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CHAPTER ONE
Mari
True crime girlies weren’t supposed to become victims.
That was the rule, wasn’t it?
That was why we devoured every documentary, podcast, and YouTube video.
We consumed that content, poring over the details, committing all the various ways men could torment women to memory in the bone-deep belief that with that knowledge, no one could ever take advantage of us.
We locked our doors and windows. We never sat idling in our cars. We had pepper spray, eye-gougers, strobe-like flashlights, and apps on our phones that would engage with a click and call the cops while recording what was going on.
We never ran with our earbuds in. We parked against the cart return. We nevereverwent near a van with a sliding door. We walked with confidence and purpose. We faked phone calls. We got loud when men were being inappropriate.
We are aware of our surroundings and we see everyone as a potential threat.
Oh, that nice old man with the walker? Yeah, he could be pulling a Ted Bundy, looking for sympathy, only to toss us into his van, take us to the second location, then rape and murder us.
That sweet guy at the bar with those gooey eyes and charming smile? Yeah, he could easily drop something in our drinks when we turned our heads.
Rapists and murderers didn’t have a look.
It could be the shady dude in a hoodie, or it could be Tommy next door who shoveled our driveway, so we wouldn’t have to do it. It could be our own goddamn boyfriends who we thought we could trust.
It seemed over the top to people who grew up in safer times, or to men who didn’t have to live in fear.
But it all came back to that old adage.
Not all snakes are venomous, but some of them are.
In fact, it was something we understood so acutely as a concept that we had many variations.
Not all dogs bite, but some of them do.
Not all guns are loaded, but some of them are.
Not all 14th-century rats carried the Black Death, but some of them did.
It was only when we were discussing rape that people got all up in arms about women assuming anyone could hurt them.
Not all men.
But enough of them.
So many of them, in fact, that even a dedicated true crime girlie who dideverything right, damnit,could still be made a victim.
“Miss Yates?” a voice called, their tone calm and soothing, not wanting to startle the poor, traumatized woman.
I would be resentful if I wasn’t relatively sure that I’d been disassociating long enough to draw concern.
“Yes?” I asked, looking up at the uniformed policeman.
He was attractive.
Tall, fit, with cool blue eyes, and a strong jaw.
But his attractiveness was just a fact, not a personal observation.
