He raised his glass. “Cheers,” he offered. I lifted mine, and we clinked glasses. I took a sip of beer, and got punched in the face with a bitter pine cone. An IPA, my least favorite kind of beer.
“Something wrong?” Russo asked, face clouded with concern.
“I’m… not the biggest fan of IPAs,” I admitted. Even though the truth was I’d rather eat lawn cuttings, since the taste was pretty much the same in my mind.
Russo’s mouth grew slack. “Really?” Russo shook his head with disappointment. “You can’t hate the best beer there is.”
Why was I surprised that Russo would go for the high-octane, ultra-bitter IPA? Of course he’d be about pale ales, the kind that knocked you in the face and hit you like a freight train because they had 8 percent ABV. Russo stared at me, his steel-blue gaze unwavering, and under his watchful eye, I just caved.
“I’ll give it a try, I guess,” I said, taking a very small sip of freshly snipped dandelions and trying not to wrinkle my nose in distaste. “Mmmm,” I lied.
“That’s my girl,” Russo said, flashing me an approving smile that I liked a little too much. “Now, are you going to tell me whyyou haven’t mentioned the skull emojis on your social media accounts?”
So Russo had noticed those, too. Of course he had. He studied me with his sharp blue gaze with the same kind of withering focus that made suspects crumble and confess everything in the interrogation room.
“Right, well. I kind of just noticed those.”
“Kind of?” Russo asked, skeptical.
“Okay, well, that’s not the only thing that’s happened.” I inhaled, and under Russo’s watchful gaze, told him about the Jeep Wagoneer that may or may not have been stalking me. His frown grew deeper. I showed him the blurry photos I’d taken of the car outside Koi.
“It’s probably just my imagination,” I said, hopeful, but when Russo’s gaze slid from mine, my hope sank. I read the news on his face like a bad fortune. “You think it’s the Canceled Killer, too.”
And the worst part was he didn’t seem surprised that the Canceled Killer was popping up in southern Wisconsin.
“And… you’re not shocked because…” I was putting the pieces together as I sat there. “Because you’re not here to check up on me. You followed the Canceled Killer here.”
Russo flashed me a sheepish smile. “You’re too sharp for your own good, kid.”
I was disappointed and terrified at the same time: disappointed that Russo hadn’t traveled through two hours of bumper-to-bumper traffic just to have a beer with me, and terrified that all the messages I’d been receiving might actually be from the killer who took lives without a second thought. Because Russo didn’t spend his time on wild-goose chases. Not unless pointed there by me.
Russo took a swig of his beer, watching me the entire time. “The Canceled Killer sent a message to the precinct,” he confided. “Hesaid he had some unfinished business with theCrime Hive. Specifically, with you.”
I let that sink in.
“And when I couldn’t find you in Chicago…” he continued.
“You came here.” I bit my lip. “You don’t think…” I glanced at Russo’s stoic face. “I’m really his next… victim?” My throat went dry. It’s what I feared most. The terrifying possibility I’d been pushing to the furthest corners of my mind.
Russo didn’t say a word, and that was all the confirmation I needed.
“But… but… I’m not canceled.”
“But aren’t you, though?” Russo pushed back.
It was true. There might not be a #cancelElla hashtag trending, but all the other elements were there. Public outrage. Delight in the hypocrisy of a fallen podcast detective. The sympathetic victim, Jared Gatta, who volunteered at a no-kill animal shelter when he wasn’t being wrongly detained.
Yeah, it was bad.
Worse than bad.
Even as I tried to reason away the hard truth, I couldn’t fight facts. We both knew I was pretty much canceled. I’d accused the wrong man. I’d gotten fired from my job. I was an online pariah. People loved to jeer at me. I was the perfect victim for the Canceled Killer, the kind of poetic justice he ate for breakfast.
I might be able to defend myself from some jerk trying to steal my bag on the subway, but a cold-blooded psychopath who plotted each murder with precision? I didn’t know about that. Suddenly, I imagined the Canceled Killer sneaking into my Airstream and strangling me with the cord of my podcast microphone.
“I should warn my parents. And Olivia…” I bounced up from my seat, adrenaline flowing through my veins. I wanted to punch someone, but there was no one to punch. Tears burned my eyes, because I cried when I got too angry. My vision blurred.
Russo stood, too. “Hey, hey.” His voice was soft, apologetic. “Come here.” He opened up his arms then, and I hesitated for just a beat before I stumbled forward into them. His thick arms wrapped around me, and I pressed my cheek against the lapel of his jacket. His chest was firm and warm, and for a second, I forgot all about the Canceled Killer. Here, in the circle of Russo’s strong arms, with my own wrapped around his muscular lower back, I was safe. I sniffed back my tears, hoping I wasn’t getting his crisp white shirt all wet. He squeezed me a little tighter.
