AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He quirks a brow. “Something wrong?”
“No, nothing, really.” I rub the nape of my neck sheepishly. “Could we ...” I phrase my question carefully, wary of being too forward. “I don’t know. Hang out or something?”
He chuckles, his voice warm and inviting. “Orsomething?” I’m not sure if he’s intentionally trying to get a rise out of me, but I can’t stop the flush that creeps along my cheeks. “Hanging out sounds fun. We can watch movies, eat popcorn, or …something.”
Okay, now Iknowhe’s fucking with me.
“We can figure out a time, then. Whenever you’re free,” I say. “But I don’t have my new number handy. It’s back up in my apartment, in the folder Nancy gave me.”
“That’s not a problem.” He searches his pockets, pulling out a small notepad and pen. He scribbles something down and hands me the top paper. “Here’s mine. If you need anything, call me.”
I’m curious about the profession that requires him to always carry a pen and paper, but I don’t ask. “Thank you again, Blake,” I say, nodding in appreciation.
He waves and turns to leave. “No problem, Mia.”
I stare after him as he walks away, resisting the silly smile that threatens to tug at my face.
Maybe moving here wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Chapter
Two
HER
Settling into a new town may be challenging. But I always manage. And it doesn’t hurt having an attractive, friendly neighbor living a floor above me, either.
I look at the stacks of boxes in my apartment and let out a sigh as I stretch, my back cracking. Time to tackle this endeavor with some tunes. After setting up my stereo, I select a KMFDM album to play and begin arranging my furniture. I put away my clothes, shoes, and then work on setting up my bed frame.
After spending hours making this place my own, my stomach grumbles. I still have a couple of boxes left to organize: one of my CDs, the other my movies. Instead, I flop on the couch to browse the phone book. After flipping through dozens of pages, I decide on Chinese food.
I call the restaurant, placing an order for General Tso’s chicken, fried rice, and egg rolls. Not the healthiest or most economical choice, but I can’t afford to be picky right now. My refrigerator is barren, and I need leftovers to tide me over long enough for a paycheck. I sink back into the couch, watching a game show as I wait for my takeout to arrive.
I feel my eyelids droop as a knock startles me awake. “Coming!” I say, grabbing my wallet from the coffee table as I hurry to answer the door. I greet the delivery man with a wave and pluck some bills from my wallet. He counts the money and, upon realizing I didn’t leave a tip, he frowns.
I give him an apologetic shrug, to which he shakes his head and gives me my order.I promise to make it up to you, I think, kicking the door shut once he departs. Returning to the couch, I set the bags on the table and dig in. The local news begins as I shovel gobs of rice into my mouth, nearly searing my tongue.
The weekly weather report ends, and the news anchor speaks. I catch only bits and pieces of what he’s saying before the feed switches to a woman standing outside of a house—the same one I drove past earlier today. I nearly choke on a piece of chicken as I grab the remote, turning up the volume.
“Police responded to a distress call on 182 Cherry Street late this morning. Officers were called to the property after learning there may have been a break-in. Police searched the house and found a man on the second floor, who had been murdered in what appeared to be a violent altercation.” I hold my breath, hoping the cause of death isn’t what I think it is. My stomach twists into knots as the reporter continues, “The victim died from multiple stab wounds. There is no confirmation from authorities yet whether this is connected to the series of murders that took place earlier this year in Vermont. We advise?—”
I quickly change the channel and bring a shaky hand to my forehead. Thiscannotbe happening again. Death seems to follow me everywhere I go, sticking to me like an oozing brand and infecting everything I touch. After all, I was born the daughter of the Lakestone Reaper. Death is in my blood. Will I ever break free and live my life unburdened by this legacy?
I’m starting to think that I’m cursed. It’s irrational, I know. But every time someone close to me dies, I can’t help but wonder if I’m to blame.
As I close my eyes, I struggle to silence the barrage of thoughts that swarm through my mind. I take a deep breath and concentrate on my breathing, hoping to slow my racing heart. Some overwrought drama show plays softly in the background, but I can’t seem to focus on it. The muffled voices of the actors are barely audible as my head swirls with the past.
Maybe there’s something about me that attracts death.
I rise from the couch and walk over to the window. The stars in the night sky are beautiful, but they don’t offer any comfort. I wrap my arms around myself, feeling lost and alone. But I can’t give in to the dark thoughts that have plagued me since the moment the cops barged through the door and slapped handcuffs on my father’s wrists. I watched as they dragged him outside and slammed him against the hood of the cruiser before shoving him inside.
As they hauled him away, the truth hit me like a bolt of lightning. My father had been arrested for murder and was responsible for the killing spree that had loomed over Pennsylvania like a storm cloud even long before I was born.
For several months, I only saw my father on TV. He was always cuffed, with his ankle chains rattling as they ushered him from courtrooms to prison. The news coverage of his hearings was extensive, the case high-profile and the most exciting thing to happen in the state in decades. His expression was blank as he passed signs scrawled with horrible words: Monster! Murderer! Rot in hell!
But scattered among the detractors were a few supporters who saw him as an avenging angel of death. They justified his murders by pointing out that his victims were rapists, pedophiles, and other dangerous criminals who posed a threat to society. These signs, at least, brought a smile to his face.
But I can’t let go of the memories I have of him, the ones where he was my father. Not Cameron Cirillo, not the Lakestone Reaper.Dad. I hold them close like a forbidden, sacred treasure. Like the time he helped me build my first treehouse. We spent the whole day hammering and sawing away, and ended up with a treehouse that was the envy of the neighborhood. We spent hours up there, playing board games and telling stories.
