Evil All Along, page 1
part #8 of The Last Picks Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Evil All Along
Copyright © 2025 Gregory Ashe
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests and all other inquiries, contact: contact@hodgkinandblount.com
Published by Hodgkin & Blount
https://www.hodgkinandblount.com/
contact@hodgkinandblount.com
Published 2025
Printed in the United States of America
Version 1.06
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-63621-108-4
eBook ISBN: 978-1-63621-107-7
Chapter 1
“Keme,” I said. “You’re my friend. You’re my best friend. No, scratch that, you’re—you’re my brother. I love you. I’d do anything for you.”
Keme stared back at me. His face didn’t give anything away, but that might have been because he was covered in pancake makeup. (This year’s costume was Pennywise the Clown, and it. was. terrifying.)
“And,” I said, “I know you feel the same way about me.”
He shook his head. (Honestly, so fast it was a little rude.)
“Which is why—” I said.
“Let it go,” Fox suggested. For Halloween, they’d decided to go as—well, I wasn’t sure. Their top hat had a skeletal hand curled around it. And they were wearing a befeathered corset with high-waisted trousers and gleaming steel vambraces. (I knew they were called vambraces because I’d played a lot of Dungeons and Dragons.) They were lugging around a cast-iron pumpkin cauldron, which they kept trying to get me or Bobby or Keme to carry. And their boots had goggles on them.
I ignored them. “—I know you’ll trade me your Butterfinger for my Baby Ruth.”
Keme tilted his head to one side. His dark eyes were unreadable.
“I’ll even throw in—” I began.
Keme tore the wrapper on the Butterfinger.
“Wait!”
He stopped in the middle of sliding the candy bar free.
“—a Snickers and a Reese’s and—no, no, no, Keme!”
He took an enormous bite of the Butterfinger. And then, like a true teenage boy, he grinned. It was disgusting. He had those crispy, crunchy, peanut-buttery crumbs in his teeth. He made sure I saw before he took another savage bite.
“What’s wrong?” Bobby asked as he jogged back to our group with two disposable cups of apple cider. He’d gone as Marty McFly from Back to the Future, and let me tell you, my childhood crush on Michael J. Fox (in that VEST, cue Millie voice) hadn’t faded over the years. “What happened? I heard someone scream.”
“Everyone’s fine,” Indira said. She was dressed as a hippie, but in a cute way. (Not in an oh-my-God-she’s-trying-to-wash-our-windshield-for-spare-change way, which had happened the one time I’d gone to San Francisco.) Honestly, her simple, cream-colored blouse and dark slacks were probably part of her normal wardrobe, but she’d gussied them up with a suede tassel vest and a braided leather headband. “Nothing happened.”
Fox sniffed. “Capitalism happened.”
Bobby looked at me.
“I have no idea what that means,” I said. “But Keme ate my Butterfinger.”
“It was mine,” Keme said. “He was trying to trade.”
“Oh,” Bobby said without missing a beat. He handed me my cider. “Okay.”
Which goes to show that if you find a good one, hold on to him.
Around us, Hastings Rock’s Halloween celebration was in full swing. The year before, I’d missed the festivities because I’d gone to watch Bobby and Keme compete in an annual surfing competition. This year, though, Gremlins and Grommets—or whatever it had been called—was canceled. Mostly because the woman who had organized it for all those years was in prison for murder.
The town had gone all out for the occasion, the way it always did on holidays. Spiderwebs draped the sides of old Victorian homes, with fake plastic spiders clinging to them. Storefronts had jack-o'-lanterns by their doors. People had put up skeletons and ghosts and foam tombstones that said things like HE NEVER MET A CREPE HE DIDN’T LIKE (that was outside Crepe You Very Much, of course), and SHE FORGOT TO BRUSH HER TEETH (Seafoam Sweets), and HE TALKED ABOUT TACOS (Let’s Taco Bout Tacos). Cyd Wofford, our resident Marxist, was dressed as a zombie (with a cleaver sticking out of his head, which was awesome) as he handed out full-sized candy bars and tried to explain to anyone who would listen that zombies were a metaphor for the working class. Mr. Cheek (owner of Fog Belt Ladies Wear and a fervent admirer of Deputy Bobby Mai) was dressed as Catwoman and had been trying to whip everyone until Bobby gave him a stern talking-to.
