by Julie Olivia
“Are you planning to escort me home?” I ask, placing my hand over my chest as if clutching my imaginary pearls, or at least not the ones that litter most of my dress.
He chuckles. “We’ll see.”
The comment leaves me hanging, but I try to brush it aside for now.
We go around the table stating our roles, all very reminiscent of the classic characters from murder mysteries like Clue. Emma says she mixed up mine and Owen’s on accident once I start reading for General Ketchup and he follows up with a very deep voice of what should have been Madam Lepouf, a girlish but successful newspaper tycoon.
Once Randy wraps up his monologue as Dr. Feel Good, which sparks a blush in Emma that does not go unnoticed by the rest of us, the lights in the living room start to flicker. I glance over and see Emma’s little hand wiggling the switch until it slips down, turning them off completely. It’s completely dark for a minute, giving Lara enough time to crack, “I knew I was old, but now I’ve lost my vision,” provoking laughs around the room, until the light switches on once more to illuminate Emma’s big grin.
“Ooooh,” she croons, wiggling her fingers out to mimic spookiness. Her neck now has a line drawn across it, crudely created in what is very clearly fake blood. “There’s been a murder! Whooo is it?”
“Emma, food, seriously,” Taylor says.
“Shush!” Emma hisses in a tone generally saved for interrupting siblings before continuing, “A mur-derrr!” Her voice undulates to resemble a theremin, and I giggle. Owen catches me out of the corner of his eye, a tilt to his lips pulling at the edges. He’s a heartthrob without even trying.
“Is that dead body talking?” Owen asks.
“Owen!” she chastises, pulling at the last syllable of his name. “Nooo, I’m a ghooooost!” Emma clears her throat and continues in a normal narrator-like voice, “There has been a murder in the mansion. We’ll go around, ask each other questions in character, and try to figure out who the killer is,” she says. “The killer can kill whenever. He or she just needs to be secretive about it. And dead people can’t talk unless it’s to other dead people.” When Taylor goes to open her mouth, Emma’s fake-bloodied fingertip points to the kitchen. “Snacks are in there. Dinner is still being prepared.”
I look over to start with Owen, but I find him on his phone, flipping through a bright purple app.
It looks weirdly familiar, something maybe I’ve seen recently, but I can’t exactly peg where. When he notices me looking over his shoulder, Owen pockets it quickly.
“Well that wasn’t weird,” I deadpan.
He laughs in response but says nothing more. It’s hard to ignore how he wrings his hands together. I touch his leg, and it twitches underneath my fingertips.
“Are you hiding something from me?” I ask with a teasing smile.
He smiles back. “Madam Lepouf shares none of her secrets.”
“Funny.”
I start to get up, desperate to clear my head and also to get some food before Taylor devours it all, until I see Lara across the table, shooting an oddly suspicious glance at Owen. Her eyes are narrowed, and her bottom lip is pulled into her mouth in thought. It isn’t until she catches me looking at her that her face relaxes back to its usual gentle, wrinkled smile. I should have pegged Lara for an overprotective motherly type. She must have overheard our conversation. I throw her a smile before going into the kitchen.
In the two seconds they tornado’d through, Taylor and Kate stole half the veggie pigs in a blanket. I grab a few while there are still some left and put them on the bright orange spider-adorned plates set out by Emma.
Someone comes in behind me, and I feel him before I hear him. It’s that connection between us, the draw to each other like a taut string tethering us together.
“Pigs in a blanket?” Owen mutters behind me.
“Spare me the vegan talk again.”
He chuckles, leaning against the counter. He’s so unbelievably handsome with his hair combed back. Even though it’s obvious he’s run his hands through it multiple times, it holds better than usual. I wonder if he even used gel.
I hear his phone buzz in his pocket. He glances at it for a moment then puts it back.
“So, what’s the mystery?” I ask.
“We’re living it.”
“You know what I mean. On your phone more, we haven’t really been talking…a girl wonders.”
