Got Nothing to Say

by anomalation

Summary:

What happens when a guy in denial about being a serial killer meets a writer with a little less empathy than normal? Well, maybe something like this. Canon divergent.

Notes:

Kate Siegel and John Gallagher Jr. had too much chemistry in their ten seconds of eye contact for me not do this. I will create a fandom for the version of this movie that exists in my head single-handedly if that's what it takes. I have playlists prepared. I will make graphics. I've already done more research than the writers of this movie into deaf/Deaf culture.

And, all credit to Kylie, who said 'what if Maddie was also a killer and they teamed up and killed cops' which was really the heart of this whole thing.

Unbetaed and written in two weeks, we die like men.

Endings are hard. Beginnings are easy. 

It starts the way so many of these stories start. Maddie’s home alone, which she is most of the time. She’s writing, or more accurately failing to write anything valuable - again, normal. A man kills her best friend and comes to her house next. That’s where things spiral into a million different directions. 

Maddie, like all her plucky heroines, keeps her wits about her. She writes on the window, the killer takes his mask off, and the options narrow. Not countless endings anymore, now she can count them on one hand. Either she’s dying or he is. Maybe both of them, or maybe she could get away. Audience wouldn’t buy that, though. Not plausible enough, extremely unlikely. Even if she got away, where would she go? He could find her, kill her family. The options are getting unwieldy again, and that would never happen anyways. The woods are full of leaves for her to step on - crunchy, loud, impossible to avoid. 

No. There’s just the three combinations of death. It won’t be her if she can help it. She runs through her possible weapons. Kitchen knives, hammer, crossbow, maybe a plate or something. Could she bring herself to smash a bottle and stab him with it? There has to be a better option. 

What does she know about crossbows? She looked them up years ago, for a thing that didn’t end up working out. More than capable of shooting through windows. Take a second to load. Dangerous, watch your thumb. She needs to be strong, might not be strong enough. That’s probably not the best option. 

He doesn’t just have a crossbow, though. She saw Sarah’s body, she saw so much blood. Stab wounds. A knife, somewhere on his person. Probably in his belt - she didn’t see a holster on his thigh, and he wouldn’t be able to get to one under his jacket fast enough. 

Jacket, she thinks. That’s something. Could get caught somewhere, in something. 

What’s his tattoo? Is that a clue to who he is, something she could use? It looks like some sort of horns.

Okay. Early game is simply staying alive long enough to come up with something to do. She stays away from the windows, keeps the curtains drawn, and buys some time for her brain to work through the options. 

He read what she wrote. He talked back. Didn’t have to do any of that. He wanted to communicate with her, he chose to and he wants to know when she wants to die because then he’s going to kill her. This is probably similar to the way he killed Sarah, Maddie realizes, though the realization is probably less panicking than it should be. It’s a neutral fact, she heard herself telling her parents like she had so many times as a kid.

Okay. Marker and paper. Scotch tape to stick it onto the window. Gives her time to put together a message in private. What is she going to say? What could possibly stop a man who wants to kill her? Needs to kill her, more like. A compulsion. She’s not going to win unless she can get in his head, and that requires empathy. Never her strong suit. 

So what would make him want to not kill her? She could try and not be in his victim demographic - tell him she’s pregnant or something, but they have no trust. He won’t believe her. 

Actually, though. The thing is. He’s not going to give a shit about her. She needs to show she understands him, or wants to. So she writes, big block capitals, and then tapes the paper to the window next to her first message. 

Why do I need to want to die?  

And then, the part that requires bravery. She pulls a chair to the window and sits behind the little sign she made. It’s daring him to hold to his word, to not shoot her until she’s begging to die. Something he won’t be expecting, definitely. The kind of thing that, if she was writing this, would make the killer think twice about this. 

She isn’t writing this, though. She’s living it. Other people don’t act the way she thinks they will; that’s something she’s learned by now. 

The man paces into view pretty soon. Not much to do out there but pace; Maddie wonders what he’s thinking about. Is it the anticipation that he’s after? Her fear? Maybe she should tell him she’s afraid, maybe that would help. 

