The Bachelorette Party, page 3
Eric
P.S. I just wondered if you would have any interest in giving a little money to my prisoner’s account. It’s just for little things, toothpaste, Doritos, stuff like that. No problem if you can’t. Just thought I’d ask!
P.P.S. They take Venmo.
CHAPTER SEVEN
NOW
We sit on the freezing cement hearth.
“I’m not sure the heat’s even working,” I say, rubbing my stiff, cold hands by the starter-fire. The flames lick up strands of an old newspaper we found, strategically placed by Melody between the logs.
Lainey holds out her palms to the fire as well. “I guess you get what you pay for.”
For a minute, I think of what Jay could have paid for a swanky hotel with a Methuselah of rose-gold champagne, and probably Beyoncé coming by to personally sing a few songs. But then again, that isn’t the point. Bonding with my friends is the point. And I love them for their morbid choice of accommodation. Even if it is below freezing in here.
Gazing ahead at the wall, I once again picture the numbers crudely drawn in blood.
666.
“That’s where the numbers were,” I tell them, sitting on my hands to warm them.
“What numbers?” Melody asks.
“The 666. He wrote them in blood. From … the victim. Nicole White.”
A pause follows this morbid observation.
“I thought you said her name was Leigh Jones,” Lainey says.
I’m both touched and surprised that that she’s actually been listening to my ramblings.
“No, he tried to kill Leigh Jones, but she fought him off.” I don’t mention that the police suspect him of killing two more who went missing around that time, Angela Adams and Amelia Atwood, the so-called A-girls, the alliterative pair becoming a footnote in the story.
“Well, on that cheerful note,” Melody says.
“Who’s hungry?” Lainey asks, interrupting my thoughts.
I’m guessing the answer is Lainey, since she’s always hungry. My ever-suggestible stomach growls though, reminding me I’ve only had coffee today. I check my phone. Nine o’clock.
“Didn’t you bring the cookies?” Melody asks her.
“Yeah,” Laine says. “I sort of might have eaten those already.”
Melody pops up to a stand. “Never you worry. I brought provisions aplenty. I have a cheese and cracker tray in the trunk.”
Lainey does not appear consoled. “Let me guess, vegan cheese.”
“Of course.”
“And the crackers … are gluten free.”
Melody looks offended. “You know I have gluten issues.”
My stomach growls again as smoke slithers between the logs.
“I got beer and chips in the car?” I suggest.
By now, the fire is humming along, if not roaring.
It hearkens me back to my childhood home, the rough wedge of wood on my fingers, heat suffusing the air, the scent of burning logs. I remember our cozy family room, lit up orange inside, buffered against the blackness outside, the frigid Vermont nights. This was before the divorce, when things were still cozy, when we could still afford the old, drafty house.
Now, we all lie on top of our sleeping bags on the sheepskin rug, passing around chips and sipping beer. Pine trees sway in the distance as wind pummels the windows. Jay’s borrowed sleeping bag smells faintly of mildew.
“So, what should we do?” I ask. A log pops in the fire. “Anything good on Prime?”
“Wi-Fi’s not working,” Melody reminds me.
“Oh, right. And no signal.” I tried calling Jay three times, but nothing went through. I froze my ass off on the porch trying to get some coverage.
“Charades?” Melody asks, in all sincerity.
We both give her a look.
“Fine, fine.” She sits up on the sleeping bag with a grunt and starts knee-walking over to the cabinet. “So, let’s see,” she says, opening the door with a squeak. “Okay, folks. We got Life, Trivial Pursuit, Monopoly.” She rifles around some boxes. “Yahtzee.”
“Or …” Lainey says, pulling something out of her overnight bag. “We could have a little White Widow party.” She holds up a bag, displaying three nicely rolled joints.
“White Widow.” Melody scrunches her nose. “They didn’t have Maui Wowie?”
“Jesus Christ,” Lainey says, with a huff. “Do I look like a fucking dispensary?”
“Okay, fine. Whatever. It’s better than this beer,” Melody grumbles, taking a last sip. She grabs a blunt and hands me the other. “White Widow makes me itchy though.”
