However, Barry hums, sounding both unconvinced and unimpressed, which is honestly super smart of him. He’s not my biological father, but I still really wish I got that gene.
“Well, you know what to do should he become too much of a problem,” he says, his tone firm. As far as Barry’s concerned, Dread has been a huge dick and convinced the majority of the school to hate me along with him, but he knows nothing of his cruel pranks. Not because I wanted to protect Dread, but because I couldn’t stand the thought ofneeding saving again. Regardless, Barry has always been the type to trust I’ll come to him if I need to, but otherwise, he lets me experience life for what it is. “Anyway, if he wasn’t wrapped up in this as much as you are, I would lecture you for asking me that. But…” He sighs again. “Yes, he can know.”
I quickly pull my hand away from Dread’s face and put the phone on speaker, holding it between us just as Barry begins speaking again.
“We got a match to the hair wrapped around that note,” he continues.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Isn’t it Jennifer’s? The victim they found scattered across the back seats of people’s cars?”
“No, sweetie.” I frown. “The hair belongs to Georgia Farrell.”
This time, my free hand slaps over my own mouth, and before I can truly process a single word, tears rush to the surface of my eyes. I couldn't stop them from spilling even if I knew how.
For several heart-stopping moments, I’m in utter shock, and then a rush of emotion rolls through me, and I’m gasping.
All those memories come storming back in from when I ran into that shed and saw something that forever changed my brain chemistry. The horror. The confusion. The disgust. The absolute terror.
The cottage outside the windshield fades away, and I see nothing but my father’s evil black eyes and Georgia’s slackened face as he removes her head from the rest of her body.
“Rev? You there? Honey?—”
The words are there, floating somewhere beyond me, but it sounds muffled and distant, like I’m trapped beneath water again.
“She just needs a moment, Barry. I got her.”
My mind instantly reaches for the second voice, even when my body can only heave out sharp breaths. The deep timbre is like salve over a burn, and the screaming quietens just a little.
Then, I feel his fingers thread through mine. He must’ve taken my phone, but I’m too lost to understand anything outside of the warm hand engulfing mine. I squeeze tight and inhale deeply before I shove the images branding the inside of my brain into a drawer and slam it shut, allowing my vision to return.
I drop my other palm from my mouth, and rush out shakily, “Sorry. I, uh, I-I just wasn’t expecting that.”
“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to ease you into that one. If I’m being honest, I’m still trying to process it myself,” headmits.
Truthfully, the least surprising bit is the hair not belonging to Jennifer, despite him sending it with the note about teaching me to lock my car doors on the very day news broke about Jennifer’s remains being found.
It goes beyond Lionel playing mind games simply because he enjoys it. It’s to remind Barry and me of how even when we think we know exactly what he’s doing, we never really do. A clear message of how easy it is for him to lead us like a dog caught on a scent into a cage, only to rip the rug out from our feet and send us plummeting into a hidden trapdoor beneath.
It’s why he makes a huge production with the victim’s remains, to show Barry and Jeff they’re only finding bodies because Lionel wants them to, not because they’re onto him. It’s also why Barry and Jeff believe he’s responsible for a lot more murders than Lionel’s revealed. Not only does he choose when and where they find the victims, butwho.He wants us to feel like we’re rats faithfully following the trail of cheese he carefully lays out for us, too hungry and desperate for clues to step out and find the path leading straight to the refrigerator.
I wipe away the tears leaking down my cheeks with the back of my hand while Dread still holds tight to the other, silently funneling his strength into me.
For now, I avoid his stare, lest I do something stupid, like fall completely in love with him.
“So, what does this mean?” I ask hoarsely.
I carefully extract my hand from Dread’s, though there’s an odd pang when I do, like my body is protesting it. But it would make me a crazy person tomissholding his hand, so I ignore it and swipe the back of my hand beneath my nose as I sniffle. I take the phone back from him, as if bringing it closer will somehow make Barry feel closer, too. “Like, what now?”
“It means an accomplice of the Locksmith was outside your window.”
It’s a strange mix of dizzying relief and utter fear that Dread wasn’t pulling another cruel prank on me. Part of me almost wished it was, because even with a broken heart, at least I’m alive. But being stalked and harassed by a serial killer and his partner? I can’t confidently say I’ll survive it, and it leaves a cold feeling in my chest.
“We’ve already acquired footage from around campus to see ifwe can catch the person on any cameras, but no luck so far, which doesn’t surprise me much,” Barry continues, drawing me back to the conversation. “With the paparazzi crawling around everywhere, they had to take extra care.”
That’s disappointing to hear, but it doesn’t surprise me. Nothing is ever easy where Lionel’s concerned.
“Do you understand what we have now?” Barry asks, sounding almost… excited.
Knitting my brows, I sniffle again, my mind far too filled with noise to comprehend what he means.
