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And Dave’s standing in front of us.
Police officer Dave.
“Candy hearts,” he says warmly, and my heart drops clean through my stomach. I can almost picture it splattering on the floor, bright, bloody and still beating.
How does he remember my face? He probably talks to a hundred people a day, but he still remembers bagging my groceries the weekend before Valentine's Day? Was I on bodycam? Did he take notes?
Is he superhuman?
My throat doesn’t want to work. I can’t form words, no matter how hard I try.
Beckett hangs up the phone. He untangles his arm and loops it around my shoulder, pulling me closer to his chest.
“Can we help you, officer?” he asks.
“I was checking in because the manager called for security.” Dave laughs, the radio clipped on his hip bouncing. “Don’t tell me frat boys haven’t changed since back in my day. I think we were banned from every store in a twenty-mile radius.”
“It’s better than being cooped up inside playing video games and rotting my brain,” Beckett says. “We didn’t mean to disturb the peace. We’re leaving right now. My car is parked in G—”
“I believe you,” Dave interrupts. “You look like good kids; I’m not here to escort you out.” He leans down to catch my eye, and my stomach rolls over. “Are you feeling alright, son?”
I don’t trust myself to open my mouth without projectile vomiting, so I just nod.
He nods back. “Good. I’m glad to see you took my advice from back in February, and are staying around your friends. It’s much safer in groups.”
“Yeah, it’s horrible.” Beckett lowers his voice. “There’s a bunch of police presence at our college, too. Everyone’s nervous.”
“You should be,” Dave says. “We don’t know when these killers are going to start targeting y’all. Watch each other’s backs whenever you can.” He lifts a hand in a wave as he walks around us, and Beckett turns his body a little to wave bye.
Beckett doesn’t let go of me the entire walk back to his car. He opens the passenger’s side and nudges me in, scooting my legs over, before shutting the door.
I wait until he's inside.
“We have to kill him.” My voice is shaking badly, but I push through. “We—we have to, Beckett. He knows. I know he fucking knows.”
When I look over, he's frozen mid-motion. His hands are on his seatbelt, half pulled over his chest, and his eyes are so wide they're more white than green.
“What?” he finally croaks.
“None of the other cops remember me. But he does.”
“Maybe he's good with faces.”
I groan. “What if he’s not? What if he has my license plate?”
“I’m almost positive he’s completely in the dark, Ira,” Beckett says quietly. “He—”
Almost isn’t good enough!
I slam my palms on my thighs, and he lets go of the seatbelt; it snakes back over his shoulder with a soft whisk.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please. I can't—I’m going to have a panic attack the next time I see him.”
He rubs his thumb over my thigh gently, quiet for six thousand years. Searching my face.
Then he sighs so hard his entire body deflates, but he’s still quiet.
What am I supposed to do if he doesn’t respond? Go do it myself? I’m not good at that kind of meticulous shit—I don’t even know where to begin. What if I end up dead? What if I end up in jail for the rest of my life?