“A girl shouldn’t,” he says, arching an eyebrow at me. His smile seems strained.
I narrow my eyes at him and ask, “Did you want to talk about something?”
“Yes. But…not now.” The sentence trails off as he glances around the kitchen, inhaling deeply then letting it out in one fell swoop before smiling at me again.
“Right,” I say.
His phone buzzes yet again, this time longer than what might be a simple text. He pulls it out of his pocket, and I notice the name RYAN on the home screen.
That name faintly rings a bell. Wasn’t that his old business partner? I vaguely remember my research after we first met: Ryan Reed and the varying questionable things he’d done since leaving.
Why is Owen talking with him again?
Owen clears his throat, looking down at his phone like it holds the secrets to the world before glancing back at me with a lopsided smile and muttering, “One second,” before answering.
There are a couple Uh-huhs and Yeahs before he glances at me and rolls his eyes dramatically. I smile back, but it doesn’t lessen my suspicions. I pop a piggie in my mouth.
Holy moly, this is heaven.
“Listen man, I can’t tonight,” Owen says, pacing the small length of the kitchen. “I’m busy.”
After a moment, Owen’s face scrunches up and he pulls the receiver away from his face, his eyebrows cinched together. Looks like I’m not the only one getting hung up on lately. But when the screen shifts from the blank call back to his last page, I recognize it instantly and my heart drops.
The piggie almost falls out of my mouth. I struggle to swallow it down, but once I do, the sentence comes rolling out like a dam released.
“Why are you on my company website, Owen?” I ask.
His eyes meet mine. They’re the same deep chocolate I’ve admired since day one, but they’re wide now, mostly filled black by his dilated pupils.
“I’m killing you,” he mutters.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m the killer,” he whispers. “You’re dead.”
In more ways than one.
21 Owen
To say I’ve been hosting an internal battle pitting my care for Fran against the knowledge that she works for an animal testing company and that my morale center is imploding because of it is an understatement. Hell, that sentence alone makes my brain hurt.
Animal testing and Francesca Evans just doesn’t add up. The words shouldn’t be used in the same conversation, let alone the same thought. Fran just isn’t like that. Sure, I may have only known her for a couple of months, but I know her rough exterior is exactly that: an exterior. Fran wouldn’t hurt a fly, and I refuse to believe she knows what’s going on at her company. There’s absolutely no way.
I almost performed a deep dive into her identity the instant I got home on Thursday. ‘Francesca Evans’ sat blinking on my monitor for hours, but I never entered it in. Something in me knew I had to trust her inherently. Succumbing to my curious impulse felt like the biggest violation of trust in our relationship, and I know I’d never be able to recover.
I don’t know the last time I paced my apartment that much. The floors creaked beneath me, wailing at the lack of use and the sudden weight of my thoughts barreling through the night. I didn’t sleep on Thursday. I barely slept last night. I couldn’t parse through everything I knew.
Fran’s company. Her involvement. What all did she know? Was she onboarded with some fancy presentation saying, “Hi, we hate animals! Please sign the NDA here”? I can’t wrap my head around it. The only option I can thin
k of is that she simply doesn’t know. Any other thought leads me down a dangerous path of mistrust, wanting desperately to dig up everything I can, but I resist. I must.
After I use my killing powers to “murder” her, Fran storms out of the kitchen, pigs in a blanket in hand, one after another being popcorned into her mouth.
That did not go according to plan.
I silenced her so we could talk and she would have to hear me out, but I should have known Fran was not a woman to be contained. Storming out has been her usual reaction since the day I met her. Why would tonight, with made-up murder mystery rules, deviate from the norm? The only difference between tonight and any other night is that a skeleton is sitting at the dining room table.
I heave a sigh at the same moment Lara walks into the kitchen. She instantly stares me down. Because of this, I can’t gauge whether I like her or not. Or better, I can’t gauge whether she likes me or not. Generally, I’m a hit with the ladies, but this woman keeps giving me glares that I don’t know how to interpret. I want to say they’re not like most glares because she’s such a kind old woman, but the way her face wrinkles into a sneer gives me serious horror movie vibes.
