Page 97 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“Don’t,” she whispers. “Please don’t.”

It’s dated twenty-three days after she moved in and met me—Dr. Mohr me. I hate how much I need to hear whatever she has to say.

“I killed that drunk driver tonight,” recorder Rue says. “Pell’s chemist is a genius. The guy slept through the whole thing.”

Rue’s been using the compounds Quinn sells to Pell. Of course she has. What a fucked-up little web we’re all caught in.

“Fi-Fi,” the recording continues, “We have to talk about my neighbor. I have never met a more hopeless dork. He’s always around, and he’s, like, always smiling.”

Rue shakes her head so vehemently that her hair tangles on the upholstery. “Don’t listen to this, Hugo.”

I press my weight down on her harder and let the track play.

“He helped me set up my new bedroom set. He volunteered. Who does that? And he was so fucking nice when I cried about Greg.” Recorder Rue gives a little laugh. “Then again, I’ve never seen him not in that hideous cardigan. If I disappear, maybe check Dr. Huge-o Bore’s floorboards for my chopped-up body—if I don’t kill him first for the incessant early aughts girl pop. How does somebody so… so… tall have such terrible taste in music?”

“I mean, you do,” real Rue grumbles—and it’s a special kind of torture to listen to her insult me when she’s close enough that her breath brushes my cheek.

I bite back a soft curse as I lose the fight with my body, and a few seconds later, she tenses underneath me.

My dick deflates immediately.

“Rue. No,” I say in a low, broken voice. “You can’t really think I’d⁠—”

Her eyes refuse to hold mine as she exhales a pained breath. “I don’t.”

My horror caused me to loosen my grip, and she takes advantage, bucking until one of her hands is free. She tries to knock the recorder away, but I extend my arm so it’s out of reach between the front seats.

Guess we’re still listening.

The next entry I land on is from the night Morticia met Gomez.

“Felicity, my love, I don’t know where to start,” recorder Rue says with a long sigh. “I told you about the guy I met tonight, but I wasn’t totally honest. This guy is the hottest, scariest, most exciting person I’ve ever met.” She laughs. “I know what you’re going to say. ‘Rue, you didn’t even see his face.’ Well, I’m here to tell you, he could be a hideous troll under the mask, or he could have Dr. Bore’s lickable jawline. I’d be into it either way.”

I can’t help it; I glance down and find Rue’s eyes squeezed shut, her face turned away from me.

“I keep thinking about how he fixed my back porch light without being asked. Hugo, not Gomez.” She sighs before continuing. “God, I wish I was going to see him again.”

There’s a creak of springs on the recording, like she’s shifting on a shitty bed frame. “He’s just so boring. Hugo, obviously. Always asking me about my day and, like, picking up an extra pack of sparkling water for me when he finds it on sale.” Recorder Rue groans. “God, why am I even talking about him and his boner-killer cardigans and his thoughtfulness? I met the man of my dreams tonight, and I’m lying here in the barn in the dark thinking about the dork who forced his way into my life.”

The recording goes silent for so long I’m starting to think the track is over, but her recorded voice picks up again.

“I kept his DNA, Fi. I told him I wouldn’t, but I did. Ten percent in case he finds me and murders me, and ninety percent because I want proof that the best night of my life actually happened.” Recorder Rue laughs self-consciously. “If I do end up dead, the swabs are in the baking soda box in my fridge. No cops, though. Let Pell rule him in or out. And I know you’re going to say I can’t possibly know for sure, but my gut says Gomez won’t hurt me.”

I risk a glance at the Rue I’m trapping in the back seat. Her eyes glint up at me, daring me to acknowledge that I’m hurting her right now.

I’m the one who averts my gaze this time.

“Anyway,” the recording continues, “I couldn’t tell eye or hair color, but he’s tall, well over six feet. Broad shoulders. Amazing hands. No accent.” She snorts. “I’ve basically just described Dr. Bore, haven’t I? Maybe I was right all along. If I vanish someday, forget about Gomez. Start with the virgin next door.”

The track ends, and Rue’s the one to break the silence. “Hugo, I⁠—”

“You only ever saw what I wanted you to see,” I say flatly. I shouldn’t be hurt. Fuck, I shouldn’t still be listening. But even though it’s clear nothing on this device could implicate me—in fact, it only implicates Rue, and I would never, never use that information against her—I press play on the last track. That’s how starved I am for any hint of her unguarded thoughts about me.

It’s from Sunday. The day I met her fucking twin.

“Greg’s dead,” her flat, recorded voice says. “He’s in the tank, and Pell’s handling his car. So yeah. I guess that’s closure.”

Shock has me hitting pause. “You killed your ex-boyfriend?”