“Please, Freddie,” Thompson says, all boyish and innocent, like he hasn’t spent the last two months being a total dick to me. He, too, looks freshly showered, manspreading on the sofa like the world belongs to him.
“You don’t have to listen to anything they say.” Bell takes a sip of his coffee. I never see him without his headphones or helmet, and with them missing I can see he has two racing stripes buzzed into the sides of his close-shorn fade.
It feels like they’re setting me up, like Carrie at prom, but I’m not afraid of spilling a little blood. I approach them and to my surprise, Thompson makes room for me next to him on the sofa. I sit down, a little jarred by his proximity.
“Here. Be nice, Hearst.” Thompson places his phone in my hand.
His first picture is a mirror selfie at the gym.
“Well here’s your first issue,” I say. “Gym pics signal vanity and a lack of intelligent interests or hobbies.”
Bell whistles, making a finger gun with his hand and a popping sound. Thompson’s brows knit together.
“There has been a murder,” Häkkänen says.
“Tell us more.” LeBlanc moves over to lean over my shoulder like we’re pals or something.
“Here you say ‘No drama.’ That’s another red flag. Between the lines that tells me you don’t want women to express their emotions or hold you accountable for your bad behavior, so you brush their feelings off as drama.” I don’t bother hiding the way my upper lip curls. This profile is abysmal. “And you’re doing yourself no favors referring to women as females. That’s weird. It’s dehumanizing, like you view us as the Fourth Kind, not people.”
“Well, shit.” Thompson looks disheartened. There’s even a tinge of embarrassment to his cheeks. “I should just give up now.”
It’s almost endearing, but a little suffering would serve him well. I clap him on the shoulder. “You’ll get there, buddy.”
“How about you? Let’s see yours,” LeBlanc muses.
“Sure, but you won’t like it.” I pull out my phone. I don’t care if they see it. They think I’m a freak anyway. I open the app, revealing my first photo—me as Leatherface from last year’s Halloween. I was proud of how well my make-up looked like stitches.
“What the fuck?” Thompson balks.
I shrug. “Might as well scare away the boring ones before they try to match.”
“That’s so sick, actually,” LeBlanc laughs. Just then, Falkenberg comes downstairs, looking ridiculous wearing sunglasses inside and the brim of his hat so low it covers his eyebrows. He’s wearing a navy wool coat over a gray hoodie. I swiftly close my phone and pocket it.
He pauses when he sees us all sitting there. “Am I interrupting something?”
LeBlanc and Thompson roll their eyes at his formality.
“Not at all.” I stand, my hands landing on my camera. “Well, it’s been a pleasure pointing out your failures as a man, Thompson, but Falkenberg and I have some things to discuss.”
“Like what? It’s eight in the morning,” Thompson says.
“Documentary stuff.” I glance at Falkenberg, all bundled up. My thoughts flicker back to his half-naked body, his mouth crooked downward—his bare chest all smooth skin and hard lines and thick bands of muscle. I know I’ll be thinking about the way his trousers hugged his hip bones for days. Then there was that gnarly scar, extending from the top of his sternum to his shoulder, following his collar bone. It looked faded, like whatever happened was years ago, but I could still see the divots where his skin was stitched back together. I’m dying to ask him about it, but I do have some sense of tact. Not enough, apparently, since he absolutely caught me bold-faced checking him out. He didn’t seem to mind it though, beyond his mouth flattening into a line, probably out of pity.
“That sounds very important,” Häkkänen drones, sinking back into the sofa. He’s almost feline, like a big cat watching me lazily with those green, perceptive eyes.
“See you all later,” I brush them off, eager to be on our way. Still, I feel them watching our exit like the Hill People inThe Hills Have Eyes.
Falkenberg has a brief exchange with the front desk and they give him an umbrella. I glance outside, frowning, but then he’s walking over to me before I can check my weather app.
“You’re going to be cold.”
“It’s barely October. It’s not that cold. And the forecast doesn’t say rain.”
“Suit yourself.” He strides past me, through the revolving doors and I have no choice but to follow.
“Where to first?”
I can’t see his eyes, but I’m certain he’s giving me a patronizing look as he says, “You tell me what you need for your film roll.”