Lainey puts her joint into the fire to light it, then inhales.
The unmistakable skunky smell flutters through the room as Melody lights hers up too. “Don’t you get tested?” she asks Lainey, which I was wondering about as well.
“In six months,” Lainey says, holding in her breath.
Melody nods and takes a hit, but I sit there, still holding my joint in a pincer grip. I think about what I read on my research. “They say THC might make it worse,” I say, staring at the fire.
“Make what worse?” Lainey asks, waving smoke away from her face.
“The dreams.”
This is met by silence. Melody takes a thoughtful drag, but neither of them speaks.
They both know about my sleep problem, acting out my dreams. The first time it happened, I dreamed I was running away from Chris, and leaped off the bed and into the nightstand, busting my lip. The next time, it was Eric Myers lunging at me and stabbing me. I punched him as hard as I could. But it was actually Jay I punched. He jokingly called me a husband-beater, and I started sleeping in the office. I felt guilty every time I looked at his black eye.
I hadn’t done it for a while until recently. Eric Myers appeared again on my bed, so real I could feel the weight of his body, the outline of his leg, against mine.
My punch left four knuckle-sized dents in the wall.
“Do you know why it’s happening?” Melody asks, her voice husky from smoke. “Just like stress or something?”
“Probably,” I say. But I’m not telling the whole truth.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Lainey says, exhaling after holding a lungful of smoke.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Melody agrees. She’s usually good at acting, but she sounds a little nervous to me. Turning, she swishes against my sleeping bag. “You don’t have to smoke, you know. No peer pressure. We’ll still be your friends,” she jokes.
“Yeah, I know,” I say, with a forced laugh. I dip my joint in the fire to light it too, then take a sweet puff, the paper warm between my fingers.
What the hell, it’s my bachelorette party.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JUNE
“Anything new with your Doritos serial killer?” Wiley asks.
“Nah,” I say. Though I did Venmo him some money. I figured five dollars here or there would be well worth it to keep him talking. But I haven’t uncovered anything new. I’ve scoured the Armchair Sleuths, a true crime chat room, for any leads on the 666 Killer and find the thread disappointingly quiescent. My brief Twitter survey was dead on arrival as well.
Everyone seems to agree that Eric Myers did it. End of story.
“How about yours?” I ask, drinking from my water bottle. “What did they call him … the Monogram Killer or something?”
“Yeah. He liked to carve his initials in his victim’s skin.” They click on their mouse. “Postmortem, at least.”
“Nice,” I say. “Devious and yet self-incriminating.”
“Yeah. Not the sharpest psychopath in the toolbox.”
My phone pings with a text, and I check to see it’s from Lainey.
“Wedding stuff?” Wiley can’t get enough wedding talk, the opposite of literally anyone else I know.
“Yeah, looking at dresses for Lainey,” I say, typing in the address of the place.
Wiley raises an eyebrow. “Lainey’s wearing a dress?”
“No,” I say. “Not exactly. She’s wearing a suit in the same lavender of the dress that Melody is wearing.” I pause. “If that makes any sense.” She and Melody are my maids of honor, though Lainey bristled at being called a maid of anything. So, of course, Melody referred to her as a maid-a-milking for a full day.
“Ooh,” Wiley says. “I have to take that down. I can see a suit in periwinkle for my maid of honor.” Wiley is also planning two maids of honor, one for them and one for their fiancée, Josie. It’s confusing.
Getting nowhere with the research, I consider plunging into the 666 podcasts again. But I can’t take listening to any more right now, some of which barely deserve the podcast moniker, consisting of two people saying “um” a million times and apologizing for their dog barking, which descends into a discussion about their unfortunate bowel habits (the dog’s) requiring a low-protein diet. I’m about to hit the break room for a coffee when I spot the usual delivery guy heading our way. He’s holding a dozen red roses. “Alex Conley?” he asks, looking at Wiley (who could pass for an Alex).
“That’s me,” I answer, standing up to sign for the delivery. The velvety smell rises from the bouquet. Smiling, I flip open the card, wondering if Jay sent them. He does this occasionally, just out of the blue.
