Page 69 of The Hate We Breathe
With a grimace, I turn back to the body, eyes moving up and over the length of her. One person from Silverwood being murdered is a crazy occurrence, even if it hadn’t happened here. Two? Yeah, Nolan has a point.
My attention finds him again. “What doyouthink?”
He doesn’t answer for a long moment. “You need three people killed by the same person to be considered a serial killer,” is all he says, which, in itself, is both an answer and another question.
Will there be a third body?
If so, who’s next?
26
JULIET
Amber Kombs.That’s the girl’s name. Realizing that the locals were restless after yet another dead body, the Silverwood Police Department releases a statement within a few days of the discovery of the body, including the girl’s name, age, and occupation, but not how she died.
Not that anyone really seems to care about thehowof her death. They only care about what it means for the town. Because the only thing linking Amber Kombs to Morpheus Calloway is the fact that they’re both dead.
Morpheus was a successful businessman. Amber was a stripper at The Veil. He lived on the north side of Silverwood in a mansion with a full staff. She was couch surfing between places with the other strippers and sometimes renting a room from the motel next to the strip club.
By the end of the week, everyone knows every detail about her life. Abusive boyfriends, long nights at The Veil, even suspicions of prostitution. One thing that never goes away is the curious detail of the wig she’d died in. Bright blue. Noticeable. Just like…
“Juliet!” Mads waves at me from down the hall, one arm streaking wildly through the air as she anchors a stack of papers to her chest with the other.
I lift my hand in a casual response even as I shoot a few dagger-tipped glares at the people staring at me by their lockers. The whispers and stares had just started to fade a bit after Morpheus’ death and now, they’re back full throttle. Mads puts her arm down and barrels towards me, her legs eating up the distance between us like a woman on a mission.
She stops when she gets to me. “What are you doing this weekend?” she demands, briskly, far more intent than I usually see her.
“Um… hanging out with the guys?” Which is code for seeing Viks and Abel and finding out if the cops are any closer to Morpheus’ killer. Nolan swears he’s got a plan for Darrio, so I’ve put him on the back burner of my mind.
Mads’ shoulders droop. “Oh, so you have plans…”
“I mean…” I grimace and stretch my neck to the side uncomfortably. It’s really hard to tell her no when she looks so sad about shit. How the fuck did the people of this school ever outcast her? Or worse, how the hell can her parents not see what a kind, genuinely good person she is?
Her big blue eyes blink up at me, hopeful. I sigh. “What did you have in mind?” I ask.
“Oh, I-I didn’t want to ask if you already had?—”
“Mads,” I cut her off. “Just spit it out.”
Her teeth sink into the plush skin of her lower lip for a brief second. “My parents are letting me go to the winter formal!” she bursts out.
“That’s… cool?” I stare back at her, unsure how else I’m supposed to respond.
Mads rolls her eyes before smacking my arm. “Lex said you’re going too. I thought we could go dress shopping thisweekend. My cousin needs a babysitter, but she’s letting me borrow her car, so I can pick you up if you?—”
She falters, her words tapering off when she catches the way my face twists—nose scrunched, brow pinched.
“You don’t want to?” she asks carefully.
“Shit, sorry, Mads.” I drag a hand down my face, exhaustion bleeding into my voice. “It’s not that, I just… I don’t shop. Not unless I have to. And Lex has this stupid winter formal burned into his head, but…” My throat tightens. “I can’t exactly blow money on some designer dress right now.”
“Not designer!” Mads says quickly with a giggle. “Lord, I can’t afford that either. I was going to drive to the next town over and see if they have anything in their secondhand stores.”
Even secondhand formal wear is above my budget, I suspect; ironic, considering where I’d been this time last year—dancing around a club in the city with a dress worth twice a normal person’s rent. My lips twist and I really don’t want to tell her no, but…
“I don’t know,” I murmur with a sigh. “I’m really trying to save?—”
“I’m paying for it.” The words cut through mine like a blade, and then a heavy arm drops around my shoulders. Thick. Muscled. Tattooed. A spicy woodsy scent invades my lungs. My stomach dips. Nolan.