She watches him read, watches his eyes flick from the note to her face and back down again. He repeats the question back to her, she reads it on his lips. Then he smirks, but there’s the same wonder there she saw before. Prey talking back - it’s not supposed to do that. 

Why? he repeats. Because I’m a man of my word. 

Maddie risks a look down to write on a second piece of paper. Why bother? No one will know. She has to lean forward to tape that up. He leans in when she does, and for a second they’re inches away, looking straight into each others eyes. His are brown, sharp and smart. A little glassy. Whatever his MO is, the thrill of the chase is part of it. He’s having fun. He searches her face, seems to come up wanting. So he reads her newest note, and one of his eyes twitches a little. 

I’ll know, it looks like he says. He taps his crossbow against the window, a reminder of his power. She makes sure not to react with even a flinch. She keeps staring at him, and notices how shifty he gets under her gaze. 

Fascinating. 

She slaps up a third piece of paper, feels his eyes on her as she writes. He waits, and he reads it the moment it’s facing him. Won’t give up. I’ll die fighting.

That makes him smile, a crooked crazy one. He huffs, maybe mumbles something that she misses. And then he tries the door again, just a couple times, before he paces away. 

If he requires her consent in some form, denying it will definitely take this out of the realm of his fantasy. That doesn’t make it safe, of course - he might decide to kill her and start over with someone new. She was already not part of his plan. So provoking him isn’t necessarily the smartest thing to do. But waiting isn’t an option now that she’s seen his face, and at least this is doing something. Not just waiting for plot to happen to her. She’s the protagonist, he’s not. 

More waiting. Maddie keeps a general idea of where he is at all times, peering through sheer curtains and watching him pace. He keeps moving. She doesn’t let herself get bored. Makes a map in her mind, includes Sarah’s body around the side and the knife block and the car this man destroyed. John and Sarah have a car; if she can get to their house she knows where the spare keys are. He’s almost certainly got a car too - it’s a five mile walk to the nearest house, twenty to the highway - so that’s around here too, if she could get keys from him. 

She does have to admit that as far as strategies go, crossbow isn’t a bad one. Especially for a killer used to being smart and keeping his distance. Silent, less regulated, powerful. It’s definitely a skill, though. So Maddie has her next idea, and takes down her previous sheets of paper to put up a new one. 

Where’d you learn to use a crossbow?  

It’s several minutes before he’s back to this side of the house; when he sees the new piece of paper up there, his mouth takes on a bit of a twist. He does a big loop before coming up to read it. He looks uneasy, before and during reading and then when he looks at her again after.

You really want to spend your last hours alive asking me questions?  He might’ve said hour, singular. 

Maddie frowns at him, gets up again and heads over to the book case. He’s standing with his nose nearly against the glass, following her movement. This might not be the smartest call either, but it’ll humanize her, certainly. She shows him a couple of her books. 

You write, he says, clearly asking it as a question. 

She nods, and then sets them down in the chair to sign at him without thinking. Horror, she mouths as she signs it, and only realizes when he smiles that he doesn’t understand ASL. Right. Their conversation just sort of felt shockingly normal, for a second. 

Did you say horror? he asks her, smile still on his face. 

Maddie nods again, and turns back to write one more note. Good research for my next book, she writes, holds it up as he reads it and then, when he looks up to meet her eyes, she winks. Her heart is in her mouth. And then, the guy laughs. 

It feels good, to make people laugh. Maddie’s more than a little surprised to discover that goes for people trying to kill her. He looks a lot less like a serial killer when he laughs. Interesting. Maddie makes a note of that, too, for a future story.

She points at her original sign, and this time she gets an answer. 

My dad hunted, he says. He taught me. 

Interesting, but don’t be too interested. Maddie looks down, to write her response but also to give herself time to calibrate her reaction. If he feels her being too interested he’ll pull back. 

Or maybe he won’t, she has to acknowledge, and the endings spiral out again. Maybe he’s a narcissist and wants to talk about himself. Maybe he’s humoring her to draw out the torture. Maybe he thinks she’s lying, or maybe he doesn’t care, or maybe he’s in the middle of a psychotic break. 

Maybe all of these things, but she just doesn’t think so. All she can do is go with her gut. So she quiets her brain, imagines closing out a dozen tabs of endings and focuses on just the one, where this is the right thing to say. 

