“Good morning, loves,” she says. “Teagan’s bringing the kids over for dinner tomorrow night. We’re going to talk baby shower stuff.”
“Great,” I say.
Honestly, I don’t have a problem with Teagan. She’sfine. One of the coolest tattoo artists I’ve ever met, not that I’ve met many tattoo artists. I can totally see why she and Hollywood have become such close friends. Besides all that, Teagan and her husband, Jonah—who happens to be my boss—have a three-year-old son and a ten-month-old baby daughter. As excited as Hollywood is about this pregnancy, I know she’s terrified to bring a tiny, fragile human into the world, given our sordid upbringing. Having Teagan around to assure her that it’s okay to be scared is an invaluable source of comfort.
I make sure to repeat these points to myself whenever the three of us are hanging out and I start feeling like a third wheel.
“You girls have fun without me,” Cal says. “I’ll be at the precinct late tomorrow night.” When Cal and Holly first met, he was the homicide detective on the trail of the man who attacked me: the serial killer who would come to be known as The Tennessee Ripper. He’s still a detective, but now he works in financial crimes and cybersecurity.
He pulls Hollywood in for a kiss. I avert my gaze and drink my coffee, praying the caffeine will make me feel half alive by the time I need to be functional.
“We’ll miss you, Daddy,” Hollywood says. I pretend I don’t hear the words. I have nothing against people being kinky. I just find it tragically comical that my previously virginal best friend is now living out my kinky fantasies right in front of me.
Meanwhile, I can’t even bring myself to install a dating app on my phone.
“Kenzie,” she says. “Can I count on you to help me cook?”
“Of course.” I’m not sure why she feels the need to ask. I never go out on Friday nights. I rarely go out anymore, period.
I smear peanut butter on our toast and the three of us get to munching. Toward the end of breakfast, Cal clears his throat.
Hollywood glances his way, and something passes between them.
“Umm, Kenzie,” she says, in a way that makes me feel like I’m suddenly under a spotlight. “Cal and I were talking about maybe moving the nursery to your room, since it’s so close to ours, and turning the downstairs office into a suite for you.”
I stop chewing. “Oh...”
“You’d have your own bathroom, like the one we have upstairs, and a big walk-in closet.”
Her smile is earnest. Cal takes his wife’s hand.
“We thought you might like a place to escape to,” he says. “For peace and quiet, once the baby’s born.”
Peace and quiet...
I swallow the dry lump of toast in my mouth, the implication of their very generous offer hitting me all at once. “You’re worried I’ll wake the baby with my screaming.”
“It’s just something we’re considering,” Hollywood adds quickly.
Cal eyes me meaningfully. I see what’s going on. He let her frame the issue as a suggestion because she was worried about how I’d take it. But the decision has already been made. It’s a good, sensible idea, and one-hundred percent the right move.
After all, they let me live in their house for free, and I repay their kindness by not letting them sleep through the night.
“Sure,” I say. “We can talk about it.”
Fighting back tears, I load my mug and breakfast plate into the dishwasher and then run upstairs for my purse. I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself before I have to get into Holly’s car for the ride to work.
“I’m sorry about that, Kenzie,” she says.
“It’s fine.” I point my face toward the passenger-side window. “It’s a good idea.”
My phone rings with an incoming call from a number I never answer.
Hollywood sighs. “Is she still calling every week?”
“Every Friday.”
The story of The Tennessee Ripper made national news, and as such, so did Hollywood and I. No one could have prepared us for the media shitstorm that hit when the story broke, and it only got worse once the trials started. I went from being a nobody, so insignificant that a predator like Hoyt Renier assumed I wouldn’t be missed, to seeing my face on every newspaper and social media app.
“Cal will happily tell her to fuck off for you,” Hollywood says.
“She’ll give up eventually.”
I let the call go to voicemail. I already know what hard-hitting journalist, Bridget Howe, is going to say, because she says the same thing every week.
“Ms. Sommers, this is Bridget Howe calling fromOur Nation Today. I was hoping I could talk with you about a potential interview. I’m sure you’re tired of rehashing what happened that night—” She’s not wrong there. “—but I’m more interested in learning about the woman behind the headlines. I think the world needs to hear your story.”
My story. As if my life story hasn’t already been laid bare and picked apart by lawyers, reporters, and true-crime enthusiasts the world over. If Bridget Howe wants my story, she can Google it.
And as for the woman behind the headlines? If she never has to tell her story again, it’ll be too soon.