Like, Follow, Kill. Carissa Lynch Ann

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СКАЧАТЬ She’s fine. Valerie Hutchens is always fine. And what does it matter if she’s not, huh? She’s not your sister; she’s not your friend, not really. You barely know the fucking girl.

      But I did know her, sort of. At least that’s how it felt, as I followed her day-to-day movements, activities, and moods. As much as I hated to admit it, Valerie’s mere existence was keeping me semi-sane while I hid, tucked away from the world in my shitty house, wasting away.

      She seemed to be the only thing I could—or wanted—to focus on these days. And although our brief messages weren’t much, she was the only living soul I’d communicated with—besides my sister and the doctors—since the accident.

      I don’t have any friends, no one I can talk to … and although our short chats online probably meant nothing to her, they meant everything to me. Sure, I was jealous of her—her fragile beauty made me more self-aware of my own flaws, and her free-spirited travels and successful career highlighted my personal failures … but Valerie was hope.

      She was who I wanted to be … a glimpse of who I might have been …

      My thoughts drifted over to the unopened Word files, which I couldn’t see because Valerie’s page was blocking the many icons that dotted the screen. Like Valerie, I was a writer. But not the kind that could ever get published. No, I’d stopped that kind of writing years ago. Now, I did some ghostwriting and occasionally, some freelance editing.

       God knows I need the money. That’s how I should be spending my time, not stalking people online.

      I used to enjoy it, getting lost in other people’s stories after I’d given up on my own … but lately, all I wanted to do was stay up to date with Valerie’s whereabouts and doings … it was her story that intrigued me the most.

      Frustrated, I clicked the refresh button again, and finally, Valerie’s Instagram page filled my screen.

       Nothing.

      The last post was the live video I’d already watched. It had been posted at 2:06am.

      I jumped up and ran back to my bedroom to retrieve my cell phone, then checked to make sure she hadn’t posted any Snaps.

       Nope—nothing.

      ***

      By 4pm, I’d taken an hour-long “bath”—which involved me scrubbing myself with water and soap while I sat in my new shower chair that the doctor had recommended because it was too painful to get in and out of the tub if I sat all the way down inside it. I’d limped around my kitchen, sweeping the floor. I’d washed a sinkful of moldy dishes and started and stopped three editing projects that were due next month. As much as I wanted to stay busy and keep my mind from wandering back to Valerie, or something worse, I just couldn’t focus. The words on the page were jumbly; my head throbbing; thick waves of red washing over my face and neck.

      Valerie hadn’t posted all day, nothing since that shaky, sinister live vid at 2 in the morning. I’d skimmed through nearly a thousand of her previous posts, and then her followers’ posts … I’d also sent her three direct messages, asking her how she was doing, if she was okay … they had all gone unanswered.

       Something is wrong. Something happened last night to Valerie.

      I had gone so far as to make a scribbled list of hotels, motels, and inns that were in or around eastern Kentucky. There weren’t many, and most of them were listed outside of Paducah. There was nothing in their local news either—no kidnappings, rapes, assaults …

       No murders.

       I’m worried about a stranger; meanwhile, I can barely take care of myself. This is insane!

      Once again, I pulled up a manuscript I’d been paid to edit. I made it through three lines, before my thoughts drifted back to her again and I couldn’t read the words on the page. The shaky sound of Valerie’s voice in that darkened street still haunted me … she had seemed so afraid, so unsure of herself …

      I leapt from my computer chair as someone pounded on my front door.

      I wasn’t sure how to react. It had been so long since I’d had any visitors. My mind immediately thought of my neighbor, Karen. Or Carol, whatever her name was … or possibly my physical therapist? But we didn’t have an appointment and my neighbor had never stopped by before. I’d always assumed she was a hermit, like me, and that worked out well for both of us.

      My heart thumping in my chest, I tiptoed over to the living-room window and peeked out through the dusty blinds.

      “I see you, Camilla! Let me in!”

       Fuck.

      It was Hannah. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I hadn’t answered any of my sister’s texts today. Also, I hadn’t taken my medicine. The switch-up in Valerie’s routine was affecting my own.

       Dammit.

      Reluctantly, I unfastened the deadbolt and opened the door.

      “Jesus. I was worried. I had to leave work an hour early …” Hannah brushed past me, nearly knocking me over with her oversized purse and puffy pink coat.

      Hannah was tall and elegant, with white-blonde hair. The polar opposite of me, with my short, chubby frame and dark-haired features. I’d often wondered if I was adopted.

      You hatched from an egg, Milly. Fell out the back of a farmer’s truck and went splat on the ground. You were lucky I scraped you up when I did. She had told me that when she was eight and I was four, and for some reason, the image had stuck with me.

      My sister plopped down on my living-room sofa, dropped her purse by her feet, and kicked off a pair of shiny brown loafers.

      “You alright?”

      I was still guarding the door. I closed and locked it, breathing in through my mouth and out through my nose.

      “I’m okay, Hannah. Just busy.” Awkwardly, I sat down on the couch beside her.

      She instantly launched into conversation, about how hectic her schedule was today—she’d been a dental hygienist since she was twenty, earning her associate’s degree and completing her clinical practice in less than two years—and she reminded me, twice, that she’d had to take off early to come check on me.

      Through all her chatter, her eyes never once met mine.

       Even my own sister, my own blood, can’t look at my ugly, disfigured face anymore.

      I wanted to reach over and shake her. Yell: Bring my fucking sister back, please! She’s the one I want. Not you. Not this bumbling girl who can’t even look me in the face!

      And it’s not just the not-looking that bothered me … it’s that every time I did leave the house—which wasn’t often—people either quickly glanced away or stared straight at me, unapologetically, like I was some sort of circus freak …

      I missed the days of being looked at appreciatively by men and women; but mostly, I СКАЧАТЬ