So you’re hunting me. He reads it once, glances at her and then reads it again. 

Before she gets an answer, he hears something and turns away. She follows his gaze; it’s John from next door, definitely looking for Sarah. Oh god. John’s looking for Sarah, and Sarah is around the side of the house, dead. Her blood is on several windows. And now John, who Maddie never even particularly liked, is here and the killer is walking towards him. 

Maddie does some mental calculations. John is big, strong, tall - not particularly well-trained in any type of combat but probably considers himself good in a fight. The other man is shorter, smaller, almost definitely weaker. She doesn’t think it’s unrealistic to say that John will probably die. The killer’s smart, and John is decidedly not. For the first time, Maddie finds herself feeling neutral about John without trying to talk herself out of it. Neutral is fine. More emotions would be distracting. 

More emotions would probably keep her from realizing that this is the perfect chance to get Sarah’s phone. 

First things first: make sure there’s nothing to attract John to the house to buy her some time. She pulls the signs off the window and watches from deep enough inside to make sure she won’t be seen. She sees the killer shine his light in John’s eyes, waits to be sure they’re totally focused on each other, and then slides open the bedroom window that Sarah’s body is right outside. Tries to do it quietly, but who the hell knows. Maybe it isn’t quiet and they’re just busy. Maddie waits just a few seconds, and then goes for it. The phone is right there. She’ll need time. Does she have time? 

Maddie looks down the side of the house, towards the men. She sees the flashlight moving but not getting more intense, so she figures it’s not getting closer. Safe as it’ll ever be. She hops out the window, landing as gently as she can. Then she looks at Sarah’s body. 

She liked Sarah. They were friends. But there’s a reason Maddie’s alone in the woods, isolated so pointedly. A reason she’s kept herself away from normal people, as much as she can. The same reason she can go through Sarah’s pockets without too much anguish. But this moment isn’t about that. She needs the phone, and gets it. The window is shut and locked behind her and she’s back at the front of the house and the guys are still talking. 

It’s hard to see what they’re saying; neither of them is facing her directly, and the darkness hides their mouths. Should she knock on the door and get John’s attention, or would that just distract him? Or maybe she should put a new sign up, one warning him. Where’s the crossbow? Would John be able to get it in time? Would John be able to pull the trigger? 

Oh wait. Sarah’s phone. Maddie pulls it out, notes the battery - 45%, could be worse - and texts Maddie and John in a group. This is Maddie. Sarah’s dead. He’s the killer. Watch out, he has a knife. 

Then she hesitates several seconds. Part of her doesn't want John to kill the man. That feels like her right, not his. And she just never liked John that much. Sarah was always not quite complaining about him, and Maddie caught him calling her weird when he didn't know she could read his lips. 

Slowly, Maddie deletes that text. Types up a new one just to her phone. 

If I help get rid of him, will you tell me more? 

No hesitation before sending this one, even though it's much more complicated. The first text would've forced the end of this, one way or the other. This one changes the story. But Maddie's always been known for her twists. 

She sees her phone buzz in the killer's hand, sees him see her message. He goes pale enough that John says something to him, and she catches a few words of his lie. -haven't heard back from one patrol, he says, and types out his text back. -psycho might be- he continues, shifting nervously. 

Sarah's phone lights up. She always kept it on silent, Maddie remembers with late-hitting relief. If John heard Sarah’s phone, this would be over. 

Hold on, though. What would be over? This is a fight for her life. A fight between these men could, actually, go either way. She’s just assuming the killer would win. People don’t do what she thinks they’ll do when she isn’t writing them. 

Why, she has to ask herself, is she trying to draw this out? 

About what, his first text says, and the second comes while she’s reading. Cops coming? 

Not yet. I want answers. She hesitates, fingers hovering over the letters she knows she wants to send. Does she want to do this? Of course she knows the answer, and all she can do right now is go with her gut. She sends it. And I don’t like him. 

And then she watches. The man gets the texts and his eyes light up. 

Out of nowhere, John tackles the man to the ground. They begin scrabbling around, no one with a clear upper hand at first. 

