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Feel me licking it right now. I know you can feel me.
Licking it? An image of Hunter in the back seat of his car flashes in my head. I swallow, scanning the rest of the note.
I want you so bad, they write again.
It’s the same writing. Same blue ink. The messages aren’t signed, but it looks like the same person. D.
You’re not going to kill me?someone replies underneath in black cursive.
Not tonight, D replies.
My heart starts beating faster. It has to be Winslet MacCreary and Deacon Doran. They were in school, and he was writing these to her. Did she fear him? Was this a game for them?
I open another.
You know, I jerk off when he comes at you at night? He waits until I’m in bed before he descends from the attic like some nightcrawler to feed on you. As if I won’t hear your headboard pounding against the other side of my wall at one o’clock in the morning.
I glance at the wall behind my headboard, imagining Deacon in the room on the other side. Chills climb my spine, all the way up to my neck. Who was she in here with when he was over there?
I love listening and stroking it,” he writes.He had you on your hands and knees last night. I can tell because everything makes noise. The springs in the bed, the headboard, and you. Does he come inside you? Tonight, I’m going to come in right after he’s done and fuck you too. -D
Mr. Bastien said Conor was dead. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe it was him in here with her? Maybe it was just like what Hawke thought. That Conor made people think he jumped off the bridge. Maybe a body was never found and the story Bastien told me is just a narrative that became the truth to people.
I bet if I bend you over right now and spread your ass apart, he’ll drip out.
Leave me alone!Winslet writes in her dark cursive.
You love it when I don’t, he replies.
I breathe harder, wincing a little. She’s not playing along with it anymore. She’s angry. Or scared. Hurriedly, I pick up another and open it.
I’m sorry. I just got carried away last night. I thought you were liking it. You were. I just lost my head. I’ll be gentler next time. I promise you’ll like it.
It’s Deacon’s writing.
When I open the last one, it’s a drawing in blue pen that takes up half the sheet of lined school paper. It’s the top half of a woman, breasts bare, a hundred tiny circles carved on top of each other onto the paper with his blue pen for her nipples, a rope around her neck. Head thrown back, spine arched, mouth open, and if not for the rope, she might look…euphoric.
With the rope, though, it looks like torture.
You like it, the caption reads.
They don’t talk about the other one who comes down from the attic again. Did he write her notes, too? I look at the desk again, having opened all that were left.
I don’t realize my fists are clenched around the last note until my hands ache. I relax, setting it on the desk with the others.
Both brothers whirling around her, one quiet and one very threatening. How did these get here? The chair above rocks faster, and everything in my gut tightens like a coil. I grab my phone and bolt from the room.
As soon as I land in the foyer, though, I see Calvin and Coral rolling out sleeping bags, Coral on the couch and Calvin on the floor.
I halt, glancing to the door, into the kitchen, and then up the stairs.
I don’t see anyone else.
“What…what are you guys doing?” I ask, a little breathless.
They each have a bag, and Calvin plops down in the chair with a beer in one hand and four more hanging from a six-pack ring in the other.
“Relax,” he says, yawning. “We’re going to take turns every night until we return hostages. Farrow doesn’t want you to be alone.”