(Honestly, Mr. Cheek probably loved it.)
Everyone had turned out for the town’s trunk-or-treat, which was being held on a crisp Sunday afternoon, instead of on Halloween itself, which fell in the middle of the week. Kids dressed as Disney characters and superheroes and non-specific princesses, not to mention a SCREAMING Statue of Liberty, thronged the streets, rushing to collect as much candy as they could from the stores and street vendors and food trucks and anyone else who had decided to hand out goodies. (As a side note, Let’s Taco Bout Tacos was giving out gummy tacos, and the third time I went back, Bobby had to say something about making sure everyone got to have some.) Laughter and excited chatter and spooky music hung in the air, mixing with the smell of candied apples and pumpkin spice everything, and it was a perfect day.
Almost.
“Where is Millie?” Fox asked as they transferred the pumpkin-cauldron-bucket to their other arm. “Keme, did she text you?”
Keme glowered at Fox, which was answer enough.
“She’ll be along,” Indira said. “She’s probably running late.”
“I know she’s running late,” Fox said. “She needs to hurry up. She’s the only one who will carry this ponderous bucket.”
(Uh, ponderous was my choice of word.)
As Bobby took the bucket from Fox, he said, “The Paranormal Paddle is about to start. She’ll catch up to us.”
We made our way north along the boardwalk, toward the bay where the Swift River emptied into the ocean. Everyone else seemed to have the same idea too, and I have to admit, I didn’t love having a million people jostling me and breathing down my neck and bumping my candy bucket (which, yes, you’re allowed to participate in trunk-or-treat as an adult if you don’t have any children, because you can’t steal their candy, and also if Keme won’t share with you). But in spite of the crowd, I was okay. Ish. I mean, I knew most of these people. I was friends with most of these people. (If you could call almost getting T-boned by Bliss Wilson’s behemoth of a Suburban being friends. Which, apparently, you could, because she’d just tooted the horn and given me a finger wave and kept driving.) Plus, it helped to have Bobby there, his hand finding the small of my back to steer me. (It was like having a personal navigation system, and it was amazing—especially the time I almost went, um, rump-over-teakettle into a pothole.)
The festivities continued along the boardwalk, with rows of vendor tents. Some of the tents were businesses—Mr. Li was selling his watercolors, and Brad Newsum (of Newsum Decorative Rock) was chatting with a middle-aged couple about a landscaping project. But others were more community oriented. The hiking group that Bobby and I occasionally accompanied had a table. And Hastings High was selling tickets to their Homecoming dance, which—confusingly—was being held on Halloween. (I noticed Keme refused to glance over, and I also noticed the teens around the display gawking at him like he was an animal in a zoo.) There was a jump-rope academy (yes, it’s a real thing, and yes, I almost got winged by several overenthusiastic jump-ropers), and the Loaves and Fishes food bank (several kids were donating their candy), and a booth for the Confederated Tribes (they were handing out king-size candy bars, which meant they were being swarmed by miniature Batmans). The Hastings Rock Community Church was having a jumble sale, and Arcadia College was handing out flash drives and pens and those weirdly specific sticky notes that I always take but then never use. (Who needs one that has a twelve-month calendar printed on every sticky note?)
That was when Fox kicked me.
I knew it was Fox because I felt the goggles, and when I swung around—with half an idea to give them a bonk with that stupid cauldron—I stopped at the silent demand on their face. I opened my mouth to ask what they wanted. And then I realized Indira was staring at me too. Her eyes flicked to the Arcadia College tent and then back to me, pleading.