I give her a slight nod of acknowledgment as she reaches into the oven to check on her casserole, and I leave the kitchen before she can creep me out further.
I need to talk to Fran again. I need to explain myself sooner rather than later. Her one-track mind will lead her to conclude things are worse off than they actually are. Though, I guess with a distant boyfriend and said partner instantly cutting you out of the party game, it would make sense to stew, not to mention the obvious fact of having had your company hacked into. Okay, so, yes, I’ve already dug my grave pretty deep. She’s more than justified in being upset, but a conversation is still in order.
I find her out in the lounge area, talking with Emma, the only other ghost. Emma shoots me a quick glare—the both of them do—and I give an awkward, stiff wave.
My current predicament, an intertwining mess of my own design, is even harder to manage when Fran looks the way she does tonight. Even with a scowl, she’s breathtaking.
Her dress is a constellation of stars, beautiful with its dark navy blue fabric that compliments her light blonde hair. Tiny tendrils land on her neck, playing along the seam of the dress. I want nothing more than to be playing with it myself, but things have gotten complicated and I need to tie up some loose ends and clarify some facts before I can rightfully kiss her once more.
I need to tell Fran what I know. She needs to know that her company is evil, the evilest of evils—mustache-twirling evil. Maybe if I put it like that, she’ll laugh. If I could get a good laugh out of her, maybe simultaneously offer her a blueberry scone, saying Hey, I destroyed your job and livelihood wouldn’t sound so bad, would it?
The thing is, Fran is smart, and I’ll be the first to admit she’s more intelligent than I could ever hope to be. I know if I told her what Ryan and I found, she would handle it appropriately. But, most of all, I trust her. I trust her to do the right thing, and she needs to know that. She needs to know that whatever is going on, whatever this mess is, it ultimately doesn’t matter. She’s the center of my world now. Nothing I did as a hacker was to slight her. I’ll do everything in unison with her moving forward. If she asked, I’d call Ryan right on the spot, with her listening, and tell him I’m out. He can do as he likes with the information. Hell, I’ll even get it back if it means I can stop this weirdness between the two of us.
My phone rings yet again, interrupting my loose cannon fantasies, and I mute it in my pocket without glancing down. I know who it is, and I don’t need Ryan’s obsessive calls right now. Hell, I don’t even want to think about the messages that must be clogging up my phone.
I walk to Emma’s back bedroom, leaving the two ghosts to glare at my backside. I need to just get rid of my phone and drop it off with my coat and backpack, out of the way so I can be left to find peace with Fran. But when I turn the corner to the bedroom, standing there in the entrance and digging through the pockets of my pack and mine alone, I find Lara.
I try to play it off with a laugh, but I can already feel my blood pressure rising, my face growing hot. I have sensitive information in there, notes on paper and green stickies from conversations between Ryan and me, logs that need to be deleted—fuck, probably burned.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
My voice, more panicky than I intended, startles her, and she pauses in place, slowly turning to look at me. I might genuinely laugh at how ridiculous this seems were she not mere inches from the threat of me facing potential prison time should those papers be given to the wrong people.
“I thought this was my bag,” Lara says with an innocent laugh, knocking the butt of her palm against her head. My eyes cross to the other side of the bed where her butterfly-adorned tote bag flops to the side, untouched. A shiver runs up my spine, and I tense. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but with everything going on, I can’t help but feel I’m being singled out and attacked. The looks she’s been giving me, the eerie gestures since I arrived…and I swear she’s been eavesdropping on every conversation between Fran and me.
She turns back around, and I expect her to start zipping the bag back up, but instead, her wrinkly hand dives deeper into it.
“Hey! What did I just say? Stop looking in my bag!” It comes out more forceful than I intended, but her hand is so close to the side pocket, and I can’t help if my voice is naturally low.