Reading the card, my smile disappears.
“Jay?” Wiley asks.
I shake my head, showing him the card.
Wiley’s eyes open wide. “What the actual—”
“I know,” I say. Because the card has no words and no signature.
Just three numbers in black, standing out against the blank white card stock.
666.
“I’ll keep digging,” Juanita says, as we walk up the stairs with Toby.
Juanita serves as Crimeline’s main private investigator. Handling threatening letters for lowly interns falls well below her pay grade. But I helped her niece on her college essay (which didn’t really need any help) and she got into Brown (which had nothing to do with me), so now Juanita basically loves me.
“But I don’t get it,” I say, embarrassingly short of breath as we climb another floor. It’s pathetic. I’ve only gotten to the third floor, and still have two more to my office on the fifth. At a solid two hundred pounds, Juanita hasn’t broken a sweat. She works on the tenth floor and doesn’t like elevators.
“Probably just a troll,” Toby says, with an unimpressed shrug, her collarbones rising. She’s junior-sized small and wears oversized clothes and high heels to hide this, which only accentuates it, making her look like she’s playing dress-up. Toby brings to mind Minnie Mouse, but with long red hair and freckles. She also happens to be a marathon runner and can climb ten flights no problem.
“I suppose it could be a troll,” I say, trying to hide my wheezing. I did the basic investigatory grunt work, calling the flower delivery service, but the sender apparently used a PayPal account connected to a burner cell number and a fake name. “Who knows I’m doing this profile?” I ask, clinging to the handrail. “I mean, no one from Crimeline is gonna send this. My fiancé’s not going to send this.”
Toby and Juanita slow down their pace for me. “So, you’re telling me you haven’t done any internet research?” Toby asks, with an eyebrow raised.
“I guess I have hit Twitter, Facebook, and a couple crime chat rooms.” I think for a second. “So basically anyone could have sent this.”
Toby gives me a patronizing smile. “As I said, a troll.”
“But we’ll follow it up,” Juanita says, perhaps just to pacify me.
Finally, we reach my floor. I’m envisioning opening the door and just dropping straight onto the carpet. “This is me,” I say.
“Me as well,” Toby says, shooting past me.
“Let me know if you get anything else,” Juanita says, her voice trailing up the stairs. “Hopefully it’s a one-off.”
CHAPTER NINE
NOW
Fueled by White Widow, the evening flies by.
We sit in a loose semicircle facing the hearth as if around a campfire, mesmerized by the flames. Hot air flickers against my face.
“Alex?” Melody asks, still looking into the fire.
“What?” I pluck a piece of fuzz off Jay’s sleeping bag.
“We just had one question for you.” She chews on her lip, looking oddly, uncharacteristically nervous.
“Okay …” I say, drawing out the word.
A piece of a log crumbles onto the grate and sizzles.
“It’s just …” Melody turns to me, her eyebrows furrowed. “You’re sure about this, right? Absolutely sure? No doubts whatsoever?”
Lainey watches me too, in rapt attention. I have a feeling they’ve been waiting a while to ask me this. Like this might have been the “spring the question on Alex” part of the night, or even the whole reason for the night. The idea irks me.
“Yes. I’m sure,” I say, maybe too brusquely. Then I pause. “Why, are you trying to tell me something?” I think back to my first college boyfriend, Tariq, who Lainey saw cheating on me.
“No, no,” Melody says. “Nothing like that.” The fire crackles, and she puffs her pillow up. “It’s just … it was so fast. After Chris and everything.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I suppose so.” I know where they’re coming from. My mom has interrogated me over it too, thinking I’m just jumping into a rebound.
Almost unconsciously, I stretch out my hand. The diamond catches the light of the fire, glittering. The stone juts out, maybe a little too big, if I’m honest. But I am definitely sure.
“Yes, I love him. I put my engaged hand back in my sleeping bag. “I promise you. No doubt whatsoever.”
“Okay.” Melody exhales, as if the question were weighing on her. “That’s all we wanted to know.” But Lainey still watches me, wary.
