Page 48

I’ve never spent much time in Rose Observatory, up at the north end of campus, set a little way into the woods. But apparently it’s got an old storage facility underneath it that everyone seems to have forgotten about.

Except Bella.

I brush aside the hanging vines covering the forgotten garage door entrance. She’s at least been smart enough to throw a push-button electronic combination lock on the door. But it doesn’t have a limit on how many tries you get, and I brought a blacklight with me to show me which numbers she’s touched.

On my tenth attempt, I’m in.

The space has Bella written all over it, and yet shows me a side of her I never would have guessed. For instance, there’s a turntable sitting on a table, along with a collection of the last records I’d ever expect Little Miss Homicide to be into. Hank Williams. Dolly Parton. Johnny Cash. The Supremes. A ton of James Brown and, maybe weirdest of all, Britney Spears’ “…Baby One More Time”.

Not gonna lie, I would have guessed a fuck-you-dad collection of metal, commercial punk, and…well, I don’t know, but loud, obnoxious, and shitty.

There’s also a couch with a messy pile of pillows and blankets, suggesting she sleeps here sometimes, a shelf of books, the pinup-girl leg lamp from A Christmas Story, a mini-fridge, and an ethernet cable snaking out of the ceiling, which she probably uses to hijack the Observatory’s internet.

But the main attraction, of course, as in any kill-room, is the performance space itself.

In mine, it’s a stainless-steel operating table with matching bucket, along with my tray of Japanese-made surgical tools and piping.

Bella’s setup is a bit less…refined.

The centerpiece of her kill room is a giant rusty meat hook suspended from a chain from the ceiling, hanging over a grimy looking sewer drain. A frankly disgusting collection of—I’m not kidding—literal swords, katanas, and machetes are lined up on a folding table. Next to them, I spot a chef’s knife roll-up and two cases of what I’m guessing are more knives.

Time to start packing.

An hour later, Bella’s secret kill room is effectively just Bella’s secret listening room for old Britney Spears records. I’ve taken every blade, torture device, needle, jar of unknown chemicals or poisons and anything else pertaining to violence that isn't nailed down. I replace it all with plastic toy versions: a neon blue ninja sword, a pretend doctor’s kit of scalpels, plastic scissors, and cheap PlayDoh tools.

I leave a note on the couch that says “Karma’s a bitch”. I also leave the Britney record spinning as I kill the lights. Then I drag the two suitcases of her shit outside, and lock the door again.

Game on, you deranged little goblin.

I’m smiling as I walk out of Elvira’s, my favorite café in Hawthorne Hollow.

I mean, I’m Italian, and they make a fucking killer macchiato.

“The fuck are you grinning about?” Vincenzo snickers, sipping his coffee.

I turn and cock a brow at my younger brother. “Who, me?”

“No, Dame. I mean the other guy who walks around with a perpetual scowl on his face that I just caught grinning.” He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you, motherfucker—” He frowns. “Shit, I keep forgetting. I talked to Mom. She really wants us to come to that performance at the Zakharova next month.”

I shrug. “What’s the problem with that?”

Cenzo makes a face. “Other than sitting through three fucking hours of ballet?”

I chuckle. Our mom, Lyra, spent years as one of the most talented dancers in the venerated Zakharova company in New York. She obviously doesn’t dance professionally anymore, but she and a lot of her friends from the company are still heavily involved with everything that goes on there, from coaching to helping with fundraisers.

Next month, the company is remounting the production of Swan Lake they did that gave my aunt Naomi her big chance when she was cast as Odette/Odile. Mom wants us to go as a family.

Dad’s obviously in, because Lyra Barone has her husband wrapped around her finger and he does not care. I’m in because I enjoy the athleticism of the dancers.

Cenzo will enjoy himself. He’s just gotta bitch and moan about it first, for some reason.

“Don’t be a mope. You’re gonna love it.”

“Ugh. Doubt has entered the chat,” he grumbles. “Seriously, dude. Why the fuck are you so goddamn cheery today?” He grins salaciously. “Hold up, did you actually finally fuck Vivienne Bellandi?!”

I shoot him a glare. “What? No.”

“Your loss.” He snaps his fingers. “Hey, not to kill your buzz or anything, but did you hear that rumor about you on campus?”