Now, it feels like I want him instead of a brand-new life across the country. It’s probably because being with him is exciting, and even with the murders and drugging and zip ties and breaking in, he feels safe. I feel safe.
But you know where I’ll also feel safe? In my own apartment, far, far, away from known criminals.
In the moment, it felt like Wes and Noah were doing good when they took out that guy in Boston. But now, away from them, it feels far more in the gray than black and white. It’s vigilante justice. Murder. Definitely against the law and associated with very long jail sentences. I want him, but I don’t want someone who’s a criminal like my family.
See? I can logic my way out of this. I nod my head, my eyes laser focused on the submit button.
Before I can continue to overthink it, I click. A little cry escapes my throat, but I push it down and pick up my phone.
Does Wes know where I am? Is he still tracking me? I can’t believe he hasn’t texted or gotten in touch. Except I can. The man might have zero boundaries, but I told him I don’twant him, and he respects the things I say. But I never told him not to track me, and the knowledge that he might still be doing so is a fucked-up kind of comfort.
I send a text to Rebecca, my boss at the library, asking her to chat. She responds right away. Instead of hiding in my room, I pull on a hoodie and leave the apartment.
It’s beautiful outside. The sun is high in the sky and it’s warm enough to not wear a jacket. The official start of spring is only a few days away. Spring represents new beginnings, and it’s fitting that my life will restart just as the season turns.
Then a cool breeze rushes over me, and I shiver. How dare winter try to hang on, pulling me back just as spring is right there to pull me forward.
“Hey, Rebecca,” I say when the librarian answers my call. “I’m giving my notice.”
Rebecca freaks out, telling me how much she loves me, will miss me, wants what’s best for me, etc.
This feels all wrong.
Chapter 35
Doom Scrolling
WES
I’m doom scrolling Ruth Roy’s social media.
“Fuuuuuck me.” Sir Fluffy weaves between my legs, dragging his tail under my knee. “That has to be fake.” Her feed is image after image of perfect pies against cozy backgrounds. There’s one of her baking in her pristine kitchen. She has an apron on that saysTGIF: this grandma is fabulousand a spot of flour on the tip of her nose. Totally posed and annoying as shit.
I know better than to look at her socials. But she tagged me in a post. Tagged. Me. Noah thinks I’m nuts for even having a social media presence given our dark activities, but it’s purely baking related.
And what did Ruth fucking Roy tag me in? Well. She stopped in at Killer Beans—myfucking local coffee shop—and tasted a slice of pie. She mutilated it, then took a picture and called it ugly, dry, and tasteless. Said it was like swallowing a forkful of sawdust and that she hastomorrow’s apple pie competition in the bag for the fifth year in a row.
I’m furious, but it’s a welcome emotionfrom the despair that’s blanketed me since I left Callie in New York City yesterday. After she walked away from me, I met up with Noah, checked out the Joe Killer apartment location and car, then we headed back north.
My timer goes off, giving me a good excuse to walk away from my phone. I adjust my apron and slip on an oven mitt so I can pull the apple pie out. The only difference between this pie and the other two that are already cooling on the counter is the top crust. A big part of the Portland Springfest pie competition is appearance, including what the crust and topping look like before and after slicing. I step back to assess the pies.
The first one is a classic loose, laced topping, baked just until it started to brown. There’s a hint of the tender spiced apples underneath. I nod. Can’t go wrong with that one. Classic, if not a little boring.
The second one has a delicious crumbly streusel topping, chaotic perfection made of flour, sugar, butter, and spices. This is Ruth Roy’s specialty, and while it’s tempting to try to beat her at her own game, I think I want to do something different.
The third, which I just pulled out, is my attempt at art on the top crust. I tilt my head and try to see it from the judges’ point of view.
It is… not good.
I tried again to carve a loon into the dough, which, while better than the first few times, looks only slightly better than what a five-year-old child might create. Nothing against five-year-olds, of course.
I love this idea, but it needs some work. I bet I could get it on the next try.
The competition is tomorrow afternoon, so tonight I’ll prep the dough and the filling, and early in themorning I’ll assemble the pie and bake it so it’s as fresh as possible. I have just a few hours to make final decisions and adjustments.
I tap out a quick text to Noah.
Me
