Jillian Dodd - Hate Me

My heart stops beating.

“That’s the restaurant Vincent and I had dinner at. We sat on the deck overlooking the water. Which girl was it?”

“She’s new. Only been working there for about two weeks. She was off the night we were there.”

“So, she was murdered?”

“Yes. Her place of employment caught his attention, so he texted me earlier. Then he sent me this.” He holds up his phone, showing me a photo of a thin, tan waist with a glow-in-the-dark chaos tattoo just below the hip.

“I sent a bunch of custom glow-in-the-dark chaos tattoos to Marla. She liked mine because she thinks if they ever name the club it should be called Utter Chaos. Tell me this is just a coincidence.”

“You know what Garrett says.”

“He doesn’t believe in them.”

“Is it my fault she’s dead?” Cooper is being very careful with his words, and I realize there’s something he hasn’t said. “How did she die?”

“It’s not your fault, Keatyn.”

“How did she die, Cooper?”

He sighs then says, “Cause of death was asphyxiation.”

“She was strangled?”

“Yes.”

I swallow hard. “Was she raped?”

“No.”

“Cooper, what are you not telling me?!”

“After her death, she was stabbed numerous times. This type of stabbing is unusual to see on a woman.”

“Why?”

“Typically when a body is mutilated after death it is for one of two reasons. Usually, it’s out of rage. Like what you would see when a jealous ex commits the crime. In this case, the victim doesn’t have a jealous ex. Her boyfriend is devastated and has a solid alibi.”

“What’s the other reason someone would do it?”

“To send a message to the living. Like when a drug dealer wants to remind people not to cheat him, for example. The choice of weapon was also unusual. It’s a weapon usually used by women, but the depth of the stab wounds suggest a male killer. And the picture I showed you, with the tattoo, was of the only part of the victim that was not stabbed.”

“What was she stabbed with?”

“Scissors.”

My vision blurs.

My face feels hot.

A wave of nausea hits me.

My legs feel weak, causing me to sway.

Cooper grabs my arm and keeps me from falling, setting me down in a chair.

I put my hand across my forehead.

“You look like you’re going to faint. Look at me.”

I look up at him.

“Tell me,” he says.

“Vincent is sending me a message.”

“How so?”

“After he chased me in New York City, a picture of me was delivered to my mom’s hotel room. The picture had been stabbed with scissors. Have you told Garrett about any of this?”

“No, I just found out.”

“Call him. I have to go.”

“Where are you going?”

“I just have to get out of here,” I say. The training room suddenly feels very claustrophobic. “Get some fresh air.”

“Don't leave campus,” he says then tries to give me a hug.

“Don’t, okay? I’m fine. It's fine. Everything will be fine.”

Except it’s not.

It’s not fine.

At all.

I run out of the Field House, the cold air hitting my lungs and forcing me to suck in a big breath.

I wander aimlessly across campus, feeling numb.

Thinking about that poor girl.

About her poor family.

Her roommates.

Her friends.

And, mostly, that she’s dead because of me.

I find myself standing in the chapel.

No one is here, so I walk straight to the front, drop to my knees, and pray.

Pray for forgiveness.

Pray that it was a mistake.

That it had nothing to do with me.

That she didn't suffer.

I pray for her family.

For my guilt.

Then I go sit in the back.

I should be crying.

But I have no tears.

I pull my feet up on the pew, wrap my arms tightly around my legs, and rock back and forth.

My phone buzzes.

I robotically take it out of my coat pocket and look at it.

Hottie God: Heard you went to the nurse’s office with a hamstring cramp. You need me to help you stretch?

My hands shake as I text him back.

Me: i

Me: need

Me: you

I put my phone down and hug my legs.

Not crying.

Not moving.

Not feeling.

There is nothing.

Just.

Emptiness.

Loneliness.

Despair.

Keatyn.

I hear my name softly spoken, the noise breaking into my thoughts, but sounding very far away.

“Keatyn!”

I remain motionless, only moving my eyes toward the noise.

Aiden shakes my shoulder. “Keatyn!”

I don't move.

Instead, I start sobbing.

And sobbing.

Aiden puts his arm around me and rubs my back. “What's wrong? Are you in pain?”

I sob some more.

“I went to the field house first, but Coach Steele said you left. I texted you to find out where you were, but you didn’t reply. I checked everywhere.”

I can't speak.

I just keep crying.

A deep, emotional, guilty cry.

Aiden grabs my chin, roughly turning my head and forcing me to look at him.

“She's dead,” I whisper.

“Who's dead!?”

“Girl . . . Club . . . Stalker . . . Friend.”

“Keatyn, look at me! You need to tell me what happened!”

I shudder.

He presses his lips into my temple and whispers, “It’s okay, baby. Shhh. I'm here. It’s okay.”

His words calm me. I shudder again, but the sobs slow down.

“Tell me what happened,” he says quietly, his lips still against my face.

“Girl . . . Murdered . . . L. A.”

“Did you know her?”

“No . . . She danced at the club . . . The birthday party . . . Almost kidnapped.”

“Is this about your friend? Is she okay? Is she still safe from the stalker?”

“Yes, but. But . . .”

I sob again, unable to say it.

“Shhh,” he whispers again. He gently pushes my hair off my face, his lips never leaving my temple. “But what, baby?”

“After my friend left . . . Accidentally saw mom. Both shopping. New York City. Stalker was following Mom. Chased.”

“Chased your friend?”

“Yes. Cabs. Streets. Fast. Got away. Later. Mom. Package. Photo of friend. Stabbed with scissors.”

“How awful.”

I nod, completely agreeing with him. “The girl who . . . was killed. Like my friend.”

“And?”

“My friend did something.”

“What'd she do?”

“She went back. To the club. Knew stalker would be there. Danced. For him.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Tired of hiding. Trying to push. Get him to make a mistake.”

“I still don't understand why your friend thinks it's her fault a girl was killed. Sadly, murders happen in big cities like L. A. all the time.”

“Girl . . . stabbed with scissors.”

“Oh my god. That’s awful.”

“And . . . and . . . and.” I start crying again. “And . . . it was all my idea.”

“Take my hand,” he says, reaching out to me.

I’m still on autopilot, but my hand moves into his and he squeezes it tightly.

“Listen to me. It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known it was going to happen. Everything will be okay. I’ll help you.”

Somehow his squeezing my hand does make me feel like everything will be okay.

“I’m supposed to be somewhere. Class? Dance?”

“You’re in no shape for it.”

Aiden takes me to his room, where I lie on his bed and snuggle into his pillow, which smells just like his neck.

A few minutes later, Riley is sitting on the edge of the bed. “Cooper asked me where you are. He seemed worried.”

“I was with him—getting my hamstring stretched—when I . . .”