“Yeah, there is. Dr. Wyman, and Elena, and all their research assistants know all our names. The financial aid office, too,” he said.
“Do you seriously think Wyman or one of his minions could have done it?” I couldn’t help asking. “Isn’t he a vegan?”
“So was Hitler.”
“It could be Elena. A Jekyll and Hyde thing.”
He laughed in response, then I giggled, which is something I only do ironically. It made my insides hurt. “Aren’t you going in the wrong direction?” We were heading east, not southwest toward Virginia.
“I need to pick something up first,” he said, turning onto Q Street. “A provision.”
I felt some tension in my stomach, thinking about how when you are in someone’s car you’re their captive. But a few minutes later we pulled into Wendy’s and I was confused. Was this an innocuous place for him to meet a shady guy
who would sell me a stun gun? We got out of the car and headed into the restaurant, which smelled like fries. I waited for something unusual to happen, but instead he went to the counter and ordered a large Frostee.
“Really?” I asked.
“Do you want anything?”
“No.”
“You better mean that because I don’t share,” Charles said.
“We could have gone through the drive-through.”
He looked disgusted. “Portmonts don’t go through drive-throughs.”
I had to laugh at that, which made a weird feeling in my bladder. “BRB,” I said, heading for the bathroom. There was no one else in the restaurant so the bathroom was blissfully empty. I wanted to double-check my makeup after I peed. I didn’t want Charles to know that someone attacked me because then he would know that I’m capable of being attacked.
I finished peeing, but then froze after I folded up some toilet paper. The water in the bowl was pink—and I was nowhere near my period. My hands were shaking as I cleaned myself up. I stared at my fingers as they shook, resting on my knees. A kidney injury. I had been hit so hard that my kidney was injured. It’s okay, I told myself. Get up before Charles thinks you’re taking too long. Injuries heal. If you don’t feel better in a few days, go to Student Health and make up a story. But for some reason I couldn’t get up. My head hurt, my shoulder ached, my back throbbed.
I heard the door opening, then Charles’s droll voice. “Did you fall in?”
“This is the ladies’ room,” I shouted, standing furiously and pulling my underwear and pants back up.
“Gender is a social construct. Besides, I have news.”
“What news?” I said, busting out of the stall.
His smile faded when he saw me. He was holding a Frostee in one hand, his phone in the other. “Chad texted me back,” he said, his eyes searching my face. “He said Will was at the pledge thing all night. Like till three or four in the morning.”
