out and shown you the city yet?”
I shift in my seat, not sure what to say. “Oh, we’re not friends like that. He’s just helping me out by letting me crash at his house for a while.”
Her brows pinch together thoughtfully. “That’s what I don’t get, how you fit into the picture. I believe you when you say you’re not friends. Max is limited on those. But you must be someone to him.”
“No. Honestly. I just helped him out once, and he’s returning the favor. That’s all.”
“If you say so.” She sips her soda, dropping the subject, but I can tell she still doesn’t believe me. I don’t tell her how Max and I met since I’m not sure how open he is about it. She might not know what happened.
We finish the rest of our food, and then head back to the car. I’m stuffed, but it feels good to be so full. I feel full in more ways too, full of hope for myself, being one of them. Unknowingly, Stephanie has made me feel like I can make it on my own here, that I can do this.
That night I stay up late, working on a paper for my Critical Writing class with a renewed sense of energy. I want to get as much schoolwork done as I can so I can spend the next day job hunting. It’s almost two o’clock in the morning when I hear a noise coming from down stairs. I stop typing, pushing my laptop aside.
There’s another noise, this one sounding like the front door. I get up and cross the room to the window, peeking out the thick curtains.
The motion lights turn on, and I see Max heading for his car. He gets in, and I’m expecting to hear the engine turn over, but it doesn’t. The car slowly rolls in reverse to the end of the driveway. That’s really…strange.
Once he’s outside the gate, far from any possibility of being heard, he starts the car up and drives away. I shake my head at the curious behavior, wondering why he was trying to be so secretive about leaving the house in the middle of the night. He could’ve been trying to be polite, I suppose. Maybe he didn’t want to wake anyone. Somehow though, I get the feeling that’s not the case.
NINE
Char
I sit in the office of Sunset Press, waiting patiently to be called. I’ve gone all out for today’s interview, wearing my brand new pinstriped navy blazer. I also spent an hour in the bathroom straightening my hair. I may be young, but I’m determined to look and act the part of a professional.
While waiting to be called, I wonder about weird, random things, like whether I chose the right font for my résumé, or if I put on enough concealer to cover the circles beneath my eyes. These circles are Max’s fault. The past few nights I’ve stayed up late, watching him leave the house in the same strange way he did the first time. It’s always around 2:00 a.m., and he always pulls the car out in neutral, waiting until he’s on the road to start the engine.
It’s so freaking disturbing.
I wish it didn’t bother me, but I can’t help wondering where he’s going during those late night disappearances. One theory has crossed my mind: that he’s a serial killer. (I know, ridiculous. Even now, I’m rolling my eyes at myself.) My mind always jumps to the worst conclusions—I blame my parents for this. They made me watch way too many crime shows while growing up. None of my brothers got the same treatment. They saved the overprotective, borderline neurotic warnings and horror stories for their only daughter, clearly aiming to scare the living shit out of me. It worked.
Max being a serial killer is a long shot, but it is a possibility. And if I’m right, that leaves me with three options.
Keep living in the same house with him, and potentially wind up decapitated.
Live on the streets with no food or shelter.
Return home to Mommy and Daddy, where I will forever be living in the shadow of the person I used to be.
I don’t have to think about it for long. I’ll take my chances with option A, thank you
I shift in my seat, not sure what to say. “Oh, we’re not friends like that. He’s just helping me out by letting me crash at his house for a while.”
Her brows pinch together thoughtfully. “That’s what I don’t get, how you fit into the picture. I believe you when you say you’re not friends. Max is limited on those. But you must be someone to him.”
“No. Honestly. I just helped him out once, and he’s returning the favor. That’s all.”
“If you say so.” She sips her soda, dropping the subject, but I can tell she still doesn’t believe me. I don’t tell her how Max and I met since I’m not sure how open he is about it. She might not know what happened.
We finish the rest of our food, and then head back to the car. I’m stuffed, but it feels good to be so full. I feel full in more ways too, full of hope for myself, being one of them. Unknowingly, Stephanie has made me feel like I can make it on my own here, that I can do this.
That night I stay up late, working on a paper for my Critical Writing class with a renewed sense of energy. I want to get as much schoolwork done as I can so I can spend the next day job hunting. It’s almost two o’clock in the morning when I hear a noise coming from down stairs. I stop typing, pushing my laptop aside.
There’s another noise, this one sounding like the front door. I get up and cross the room to the window, peeking out the thick curtains.
The motion lights turn on, and I see Max heading for his car. He gets in, and I’m expecting to hear the engine turn over, but it doesn’t. The car slowly rolls in reverse to the end of the driveway. That’s really…strange.
Once he’s outside the gate, far from any possibility of being heard, he starts the car up and drives away. I shake my head at the curious behavior, wondering why he was trying to be so secretive about leaving the house in the middle of the night. He could’ve been trying to be polite, I suppose. Maybe he didn’t want to wake anyone. Somehow though, I get the feeling that’s not the case.
NINE
Char
I sit in the office of Sunset Press, waiting patiently to be called. I’ve gone all out for today’s interview, wearing my brand new pinstriped navy blazer. I also spent an hour in the bathroom straightening my hair. I may be young, but I’m determined to look and act the part of a professional.
While waiting to be called, I wonder about weird, random things, like whether I chose the right font for my résumé, or if I put on enough concealer to cover the circles beneath my eyes. These circles are Max’s fault. The past few nights I’ve stayed up late, watching him leave the house in the same strange way he did the first time. It’s always around 2:00 a.m., and he always pulls the car out in neutral, waiting until he’s on the road to start the engine.
It’s so freaking disturbing.
I wish it didn’t bother me, but I can’t help wondering where he’s going during those late night disappearances. One theory has crossed my mind: that he’s a serial killer. (I know, ridiculous. Even now, I’m rolling my eyes at myself.) My mind always jumps to the worst conclusions—I blame my parents for this. They made me watch way too many crime shows while growing up. None of my brothers got the same treatment. They saved the overprotective, borderline neurotic warnings and horror stories for their only daughter, clearly aiming to scare the living shit out of me. It worked.
Max being a serial killer is a long shot, but it is a possibility. And if I’m right, that leaves me with three options.
Keep living in the same house with him, and potentially wind up decapitated.
Live on the streets with no food or shelter.
Return home to Mommy and Daddy, where I will forever be living in the shadow of the person I used to be.
I don’t have to think about it for long. I’ll take my chances with option A, thank you
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