Maddie would scream with frustration if she could. John’s not the smartest, so what clued him in? She runs up to the door and opens it, runs only a couple steps out the door when she sees the killer’s loaded crossbow, stashed behind one of the thick posts on the porch. Out of her view if she stayed inside, out of John’s view unless he was at the door. Obviously, she picks it up. There’s hatches scratched into one part - she can’t remember the technical terms. Thirteen. Two called out specifically. Then she looks back up at the fighting men. 

She wants to give him an upper hand. She doesn’t want John to have any ground to hate her if he survives. So she pushes one of the giant flower pots off the porch where it breaks with what is definitely a loud smash. Both men look over. The killer reacts first; he uses the moment to get his knife and plant it deep in John’s trachea. 

In the moment, her first thought is wishing she knew what that sounded like. Sometimes she worries that her writing lacks a certain kind of sensory detail. But that’s only for a moment; her second thought is to point the crossbow at the man, as he stands up. With a crooked smile dawning on his face, he raises his hands and takes a couple steps towards her. 

You must really not like him, he says, and then asks, Am I too far away? 

Maddie shakes her head. 

He comes closer anyways. You really haven’t called the cops? he asks, skepticism in his eyebrows. 

No, she mouths and shakes her head to make sure. Hearing people can be shockingly bad at reading lips. 

Why. Again, she wishes she could hear this, hear the tone he’s using. So much meaning is in tone. 

She can’t answer without her hands free. A moment after she has the thought, she sees him realize that. And then, she sees that his head is bleeding, red covering half his head and soaking into his shirt and jacket. 

Maddie holds one finger up and backs towards the door. She’s betting on the man wanting to know why more than anything else. That’s exactly what appears to be true. He lets her go back inside with his crossbow, walks up to the door as she’s locking it and waits while she goes back to the paper and marker. Her note is messier than the others. Want to understand. Want answers. 

He barely reads it before he’s speaking back. Bullshit. You want me dead. I killed your friend. 

That’s technically accurate. Or it should be. But Maddie just looks at him, dead in his eyes, and watches him realize she’s so much more than he thought. Then she writes her answer, just for the hell of it. A neutral fact. Don’t really have friends. You need head looked at. 

So what do you suggest? he says. Touches a few fingers to the bloody patch on his temple and winces. A truce?

Maddie nods, and after a second holds up her hopefully final note. Power on. You come in for bathroom. Keep distance. Answer questions. 

It is an actually batshit thing to suggest. Like, bonkers. Stupid, too. For both of them. She could call the cops, he could kill her. So the seconds where he’s considering it are already more than she thought she’d get. 

I want you to keep that phone out at all times, he says, poking the glass with his bloody finger. No calling from your pocket.

I want you to keep the knife out at all times, she counters on paper. 

That’s when he realizes that he left the knife in John’s neck, and turns to get it. And then that’s when they both see that John’s phone screen is bright, that he’s moved and dialed 911. 

Maddie moves fast. No worry about endings, just one singular course of action. John could’ve heard the killer’s side of the conversation, and that doesn’t make her look good. She opens the door and walks straight for John’s body, stashing the marker in her pocket and holding the crossbow tight in her other hand. John’s moving, barely, so the first thing she does is point the crossbow at his forehead and squeeze the trigger. The bolt hits home. Then she takes a second to think. Can’t have proof tying her to this crime. Can’t have proof showing she’s trying to cover up a crime. They’ll pull Sarah’s phone records. She’ll need to think of an explanation for the texts between her and the killer - they’ll look like texts between her and Sarah. She pulls the knife from John’s neck, using her jacket so she doesn’t leave prints. Then she heads back towards the house. 

The killer is just standing there, watching her. He says something as she approaches him that she misses, and she doesn’t try to figure it out. She hands him the knife by the handle, and trusts that she still understands him as well as she has so far. He won’t want to kill her. She doesn’t want to die. 

He takes the knife slowly, and says something she catches this time. What are you doing? 

Staging the crime scene, she mouths back. He doesn’t seem to get it. Whatever. She points to her wrist, at an imaginary watch, signs 5 three times and then adds a noncommittal wave to indicate that as being approximate. They’ve probably got 15 minutes to figure out what to do, so they need to move fast. 

