“You’re under no obligation, so don’t feel you need to. This is something my superiors can confirm for you as well, if that’s a route you’d prefer to take.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
“So, about this nickname. You said he calls you Angel, and no one else knew about it?”
I nod, and when an unnatural beat of silence passes, I realize he can’t see me. “Yeah, yeah, sorry. Yes.”
“So I think it’s fair to say this nickname was between you and your parents as a child, but can you think of any instances it might’ve comeup in conversation with someone after he went to prison?”
I frown, racking my brain for an instance.
“Do you think with a close friend or family member?” he continues after a few beats. “Your best friend, maybe? I’m not entirely sure of who all is currently in your life, but an aunt, uncle, cousin? Or possibly a family friend?”
I’m not sure what triggers it, but several memories come to mind all at once, and I’m so disoriented by it, it takes a second to sift through them.
“Uh, m-maybe Barry,” I mumble.
I think I was seventeen when I confessed to him about Georgia Farrell. I was fucking terrified because I thought he’d get upset with me for withholding valuable information. He didn’t, of course, but in that moment, I was so overwhelmed by finally purging a secret I’d held on to for so long, I vaguely remember reiterating something he’d said to me that night when he threatened my mom.
“I call you Angel because Mommy almost made you one, but this time, Daddy would have to be the one to do it. And there’d be no one left to save you.”
Maybe, all this time, Barry did know my nickname. But I’d told Barry no one else knew that nickname after I received the first note, and he didn’t correct me. Why wouldn’t he correct me if he knew?
“Anyone else?”
Yes.
“Uh, g-give me a second to think.”
Another memory surfaces, this time with Sable. I’m not entirely sure, but I remember a conversation we had when we were preparing for a funeral. A family had chosen several smaller angel statues to place around the room, and the entire time, I was deeply uncomfortable setting them up.
It was nearing the end of my shift, and Sable had stopped by to chat. She noticed immediately something was off.
But I can’t remember for the life of me if I told her the real reason or if I brushed it under the rug. I always thought I just came up with some half-assed excuse, but now, I’m second-guessing myself. Maybe I did tell her the truth about that nickname. I know she’s aware I don’t like angels. Anytime I see them or hear them mentioned when she’s around, she always silently watches me. I’d figured it was just to ensure I’m okay and don’t need to be bailed out if I get too panicky, but maybeit's because she knows Lionel used to call me that.
There’s also Roxi. Lionel could’ve easily shared that detail with her and had her write the note for him. Same with the copycat, if they’re truly working together.
Then, one final memory floats to the forefront, and it’s as if a vacuum opens in the pit of my stomach, pulling the blood down out of my face before sweeping up my heart and taking the muscle with it.
Dread.
In sophomore year, when Matt and I were dating, we went to a Valentine’s Day party together. The frat went with the Cupid theme and covered the entire house in fucking angels. They had stupid drinking games based around it, and I remember everyone getting hit with plastic arrows that had little suction cups at the end. The entire time, I felt like I had come out of my skinsuit, walking around with my nerves completely exposed.
Matt could sense something was off and kept asking what was wrong, and I tried to play it off as nothing. He wasn’t buying it, but I wouldn’t give him any other answer.
He was getting visibly annoyed with me, and we were starting to bicker. Then, Dread seemingly materialized out of nowhere and smashed an arrow right into my forehead, the little cup at the end suctioning to my skin.
Directly to Matt, he said, because his arrow struck me, I was ‘his angel’ for the night. Matt and I both had adverse reactions. My boyfriend—because he was jealous and possessive. Me—because Dread unknowingly called me by the one nickname I couldn’t bear.
Matt was too busy getting in Dread’s face and threatening him to notice Dread peering over his shoulder at me behind him, where I was attempting not to have a meltdown. I just knew in my bones Dread could see I wasn’t freaking out because of the arrow, but something else. I also got the sense he knew I was spiraling long before he approached, and it was why he stuck the arrow on me to begin with.
Regardless, Dread took a shot in the dark and called me Angel again amid Matt’s tirade. When I gave him the reaction he was looking for and validated his suspicion, he made it a point to call me the endearment all goddamn night, and every fucking time, I couldn’t contain how deeply bothered I felt.
It wouldn’t be the first time Dread picked up on a trigger of minepurely through observation and then proceeded to weaponize it against me.
I’m not sure if it’s because he was drunk and forgot about it afterward, or because he simply preferred to get under my skin by calling me darling instead, but he never called me the endearment again.
However, much to my dismay, Dread is very fucking astute. During the interview with Connor, Lionel exclusively called my mom darling—never me. And what tattoo did Dread see as an eight-year-old boy and could describe in perfect fucking detail? The very tattoo that convinced the jury and led to Lionel being found guilty.
