Prologue
I never set out to date a serial killer. But, let’s face it, it’s really just a matter of time before you stumble upon a murderous psychopath. No hate, but the dating pool needs work.
Pardon my die-single energy. I’m just questioning my life choices, as one does when zip-tied, wrists and ankles bound, my left cheek pressed into the soft, neutral gray carpet in a nicely finished basement, complete with foosball table, built-in bar with granite countertops, and tasteful dark leather love seat.
My fingers feel a little numb, I’ve got a raging headache from the roofie used to knock me out, and I’m facing what can only be described as my fragile mortality. I’m staring at a shelf of board games inches from my face. If you asked me what I’d see before I died, I never would’ve guessed the worn corners of Twister and Operation.
The air smells faintly of vanilla scones, thanks to the oversized white candle in the tasteful brass holder in the shape of a jack-o’-lantern, a festive fall addition to the middle of the expensive square mahogany coffee table. I wonder if the candle is for ambiance or if it’s just to cover up the odor of the bodies my captor has hidden in the crawl space.
I should be scared. I should be terrified. Honestly, though? I’m just disappointed in myself.
I let down my guard for one second, andbam!How did I miss this? Granted, I’ve been distracted. That’s what dating three men will do to you. A love square, if you will.
Can you blame me for not having my head fully in the game? I’d been flattered by the attention. I can imagine the clickbait headline now:
Woman Dies in Basement Because She Thought She Had Swagger, but She Was Just Another Warm Body for a Psychopath
I sigh and wriggle against my constraints. The plastic bites into my wrists in front of me. Zip ties? Really? I expected something more creative from the Canceled Killer. The plastic cuts into the delicate skin, definitely leaving a mark. I dig my cheek farther into the carpet for leverage, basically begging for a rug burn. On my face.
Honestly, though, the worst part, and I hate to admit this, isn’t waiting for my imminent demise. It’s the fact the man had said he was falling in love with me.
I’m thinking that was a lie.
And now I’m probably going to die. Betrayed and alone without even a pint of Gordon’s Frozen Custard to drown my sorrows in.
It all began when I moved back home to Lake Sanguis, Wisconsin, this quaint resort town where the wealthiest tourists from Chicago bought summer homes. That’s when I thought I’d hit my lowest point, when I thought things couldn’t get worse.
Boy, was I wrong.
One
The Canceled Killer murders began in Chicago last summer after Heather Johnston called the police on a kindergartener running a lemonade stand next door and made the kindergartener cry when she kicked over the table, spilling the lemonade.
Johnston was found two weeks later at her home drowned in a bathtub filled with lemonade.
—Crime Hivepodcast
I used to be the person who always guessed the murderer’s identity well before the end of the movie.
The husband did it.
The butler.
It was the neighbor. Also, she’s actually a ghost.
I loved mysteries. I devoured them. I had an unhealthy obsession with trying to figure out who the bad guys were. Shouldn’t we all pay closer attention just in case we’re living next door to a serial killer? I mean, how often have you heard about mass murderers burying bodies in the backyard garden and when they interview the neighbors onDateline, they all seem shocked and say, “He was so quiet and kept to himself”?
Yeah, well, not on my watch.
Plus, I knew from personal experience that you can’t just sit back and wait around for karma to punish the bad guys. Sometimes,karma takes a vacation. Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we don’t actually live in a neat and tidy episode of your favorite crime drama. Bad guys get away with it all the time.
Like the Canceled Killer.
He was still running loose somewhere, being quiet and no doubt keeping to himself, while steadily adding to his body count every month.
And because I pointed the finger at the wrong guy, I was back home, sitting on an unmade bed at four in the afternoon in the Airstream trailer in the backyard of my parents’ inn. The Airstream, as well as most of the rooms in the main house, was usually rented to tourists during the summer high season, but my parents were graciously letting me stay in it while I tried—and failed—to avoid scrolling through social media.
Oh, look! A new meme. A photo of me, headphones on, talking into my oversized podcaster microphone, my eyes half-closed so I looked as foolish as possible. Beneath me in big blocky letters:ALL AMATEUR. NO DETECTIVE.