It was kind of like the reverse of The Grinch. My heart shrank three sizes. Or maybe ten. I dry-swallowed. Then, somehow it wasn’t dry, and I choked on my own spit, and Bobby patted me on the back so enthusiastically that Fox’s stupid cauldron whanged me in the thigh. (Whanged is a word, right?)
See, I knew what Fox and Indira wanted. We—the adults—had been talking about it on and off since July. Worrying about it might be a better way to phrase it. Or maybe fretting.
Bobby thumped me between the shoulder blades again, and I made an ack-ing sound, and I fended off his attempts to continue being earnestly helpful by squawking, “I’m fine.
Everyone was looking at us, by the way. Mr. Li had stopped explaining something about one of his watercolors. A tiny girl in a dragon costume was clutching her tail, staring at me like I might expire on the spot. Emma Goldman, who was in her seventies and had a Mary Poppins-style purse full of whatever you might need, had stopped her stick-weaving class long enough to peer at me and, apparently, decide I would live before she went back to whatever she was saying. (Slightly disappointing, actually, because she always had these really tasty cough drops in that bag.)
A prickling flush climbed my face as I gave an all-purpose wave to let everyone know things were okay, and our little group started moving again. As we were drawing even with the Arcadia College tent, I channeled my inner thespian, got myself into character—I was playing the role of Befuddled Writer #1—and said with what I hoped was believable-sounding surprise, “Oh! Look! Arcadia College.”
Fox made a tiny, despairing sound. Indira looked like she wanted to cover her eyes. Bobby cocked his head at me, possibly wondering if I needed to be taken to a padded room.
Keme, though, glared.
It was about a five on the Keme scale, which meant: casual annoyance directed at me for being, apparently, the weirdest person he’d ever met.
“I loved college,” I said.
No one said anything to that.
“What about you, Bobby?” I asked. “Did you love college?”
The penny had dropped; I could see it in Bobby’s expression. All he said, though, was “Yeah, college was great. Lots of work. Lots of fun.”
“Arcadia’s campus is so nice.”
And this, at least, was true. The campus was gorgeous, actually—thickly wooded, carefully landscaped, with buildings that looked like they’d always been part of that semi-wild space. I’d visited a few times to meet with some of the creative writing faculty, and somehow—against all common sense and good reason—they’d trusted me with a half-semester introduction to composition class that, in theory, I should have been preparing for. In fact, that sounded like such a responsible, sensible, safe thing to do that I wondered if I could convince Bobby to take me home. Right now.
Indira was still giving me that look, though—with a hint of get-on-with-it that hadn’t been there before—so I said, “Do you want to see what they’re handing out? I bet they have information for prospective students.”
This time, the glare was a seven—terrifying.
Words bubbled out of me. “If, that is, you know, you’re thinking about, like, considering, even just the possibility—”
And no one was going to help me. Bobby looked like he wanted to thump me on the back again.
I was like a drowning man grabbing for something—anything—to keep him afloat. The question drifted past, and I asked, “What are you going to do after you graduate?”
Keme’s reaction wasn’t what I expected. The glare went down to a four—I thought of this one as “self-soothing rage”—and he shrugged. “Get a job.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was that. He kept walking, and the rest of us, left flat-footed, scrambled to catch up.
“Have you ever thought about college?” Fox asked. “Or a vocational school?”
“What kind of job?” Indira asked. “Have you thought about what you’d like to do?”
Keme shrugged again.
“What about something you enjoy doing?” Indira asked. “Something you’re passionate about?”
This time, you could barely call it a shrug—it might have been my imagination.
Then Indira looked at me. And Fox looked at me. And Bobby looked at me.
I opened my mouth to demand something along the lines of why me? Before I could ask, though, Indira’s expression changed to one I’d never seen before—about as close to a nonverbal threat as I’d ever seen before.
