“The football game?” she prompts. “You know, the sport your new boyfriend plays?”
“He isnotmy boyfriend,” I protest.
That makes her laugh. “Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Ship.” This is her new nickname for me.
“He’s not. We’ve been on, like, three dates.”
“Five. And spent all of them making out in his truck.”
I wish I’d never told her that. I blush even harder, trying to focus on adjusting my camera settings instead of the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. “We’re just hanging out.”
“Hanging out. Right.”
We reach our destination, putting an end to her teasing. She parks in a small gravel lot in front of a crumbling, dilapidatedstructure that I think used to be the rail station. While I grab my camera bag from the back seat, Mar grabs some of her own supplies from the trunk of her car. A few minutes later, she sets up her tripod near the rusty old tracks. Her camera clicks as she focuses on the shot.
“I’m telling you, Ship, these tracks have some of the best angles for light. You see the way it bounces off the metal? So cool.” She steps back, adjusting the lens.
I pop off my lens cap so I can focus my own camera. I’m excited to just be here and take some pictures. It’s been a rough few weeks.
I squat down to snap a test shot as Mar keeps talking behind me.
“I came out here one time to shoot and there was blood all over the tracks.”
“Oh my God. Did someone get hit by the train?”
“No. These tracks aren’t operational. No trains come through. I think it was some kind of animal-on-animal attack. I saw bloodstained fur nearby, maybe from a coyote or a fox. The blood wasn’t fully dry, so it kept catching the light in the eeriest ways. I must’ve taken about a hundred shots.” She turns to me with a self-deprecating look. “You think that makes me a psycho or something?”
“Why? Because you took pictures of blood?” I shrug. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“My parents think it’s weird. I did a whole blood series once and when I showed it to them, instead of praising me, my mom made me an appointment with a shrink.”
I can’t help but snicker. “Wow. That feels a bit extreme.”
“They’re probably worried I’ll be the next Starling Slayer,” Mar says, rolling her eyes. “Apparently all artsy people are destined to serial-kill.”
I paste on a blank expression, because I’m supposed to be new to town. “What do you mean?”
“Has Jasmine seriously not spilled all the tea about her uncle?” she says, seeing my face. “I assumed the Shipleys talk about Thorn all the time at home.”
“Not really. They barely bring him up.”
Mar adjusts her camera again, still clicking away. “Well, the dude was an artist.”
“Was he any good?” I keep my tone neutral, feigning interest without giving too much away.
“Apparently so. He was well-known around town as being super talented. He sold custom sketches, portraits. Built these little wooden knickknacks or whatever.”
Birdhouses. Not knickknacks.
“People actually liked him. And they loved his work. He used that to his advantage.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, because she expects me to ask.
“That’s how he lured them, the women. At least that’s what he said in his confession. I think there’s a transcript of it online somewhere. You should read it. It’s really fucking fascinating. Like, a scary glimpse into the mind of a psycho.”
I feel my throat tighten.
“He stalked the women he was obsessed with. He knew their routines, where they liked to go, who they were friendswith—everything. He’d pretend to randomly bump into them in the park or on a hiking trail. Real casual, you know? Always carrying his sketchbook.”
