The tentacled monster overpowered her on the floor; slapping her face with its free appendages, thwacking at her shins, finding every possible way to fight dirty. Her hand broke free and she threw a fist at its head, but her arm swung in slow motion. With frightening speed, the monster’s tentacles wrapped around her torso and the monster bit down on her head.
Kaley woke in an unfamiliar bedroom, her head pulsing with sharp pain. She squinted and touched her forehead. The stack of labeled cardboard boxes against the wall reminded her. She’d just moved here. And she had another hangover.
Maybe a hot shower would dull the sting. The steamy water scalded her and she jumped back. Then the stream settled into a warm soak that showered her in a hundred soothing kisses.
She soaped her bruised arms and legs and the many cuts of chronic klutzhood. She’d collected new injuries from unpacking the moving truck; bumping and scraping against unfamiliar doorways, tripping up miscalculated stairs, and stubbing a toe, chasing the bastards who ran off with a few of her boxes.
Kaley’s last boyfriend (though hopefully not her last) worried that all her easy bruising would make people think he beat her. It was a big reason he left or at least that’s what she told herself. It was easier to think that than to face the truth of what really went wrong.
She toweled off and slipped into her go-to housedress, even though she’d worn it last night. It felt a little snug. Too much takeout lately. She’d really need to get back into jogging. Even if it meant getting lost in this new city.
If she quit drinking so much wine, that’d help, too. A few wine stains, the sizes of quarters and dimes, dotted the front of her dress. She was too late to apply seltzer water. Or was it baking soda?
Might be easier just to buy another dress.
Sunlight spilled through the kitchen blinds, pooling and collecting in a soft, ribbed rhombus on the vinyl laminate.
She poured a cup of coffee. The first hot sip was a rich invitation against the tip of her tongue. She rested the heated mug against her aching temple. God yes. Coffee and Ibuprofen. But to have Ibuprofen, she needed food.
Kaley cracked eggs into a frying pan, then closed her eyes. Her headache softened. She swayed with the rhythmic sizzle, before finding her phone and streaming local public radio.
“—are ordering residents of the La Peurta district to shelter in place. The suspect is considered armed and dangerous.”
She turned up the volume.
“Investigators say the suspect uses force and/or coercion to enter homes. Due to a recurring pattern, authorities believe the suspect may be responsible for eight known murders. Police urge residents not to answer their doors until the warning is lifted.”
“Great,” Kaley said. “So much for jogging.”
A loud hissing yanked her attention back to the stove. The eggs writhed and bubbled in the pan.
“—search operation is underway. Until further notice, all deliveries and door-to-door solicitations are suspended.”
She snatched the handle, and moved the pan to a cold burner. She grabbed the spatula and began scraping the pan before the burnt grease and egg hardened.
“—all homeowners are encouraged to call the police for any such disturbances.”
Yeah right, she thought. What’s that old chestnut? If you have a problem, call the police. Now you have two problems.
She swiped and scraped beneath the scorched, deep-brown egg whites.
“Today we have Dr. Eric Wilkins, psychologist and author of Nesting: Serial Killers Acting Out Domesticity. Dr. Wilkins’s account famously details the 2022 manhunt for The Starling. Doctor, what should—?”
Her hip bumped her coffee cup on the counter, knocking it over into the sink, splashing hot liquid up at her. “Goddamnit!” The pinprick burns would cool, but the pain of wasting coffee stung more.
“—listeners in La Peurta should remember that the Starling’s modus operandi was to say or do anything to gain entry. Anything. Once inside, he’d slay them and engage in a form of home usurpation.”
Kaley glanced at the front door. Locked.
She plated her scorched and rubbery eggs; they weren’t ideal but she wasn’t going to start over. Win some, lose some. She sat at the dining table, defeated.
“When The Starling killed Richard Baker, he lived as Mr. Baker had. He e-mailed Baker’s employer requesting sick leave. He paid Baker’s bills, ordered his groceries delivered, and tended to Baker’s obligations.”
Kaley laughed through a mouthful of hot egg. If some fucking psycho out there wanted to live her life, he was entitled to it.
“Based on similar methods, this current suspect may be a copycat, or at least exhibit a similar pathology.”
Kaley’s gaze wandered as she ate. Stacks of cardboard boxes lined her kitchen and living room. She moved here after being fired for “gross insubordination.” She may have overreacted to her boss’s announcement that health benefits were being “scaled back.” She told him to eat a bag of her shit.
These boxes contained the belongings that hadn’t been stolen from the moving truck. The apartment still didn’t feel like home, even after two months.
“Fuck jogging,” she said. “I have to unbox anyway.” If not for the self-talk, she’d have nobody to talk to. She had no friends here yet. At least she didn’t have to entertain—
There was a knock at the door. She jolted in her seat.
