Oscar groaned. “You’re starting to sound like Mom.”
“I amnotlike Mom!” I cried, offended. Mom sees oneDatelineabout a serial killer drifter who uses freight trains and then vows never to cross railroad tracks for a year.
“You sure about that?” Oscar said.
I wasn’t. Could I be like Mom? Was I prone to conspiracy theories and falling down dark rabbit holes and then completely overconfident that I was 100 percent right? Huh. Was I actuallylikeMom?
“Remember the time after she saw that crime documentary about the disguised serial killer and she made every guest at Koi show her they weren’t wearing a wig?”
I laughed a little. “And she made them open their trunks. Just in case there were bodies in there.”
It reminded me of all the summers Oscar and I worked at Koi together, trying to keep Mom, Dad, and the guests all happy at once. We never succeeded. That’s probably why Oscar eventually ditched us and worked his last two college summers at Camp Lake Sanguis with Jude.
“Can we get back to you promising to take it easy, keep calm, and let me see what I can find out?”
I grunted.
“That sounds like you plan to do something rash instead.” Oscar clearly didn’t approve.
“Who me? Rash?” I blinked innocently, even though Oscar couldn’t see me.
“Remember swim lessons?”
“Not when you don’t let me forget,” I groaned. While everyone else was dog-paddling in the shallow end of the pool on kickboards, I decided at age three it would be a fantastic idea to head to the springboard at the deep end and belly flop into ten feet of water. “Fortune favors the brave.”
“There’s a fine line between brave and foolish,” Oscar chided. “Will you promise me that you’ll let me handle it?”
“Okay. Fine. I’ll let you handle it.”
“No, you won’t,” Oscar said, and sighed, sounding weary. “But I love you anyway.”
As much as I hated to admit it, Oscar’s skilled use of reverse psychology had its intended effect. Instead of fixating on the Canceled Killer, I decided it might be a good idea to visit the full-sized punching bag at Irene Levinson’s Krav Maga studio off MainStreet. I wore leggings and a sports bra, my dark hair high up in a messy bun.
Thwack.That kick was for the Jeep Wagoneer, which I knew was up to no good.
Smack.That punch was for all the trolls online. Hate you right back.Smack. Smack.
Slap.This jab for Jared Gatta, who’d been the perfect Canceled Killer suspect until he wasn’t. A loner who trolled online trolls, lived equidistant from all the murder victims, and was the perfect suspect until Jared’s attorney pointed out he was out of town visiting his parents in New York during two of the murders.
Slap. Slap.Those last two were for me. Because I should’ve crossed all myt’s before I launched into the theory of Jared being the killer. I should’ve pushed harder to get him to respond even when he was ignoring all my calls and DMs.
Sweat trickled down the side of my neck.
Thud. Thud. Thud.This knee and this knee, oh, and this knee, too, was special, just for the Canceled Killer. Right in the babymaker.Thud. Thud. Thu—
“Whoa, Thin Ice, ease up, or you might hurt that bag’s feelings,” Irene said when the heavy black-and-red bag hanging from a chain went lumbering toward her wall of mirrors. Irene was the one person I didn’t mind calling me Thin Ice, because when she said it, it sounded affectionate. With her curly dark hair streaked with silver and her distinctive red reading glasses, she looked like she ought to be a fifty-something librarian and not a self-defense instructor. But she’d make you eat ground if you were impolite. She also let me essentially live in her self-defense dojo in high school. Other girls in my class fretted about what dress to buy for homecoming, while I tried to learn what headlock was best when someone was trying to steal your purse.
“Want to spar with Trevon?” She nodded back toward the six-four, bald, ex-Marine who also happened to have a black belt.
He raised his eyebrows in alarm and slowly shook his head at me, mouthing “Please, no” behind her back while he put his palms together in prayer.
“I don’t think Trevon wants to,” I said, and Irene whipped around. “The last time we sparred, he tore his ACL.” Also, not to brag, but I was eighteen.
“Come on. You don’t want to spar? Seriously?”
“No, of course I do,” he said, in his gruffest voice. Then when she turned back around he shook his head slowly and pressed his palms together again in a silent plea.
“He really doesn’t,” I said.
