“What the hell?!” Hazel shrieks, tap dancing like she’s landed in a pit of cockroaches. “No. That’s not… She can’t be…”
I release her. “She wrote the note on the cursed plushie that nearlymurderedyou!”
“FUCK!”
We’re both screaming, our voices carrying into the high ceiling.
“Did you not clue in that her last name is Madsen?” I shout.
“Her last name hasn’t come up! I’ve only gone out with her twice!” Hazel presses her palms against her temples. Her eyes dart across the floor like she’s reviewing every interaction, searching for clues she missed.
I let out a sound like a deflating balloon and drag my hands down my face. This is my fault for not telling Hazel more about the Madsens. I should have at least told her their names. God dammit, I should have shown her an entire PowerPoint presentation titled ‘The Madsens: A Comprehensive Guide to the Family That’s Trying to Kill Me.’ Screw the coven and their secrets.
Hazel doubles over, hands on knees. “I’m gonna puke. Where did that bucket go?”
She scans the pile of stuff. I offer her a mosaic planter, but she waves it away.
“What do I do?” she moans.
I set down the planter and wave my arms. “Ghost her! Block her!”
“But—” She straightens up, staring at me with huge eyes. “But I care about her.”
I freeze, trying to process this sequence of words in reference to Oaklyn fucking Madsen.
“She’s been lying to you!” I cry. “She’s not a personal trainer, she’s a criminal!”
“But she’s been so nice! She makes me food and cuddles me and…” She balls her fists over her mouth, her eyes growing glassy and distant.
I splutter and flail my arms as if to swat these words right out of the air. “She kept Natalie’s dad caged in a basement!”
My ears ring from all the screaming. This is surreal. My genius best friend is dating a literal murderer and didn’t know it.
Hazel turns and begins stress-organizing everything on the table, her hands shaking.
I draw a few deep breaths to calm my racing pulse. “You haven’t mentioned me, have you?”
“Like I said, not a lot of time spent talking.”
“Okay. Good.”
There’s a chance we can get Hazel out of this mess before something bad happens.
We stare at each other. A long, uncertain moment passes.
“Didn’t you say the dog issweet?” I blurt, scrabbling through my memory to fit the pieces together.
“Yeah. He cuddles up with us when we watch a movie. Puts his fuzzy paw on my leg.”
“What the fuck…” I whisper.
Is the dog different now that Freddie’s dead? Did their telepathic connection make him aggressive? Or is the dog only vicious on command, and when he’s off-duty, he’s a snuggle-bug?
My ankle throbs, the memory of his jaws still fresh after all this time.
When Hazel doesn’t immediately reach for her phone to delete Oaklyn from her life, nausea churns in my gut.
“Are you going to keep seeing her?” I ask.
