And the simplest explanation is this: The Seattle Slayer led me to this spot for a reason.
So in this spot, it truly begins.
A broken window, a disabled alarm, a very creepy painting, and the flashing blue and red lights of a cop car.
Yep. Love has made me crazy.
Not once, not twice, but three times over.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?
Guess we’re about to find out how true that really is.
“Who wants to help me catch a serial killer?”
It’s a bold move, announcing to the world that I’m on the hunt for the Seattle Slayer.
It certainly catches Justin’s attention. He texts me within thirty seconds of ending the live video, my phone buzzing as I slip Chasm’s headset off and leave it to rest against the back of my neck.
Well-played, daughter of mine. As I said before: choose your pawns wisely. You have a lot of them.
I stare at the message before handing the phone over to Chasm.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, ruffling up his wet hair with his fingers. I’m reminded briefly that we just showered together, that we saw each other naked, and also that I had absolutely zero capacity to process any of it. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I do,” I respond, feeling this strange, cool calmness wash over me. Closing my eyes, I do my best to channel some of Maxx’s self-assuredness, that cocky confidence that lets him breeze through the world like he’s got an instruction manual. “Nothing that I said tonight is news to anyone.”
In my mind, I run over everything I said, checking for inconsistencies, for any slip that might put Parrish in danger. If I find anything, I’m hopping back online and making an excuse.
“As I’m sure you’ve heard on the news, my stepbrother’s gone missing. As I’m sure you’ve also heard, there’s a serial killer known as the Seattle Slayer. There’s a possibility, however slim, that Parrish Vanguard was taken by the Slayer.
Here’s why I think that:
The Slayer only kidnaps people between the ages of fourteen and twenty-one
All of his (known) victims are from the Seattle metro area
All of the bodies were discovered on or after the fourteenth day since they went missing
Parrish has only been gone for eight days. That means if he really is with the Slayer, we have six days to find him. So, will you help me?”
I open my eyes again, watching the comment section explode with speculation. I gave every detail that I could—including some that the police would be unlikely to release—so long as those clues didn’t seem to violate the rules Justin laid out for me. I mentioned the security system and the fact that it never went off, that the cameras had not been recording, the time when I last saw Parrish, the number of people who have access to the house on a regular basis along with their occupations, and the time that I woke up and realized he was gone.
To anyone watching, I probably seem desperate. That, or they think I’m chasing clout on the coattails of my missing stepbrother. Either way, it isn’t enough to arouse suspicion in the authorities. What it will do is get people thinking, looking for clues, putting together theories. I’m not stupid: it isn’t like the FBI is just sitting around and twiddling their thumbs over this. But they’re also not going to share what they know with some random teenager.
But the internet will. The internet will sleuth the shit out of whatever facts they can find. That’s what I’m trying to do here, gather my own research, put boots on the ground so to speak.
“I guess so,” Chasm hazards, and I wonder then, as I lean back in his computer chair, if we aren’t going to have a conversation about the dead guy with the pale blue eyes. What was his name again? Mr. Fosser? I do a quick search of the name on Chas’ laptop, but as per usual, nothing of interest comes up.
“We saw a guy die today.” I spin the chair around so I can look at Chasm. He’s already watching me with those gorgeous amber eyes of his, like two polished stones in a handsome face. The yellow lightning bolt at the front of his hair is disheveled, yellow strands draped haphazardly across the black. I’m used to that: when you’ve got dual colored hair, the bits and pieces get tangled up on occasion.
“Not a guy, just a rapist,” Chasm says, but then he’s scrubbing at his face with both hands. “Little Sister, this shit has amped up quick.” He drops his hands to his lap and gives me a long, studying sort of look. “Today, we shot a dead body. What if he asks us tomorrow to shoot a person?”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I don’t.