I shut my mouth so fast my teeth clicked together. It took me several seconds before I had enough brainpower to say, “What about something with surfing? What about a surf shop? Or a school—giving lessons, that kind of thing?”
The silence dragged out until Bobby said, “You’re a natural on a board.”
That earned us a tiny, one-shouldered shrug.
“Have you ever taken a career aptitude test?” Fox asked. Which was a surprisingly helpful comment, especially considering the source. It was significantly less helpful, though, when they added, “Mine said I should be a dog food taster.”
“There’s no way it said that,” I said. But then I felt compelled to add, “The counselor said I broke mine.”
Keme glanced at Bobby, who said, “Law enforcement.”
And that was it. The boy didn’t say anything.
We were quickly running out of boardwalk. Ahead of us, the crowd thickened at the edge of the bay, and I knew once we mixed with the crowd, any chance of continuing this conversation would be lost. I said, “A career aptitude test sounds like a great idea. And why don’t you come with me the next time I go to Arcadia? You can sit in on one of my classes, get a feel for what college is like.”
Among other things, Keme had perfected the teenager’s art of giving me a single, excoriating look that informed me he’d rather be dissected by circus clowns than spend a single moment, alive or dead, in my company—and also, that I was an idiot for ever thinking otherwise.
“Okay,” I breathed, falling back a step as we reached the crowd. “Good talk.”
With a commiserating look, Bobby squeezed my arm.
The one bright spot was that we’d timed our arrival perfectly. The Paranormal Paddlers were already out on the water, passing in front of us. If you’ve never heard of the Paranormal Paddlers, don’t worry—neither had I. They were a local tradition: people from town dressed up in their Halloween costumes and then paddled around on the bay. Why, you might ask? Who knows. Personally, I didn’t love the idea of getting my costume wet and then trying to balance on a board while I displayed myself for the amusement of strangers (I wondered if maybe I was spending too much time with Fox). But they all seemed to be enjoying themselves. The mummy looked a little bedraggled, and the wizard’s robes were creating some serious drag, but if it bothered them, you couldn’t tell. Besides—the crowd loved them.
As another cheer went up (this time, for an Elsa in a wetsuit), I said, “Why aren’t you and Keme out there?”
Bobby opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Keme said, “Because it’s paddleboarding, you donkey, not surfing.”
Offering an apologetic smile, Bobby added, “Neither of us is really into stand-up paddleboarding.”
I almost said something. But then I didn’t. It was enough to smile and know that even Deputy Bobby, who was so genuinely kind and earnest, could be one hundred percent too cool for something.
I was turning my attention back to the water, where a very damp-looking werewolf was trying to fix one of her ears, when a voice broke through the crowd (and also broke the sound barrier).
“THERE YOU ARE!”
Guess who?
Millie wiggled toward us through the crush of bodies. And if everyone hadn’t been cheering because the werewolf had finally fixed her ear, you would have heard my jaw hit the ground.
She was dressed as a witch. But not the green-faced, wart-on-the-nose, baggy-black-robes-that-are-meant-for-comfort-and-not-fashion, garden-variety kind of witch. Millie’s take on a witch involved a strapless, ruffled black dress that barely reached her, um, seat, along with black opera gloves, thigh-high leather boots, and the requisite pointed black hat. She’d gone with smoky eye makeup and intensely red lipstick, and she’d done something with her hair that made it extra…something. I couldn’t bring myself to look directly at Keme, but I glimpsed him out of the corner of my eye. Even under that stupid Pennywise costume (and whatever he tells you, I am not afraid of clowns), he looked like someone had plugged him into a light socket. His mouth was soft and slack. His eyes were shining. I was surprised his hair wasn’t standing on end. I wondered if I should ask him if he was smelling toast.
“I’M SORRY I’M LATE!”
The crowd parted. Moses, what? One little boy in a firefighter’s costume actually had his feet go out from under him and fell backward into his wagon.
“WE COULDN’T FIND PARKING ANYWHERE.”