“Oh my God!” Melody shrieks, out of nowhere.
“What?” I jump up, looking around for Eric Myers. Then I realize this makes no sense. The White Widow must have hit me pretty good.
“We almost forgot about the cupcakes,” Melody says, gasping like this was the worst oversight ever. The White Widow must have hit her pretty good too. She leaps up and jogs to the kitchen while Lainey unzips her gym duffle. As Melody returns with a plate of cupcakes, Lainey pulls out a gift and hands it to me.
I hold what appears to be a hardcover book, ripping off the satiny red wrapping paper to reveal the title. The Real 6-6-6 Killer. Flipping through the book, I focus on the thick photo section in the middle, the smell of new paper rising up from the pages.
“I didn’t even know about this one.”
“Yeah,” Lainey says, biting back her smile at my reaction. “It’s out of print.”
“Oh,” I say, cooing. “That’s so thoughtful, you guys.” I lean over to give them kisses, hitting Melody’s neck and Lainey’s ear.
“Ugh,” Lainey says, wiping it off. “You gave me a wet willy.”
“You loved it.”
“Girl,” Lainey says. “You are so not my type.”
“Cupcake time,” Melody sings out. “Made by moi. Vegan and gluten free, of course.” She grabs one, licking blue frosting off her fingers. Two more cupcakes sit on the plate, one blue and one red. “You get the red one since it’s your favorite color.”
“Aw. You guys rock so hard.” I hold up the cupcake, admiring the puffy, pompadour-shaped red frosting. Then we’re quiet, wolfing down our cupcakes. “Thanks, you guys,” I murmur, swallowing. “This is really good.”
“Mmph-mmph,” Lainey says, nodding while chewing. “Not bad.”
Melody starts laughing then, pointing at me.
“What?” I wipe crumbs off my lips.
“Your teeth are red,” she says. “You look like a vampire.” Her shoulders shake with laughter, the vision surely funnier with some White Widow on board.
“And you look like you’ve been fellating a Smurf,” I say, pointing back at her.
“Anatomically implausible,” Melody says, then pulls her phone out of her pocket. “Selfie,” she announces, and Lainey and I lean into her, baring our red and blue teeth. The flash lights up our faces. Half blinded, I finish off the cupcake.
After we’re done, Melody starts yawning. “I’m hitting the hay, you guys.”
“Yeah,” Lainey says, pulling her extra-long-but-still-too-short sleeping bag up. “Me too.”
Grabbing my phone, I consider trying to call Jay one last time. But then I realize it’s already eleven o’clock. He’d usually be up, but sometimes he goes to bed early when Greg’s over, and it probably wouldn’t get through anyway. I put the phone back down.
After a while, Melody turns in her sleeping bag. “Happy bachelorette party,” she mumbles, the words slurring into sleep. Lainey has already fallen quiet, her eyes fluttering shut.
My eyes remain resolutely open. I’m afraid to fall asleep.
Because I don’t want to dream.
I don’t want to hurt them.
CHAPTER TEN
DID HE DO IT? PODCAST: EPISODE #187, THE 666 KILLER
Shardai: Come on, Trayvon. This one’s just too obvious.
Trayvon: No, no. That’s why I picked it out. It’s not so obvious.
Shardai: Other than the fact that he wrote it on—
Trayvon: Hold up. Hold up. We’ll get to that later. Let’s tackle the witness statement first. You can pretty much throw out the EFIT picture thing, right? I mean, the guy had a balaclava on, right?
Shardai: Yes, I’ll agree that’s a problem.
Trayvon: And you would also agree that visual identification is problematic in and of itself, especially in traumatic situations.
Shardai: Sometimes, yes. I would agree on that too.
Trayvon: But there’s another problem that no one’s really pointed out. (Pause.) Race.
Shardai: What about race?
Trayvon: Leigh Jones is Black.
Shardai: Um … that’s not news, Tray.
Trayvon: Yeah, I know. I know. But the point is, we all know White people are crap at identifying Black people. And vice versa. Cross-racial identification has loads of problems. That’s been well validated, right?
