Page 5 of Cruel Cravings

The laptop feels forbidden as I prop it open and run my fingers over the faded keys. It takes forever booting up, the out-of-date operating system lurching and the brand logo fuzzy on the screen. Yet, somehow, it still feels like I’ve been given a powerful lifeline.

A direct link between me and my sister.

I imagine all the times she must’ve logged on in her bedroom. All the days we were apart when we should’ve been together.

Did she ever miss me as much as I’ve missed her?

The saved files, the bookmarks and favorites, the forgotten tabs on her browser.

They all remind me of her. They’re like bits and pieces of my sister saved in time.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

But what else do I have to do with my free time?

I’ve successfully found somewhere to hide out from the shadow man, wait for my sister to find me so we could be reunited. As the days have gone by and I’ve been left to my own devices, I’ve grown bored.

I’m desperate to see her. Anything to take my mind offhim, lurking in the shadows every moment I’m alone.

If anyone can help me, it’s my sister. She’d know what to do.

She would scold me about the laptop, but she would help me like sisters are supposed to.

When we were kids, she hated when I borrowed her things. She claimed it was wrong if I played with her dolls or even sat at the piano that was designated as hers. Our mother usually took her side, especially where the piano was concerned.

My sister was a music prodigy. I was not.

I was the spare. The unseen daughter. The pest who needed to move out of the way, but really only ever wanted to be like my big sister.

I tell myself it’s not wrong. That I’m just trying to feel close to her. That I’m trying to figure out why she would leave me alone and let everyone believe she’s dead.

Didn’t she know I’d come looking for her?

The screen lights up and her accounts spill out in front of me like a diary cracked open. InstaPix and MyFace notifications. Weeks’ worth of emails. Calendar reminders for things long past.

And then Cyber Fans.

The homepage loads with its crisp white background and glowing camera logo.

I pause.

Internet usage in the hospital was severely limited. Nurse Big Bird and the others monitored every moment of computer time we were given, but I haven’t been living under a rock. I’m well aware ofwhatCyber Fans is.

Some women make thousands of dollars on the platform. Was my sister one of them?

I’m auto logged into her account, where she has a profile pic saved of her in the same leather cat mask I’d seen on her desk.

It says she hasn’t been logged on in three weeks.

Is this how my sister met the man known as the Cleaver? I’ve been reading the newspaper articles written about him in theEaston Times. There’s been so much speculation about the man named Kaden Raskova, with theories running rampant on how he found his victims. Everything from salacious stories about late-night sex parties to chance encounters around the city.

Nobody’s really sure how he selected his victims or why.

There’s no apparent pattern the police, the media, or anyone else has been able to find.

I click on my sister’s messages. There’re hundreds of them. All sorts of different men. All ages, races, income brackets.

So many compliments. Some flattering. Some less than appropriate. Others downright vulgar.

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