“Who are you talking to?” I twist at the sound of Fran’s gentle but firm tone. She’s down the hall, watching me in the doorway, face contorted in a mix of confusion and concern.
My gut clenches as Fran walks toward us. She halts in front of me, hands placed on her hips as her eyes shift from me to Lara.
Lara’s expression doesn’t change. She simply glances between the two of us, eyes wide and mouth shaped in a very innocent O, a child caught stealing candy and anxiously thinking through excuses. I’d laugh if I weren’t so tightly wound by it all.
“You’re yelling at old women now?” Fran accuses, the words coming quick like shots from the barrel of a shotgun.
My stomach flips.
“I didn’t—” I start, but Fran shakes her head.
“You know what?” Her hands rise into the air, and she shakes them out as if dusting off an old rug—or an old me. “I don’t even want to know.”
“No.” I lunge forward as she twists on her heel to walk. I reach for her arm, but it narrowly avoids my grasp. “Fran, I want to explain.”
“Save it, Owen,” she spits out, holding out a palm to me. She grabs her purse off the hook at the end of the foyer, and I look from her to the room where Lara balks at me, a bit of her snaggle tooth tugging at her bottom lip.
“Give me that.” I accentuate each word, reaching around her and snatching the bag. It’s open, papers splayed out through the folds, but my laptop is present and well so I fumble for the zipper, pulling it to close each compartment.
Emma’s head pokes in from around the corner as I reach the foyer, and I faintly hear the sounds of “But, wait—dinner!” as the door shuts behind me.
Fran stands out front, arms crossed, kicking the last stair on the stoop with the point of her heel. On the third kick, she must put a bit too much force into it, because she winces and instantly jolts back. A grumble of mixed language leaves her mouth slowly until it transforms into an irritable groan. I take a step forward, but her eyes dart to mine like daggers, and I pause in my movement. I can feel her frustration soaking through to me, like water filling a sponge.
“You’re being weird!” Fran yells, limping down the sidewalk and then back. I don’t move from the stoop, standing with my hands in my pockets as I let her vent.
“I know,” I admit.
“You got mad at an old lady!” Her hand shoots to the door, palm out and eyes emblazoned with something resembling fury or maybe just incredulity. “What’s the matter with you?
”
“Well, yeah, she was looking through my bag!” I’m ashamed at how quickly the accusation comes out, because it only makes Fran’s eyes grow wider.
“What do you have to hide if she was?” Fran asks, dropping her arms to her sides. They slap her thighs on impact, and she slowly shakes her head. “Something is off, isn’t it?” Her eyes look at the sidewalk then back up to me. “Why did you have my company’s website pulled up?”
I open my mouth to speak, but somehow, even after rehearsing this speech all day, I can’t find the words. I can’t remember what Mirror Owen said back to me earlier this afternoon, something about how it was the right thing to do, but now that just feels like garbage.
“Owen, I get it if I made things weird. We had a security breach, and I freaked out. There. I’m not perfect. I have bad days too.” She shrugs, and it’s so damn cute and innocent I now know for a fact that, even if she doesn’t have to tell me, there’s no way she could have known about her company being the way it is. She’s too good. Too pure.
Fran exhales. “But if you’re gonna do it, just do it. Don’t find an excuse.”
I blink, confusion rolling through me. “Wait, do what?”
“Just be a man and break up with me.”
Fran’s shoulders slump as she breathes out with the weight of the words, as if it were a dark cloud that had been looming overhead, ready to release rainfall. And, somehow, despite the sentence spearing through my chest, I find myself laughing. Not at her misery or how exhausted she seems, because god knows I wish I could take that away from her in an instant, but only at how this woman just told me with one hundred percent certainty that I would be breaking up with her. She could not be further from the truth.
It’s in this moment that I’m hit with how much I truly care for her. I knew it before, but the idea of leaving here without her now seems so awful and miserable it’s almost ridiculous. Even when I got home the other night, confused as to how she could be affiliated with some evil mastermind behind a horrible animal testing facility, I still wondered how we could make it work.