Kaley muted her phone and stopped chewing. Maybe a package delivery guy was trying to get one in quick. Last night, during her third bottle of wine, she’d ordered a case of kitchen sponges for overnight delivery.
A fist hammered at the door.
She stood. She held her breath. Her heart raced.
This couldn’t be a killer. What were the odds?
Kaley tiptoed to the kitchen drawer. A big fuck-off knife. When she closed the drawer, it stuttered in the jamb, shaking all the silverware with a thunder of loud clangs. She might as well have upended the drawer onto the floor.
“I hear you in there,” a man called.
She froze. Maybe it wasn’t a killer. Just someone at the wrong door. This wasn’t some monster who wanted her to crack open the door, so he could kick it in and—
“I need my phone!” he said. “Let me look for it.”
Maybe he’d go away on his own when no one responded. She tiptoed out of the kitchen, transferring weight slowly from one foot to another. She reached the bedroom doorway when her foot settled on a loud, creaky floorboard. Fuck.
“C’mon!” the man called, pounding on the door. “Let me in!”
She darted into the bedroom, closed the door, and locked it. Her heart thudded against her chest. Should she get dressed and run? Did she have time? Would she get in trouble for being out there during a manhunt?
The knocking on the front door stopped.
Then, it became a series of booms, like he was ramming his shoulder against it. Was this guy really trying to break down her door?
“Leave me alone!” Kaley yelled. “I’ll call the cops!”
The pounding stopped.
Would she really call the cops? It was probably some asshole, not the killer on the news. This was a big city. There were plenty of different characters here, people with different ideas of boundaries and behavior. It happened all the time.
If she called the cops during a manhunt and it was just one of those freaks, they’d be pissed off at her. Call her hysterical. Maybe even haul her in for obstruction. Criminal Mischief. Whatever.
Maybe he left.
A loud crash erupted. Fragments pelted the floor in the other room.
“You made me do this!” he yelled. “Where’s my damn phone?”
She scrambled to the bedroom window. Painted shut. She pulled and tugged, trying to pry it open. Goddamn fix-and-flip landlords. She needed something sharp. She’d left the knife in the kitchen.
Why was she so fucking stupid? She was going to die.
She called 911.
“Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line.”
Are you fucking kidding me? she mouthed. She hung up and redialed. Fucking piece of shit healthcare system with its bullshit—
The bedroom door’s knob rattled.
She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Are you in there?” the man said. “Open the door.”
She huddled low against the dresser. What did she have in here? A baseball bat? No, that was in a box in the living room.
A large screwdriver leftover from assembling bookshelves. Maybe she could use it like an icepick.
“You’re making me late for work!” the man yelled. “What the fuck are you doing, Alice?”
Who the fuck was Alice? Did this guy have the wrong apartment? Or was this the killer guessing at a name? Oh God. Either way, this guy was going to kill her. Just like so many other murdered women she heard about on the news and never thought twice about. Just another forgotten, nameless victim who got a “Damn, that’s awful.”
“Oh my God,” she moaned, pulling at her hair with her free hand.
Kaley always told herself she didn’t care if she died. She knew that once it happened, nothing would be her problem anymore. Now, the distant idea of passing away was a terrifying immediacy. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t want to die. But this man was about to force her to anyway.
“What the fuck are you doing, Alice? Don’t make me smack you again. Let me in!”
The bedroom door quaked.
She swallowed. “There’s no Alice here! Go away!”
“This isn’t funny! Let me in! If you don’t give me my phone, I swear to God, I’ll kill you!”
“I don’t have your fucking phone!” she shrieked, tears blurring her vision.
Her pulse pounded in her throat.
A sharp blow thundered against the door. Her grip tightened around the screwdriver.
She backed away from the door, edging to the adjoining bathroom. She turned and tripped over something sticking out from under the bed. Sharp pain in her lip and a small taste of copper in her mouth. She turned to see what tripped her. A leg.
The door burst open.
The heavyset man’s burly shoulders heaved, his clenched fists rising and falling with him. His shaved head was red from exertion. His wild eyes flashed at her and then to the leg—the body—she’d tripped over.
“Who the fuck are—?” His eyes settled on the body. “Oh my God!”
She rose to her feet, her gaze creeping from the strangled body under the bed to the cracked mirror on the wall. Kaley’s appearance startled her: damp dark hair like a nest of tangled snakes, aqualine eyes seeing into and through herself, an upper lip bleeding over her lower lip and teeth. The face she originally expected to see belonged to the dead woman on the floor.
Her tongue slid across her bloodied teeth, the cause of her headache coming back to her.
She remembered.
She turned to the man and he wilted, backing away with his hands up.
Kaley’s grip, ready and eager, tightened on the screwdriver. Her pulse quickened with altered purpose.
With a grin, Kaley leaped at her prey.
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