Page 15

I squint at the screen, because sunlight is a universal conspiracy against people who work the late shift. Technically, I did work. Just not at work. Instead, I killed a man, buried him with a stranger, cyberstalked said stranger, discovered he was an internet-famous pastry chef with a completely healthy number of cats, and went to sleep sometime after sunrise. Normal Friday, really.

Gage Cannon took me less than forty minutes to find. Verified accounts are a cyberstalker’s love language. My father, meanwhile, has taken me almost a decade, and I have jack shit. I try not to take that personally.

GAGE: Are you awake?

Sent three hours ago. Holy shit.

GAGE: Have you had any water? Hydration is very important after physical exertion.

GAGE: And trauma.

GAGE: Mostly trauma.

GAGE: I needed a very long shower after last night. Hygiene is also important.

I sit up so fast, the blanket falls. A man I met while disposing of a corpse has been sending me unsolicited wellness reminders since seven in the morning. Did he even sleep? There should probably be a documentary about this.

Except my mouth is smiling. Traitor lips.

I know what neglect feels like. I know what a desperate, pathetic hunger for attention feels like too. This isn’t that. This is a man with six cats, seventeen billion tattoos, and more than a million people watching him laminate butter into dough, and he’s worried about my water intake. Warmth flutters low in my belly.

If he murders me, at least the true-crime documentary will have excellent B-roll.

ME: Define hydration. Does whiskey with Lucky Charms count?

The response arrives so fast I bark out a laugh.

GAGE: Absolutely fucking not. That is neither hydration nor breakfast. That is a cry for help with marshmallows.

Mom is still unconscious on the couch when I pass through the living room, one arm hanging toward the floor, an empty glass beneath it, the television murmuring to nobody. I force the emotion down. She works full-time as a bookkeeper, and she isn’t always like this. But Fridays, when the landlord comes to collect, skew the ratio hard in the wrong direction.

I dig behind a stack of old clothes until I find the tumbler. Iridescent glass covered in tiny mushrooms and stars, wrapped in plastic. I bought it almost a year ago because I loved it, then decided it was too nice to actually use. Story of my fucking life.

I peel off the plastic and send a snapshot.

ME: I shall christen the fancy tumbler I have been inexplicably hoarding in your honor.

GAGE: I’m touched. Deeply. Emotionally.

I roll my eyes but can’t resist.

ME: Also wanting me to know about your shower routine? Um. Perv much?

GAGE: Show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.

“Oh, my God.” Heat shoots straight into my face.

Then an image loads. Gage is shirtless. Of course he is. Wet dark hair. Bare tattooed chest. Enough muscle to personally offend feminism. And clinging desperately to his forearm is a soaking-wet cat which is about four seconds away from calling the pawlice.

GAGE: Strudel would like it formally noted that this bath occurred against his will.

I’ve already seen it on his channel. Twice. Fine, three times. A giggle escapes me, an actual fucking giggle, and I clap a hand over my mouth like someone might report me.

ME: You realize I already found your thirst traps.

GAGE: YOU stalked ME first. Unless you had some other ulterior motive?

Warm currents roll through my blood. Three dots. Gone. Three dots again.