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Then, of course, a girl I went to school with was yanked off the street, held, and abused for two weeks before her battered body was dropped back off where she was taken, left like garbage and barely hanging onto life. They'd never figured out who'd done it.
And thus, an obsession was born.
"Yeah," he agreed, taking a slow, deep breath.
"It's tough being the new guy," I said, shrugging.
"Yeah, must be it," he agreed, but his gaze was averted. He reached upward, running a hand through his hair.
It was then that I noticed something I'd missed on my first full inspection of him. His cuticles were bloody. Dried, but bloodied. I guess maybe he chewed them. I knew someone who used to do that.
"It's not a big deal if you don't want to stay," I told him, giving him an out in case he wanted it, even if I wanted him to stay. For reasons that made absolutely no sense to me whatsoever. Aside from maybe thinking he was pretty bangable. The most bangable guy, in fact, that I had come across in a long time. "We have a pretty good mystery tonight, if I do say so myself, but there will be other nights if you aren't up for it."
"You never get to play along," he said, head tilting. "If you know the mystery," he clarified.
"Well, some months I do get to play. A couple of us take turns setting up the actual mystery and the clues. That way, everyone gets a turn to have some fun."
"I could set up one," he offered, surprising me. "I'm pretty good at my mysteries," he added.
"Yeah? Prove it. If you can solve tonight's mystery, I will think about letting you do it next month."
To that, a small—infinitesimal, really—smile tugged at one side of his lips. "Sounds like a challenge."
"Let's see if you're up for it," I said, turning, and making my way back into the coffee house.
We are going to pretend that I wasn't listening for him following as I made my way up the stairs.
But I was totally hoping he was following.
More than that, I was crossing my fingers as Peyton poured fake blood all over her head, laid down on the floor, and let out a dying scream, drawing us all into the game, that he was the one to figure out the clues first, that he was up for the challenge.
First, because some irrational part of me wanted to be impressed by him, wanted to find him worthy in more than just the looks department. Don't get me wrong, the looks were fine. The looks could keep you company for a night or two. But I was uncharacteristically interested in a bit more than that. Which led me to part two in wanting him to figure out the fake killer. Because if he was planning the next Murder Mystery party, it would mean we would need to exchange numbers, would need to be in touch. Maybe we would even meet up for a cup of coffee to discuss parameters.
Ugh.
I was losing it.
Maybe what I should have been doing was dragging him into the storage closet like Marc suggested, and getting the sexual tension out of my system.
But I didn't do that.
Instead, I watched him as he took a card like all the others, letting each of them know if they were the murderer or not, then walked in on the scene of the faux murder behind everyone else, moving in, but not getting all up in Peyton's business like many of the others did. He stood back a few feet, his gaze moving over the body, but also taking in the room. Those keen eyes seemed to see everything. From the blood stains on the window to the damn cobwebs in the corners.
"Alright, who wants to start interrogating?" Marc asked, clapping to get everyone's attention.
Finn didn't rush to start like many of the other eager participants did. Instead, he walked around and listened to the interrogations, pausing here or there if he thought he heard something interesting.
"Giving up already?" I asked when he moved in at my side, though didn't lean back against the wall like I was doing, watching the goings-on.
"Nope," he said, shaking his head.
"What? You think you know already?" I asked, scoffing. It usually took at least an hour of finger-pointing until someone actually figured it out correctly. Then everyone would pick at the refreshments, or go downstairs to order food to bring back up while they discussed the game or some true crime case that had been heavy on their mind recently.
"I do," he agreed, nodding.
"Stop lying to me," Blake demanded across the room. He and Marc always played good-cop, bad-cop while investigating the cases. Marc's boyfriend preferred to operate solo.
"It's the black-haired girl with a poppy on her shirt," he declared, confident, not a single doubt in his mind.