No reaction. And she thought he was smart before. Jesus, okay. Maddie jogs back inside. First thing she does is get her laptop on the counter and open a blank document to type in. Faster. Second thing she does is actually communicate in a full sentence. 

We have fifteen minutes max to prepare for cops. You won’t make it on foot, they’ll be on the only road to highway in sixty miles, so we’re taking out the first responders so you can escape before the second wave gets here. 

She left the door open for him; he enters slowly as she’s typing and keeps his distance from her. She has to snap to get his attention; he’s looking around at the signs scattered on the floor, at her rugs and paintings and chairs. Concussion likely, he’s not at his best. It takes him several long seconds to read her comment, and then he looks at her. 

Why? he asks her, again. 

Later, she starts. 

Fuck that, why are you helping me get away with this?  

Several things occur to her to try and say, like asking if he thought she wrote horror because she was afraid of killers. But of course he has no idea about her writing and what it might mean. Or she could put him off again, but he wouldn’t like that. She knows what he likes; she can say that with decent confidence now. So she does another thing that changes what this story is. Takes a gamble, and tells him the truth. 

I don’t understand people very well. I seem to have a decent idea of what you’re thinking so I want to know why. I did not like John. And I don’t care about the local PD. 

You liked Sarah. I saw your texts. His eyes on her face are sharper again. Probing for weakness. 

Sure and now she’s dead, so you owe me. Listen to me. I do want answers, and I won’t get them if you get shot by some incompetent cops. Get something on your head so you don’t bleed out. 

He huffs out a laugh; she feels the air on her face. Sure, she thinks he repeats, and then he makes an effort to articulate more clearly. Where’s the bathroom? She points, he goes. Leaves the knife on the counter. So it seems like he believes her. 

She did shoot a person in front of him, sort of for him. That probably helped. 

Speaking of which, she wipes down the crossbow thoroughly, and then sets it down next to her computer for a moment. What else is there to consider? No cameras here, possibly cameras at Sarah’s. He can’t take her car, but he probably came in one. 

When he comes out of the bathroom with a wad of TP held against his head, she has an explanation for him to read, and all her notes to him crumpled into a pile in the sink.  

Need to take out cops before they can radio in with any details. No exceptions. Will probably get two or four depending on what John managed to say. Need to continue to use your crossbow and MO. Can set traps as long as they’ll leave no forensic evidence. I have an idea. Can’t use phones for when they pull records. Once cops handled, you need to get out of here and lie low. I’ll pretend to survive this. Meet you after being found by second wave of cops. If they ever suspect you I’ll be able to tell them you’re not who I saw. 

Maddie watches him as he reads, catalogues his features. His stubble, his nose, his lips. Buzzed hair could mean military history. And there’s still that neck tattoo. What does that mean? Why does she already have a hunch? 

She misses whatever he says to her, mostly because he mumbles it without looking at her. Luckily, the sign for what? is pretty universal. 

You wipe down the crossbow? he asks, facing her more directly and speaking more clearly, and she nods. Easy to get out in the roof? 

If she had of any kind of ranged weapon, roof was on her list of ideas. She nods again, types again. Easy, but I think we should lure them inside. Less chance you get flanked. 

He nods. She can see his mind working. Take one out as they approach through the door, maybe, he says. 

Yes, she signs. And then we use saran wrap to- She realizes as she’s talking that she’s signing, and that’s not going to work for him. 

Looks like I need to learn sign language, he says. 

That’d be nice. But until then, she keeps going in her word document. Can start fire in kitchen, set off fire alarm, use saran wrap across main area. They’ll trip while blinded and then you’ll have clear shot from second floor. 

Why will they be blinded? he asks with a frown.

Fire alarm flashes. 

He raises his eyebrows, a smile dawning on him again. Right. 

There’s a second, heartbeat pulsing so hard she can feel it in her shoulders. How’s your head? she asks him, taking the risk of just mouthing it and pointing. 

He pulls the blood-soaked toilet paper away. The bleeding is slowing down, at least. And the actual cut isn’t that deep. I’ll be fine, he says. You should be somewhere as bait. 

Baiting the cops. She hears what they’re saying from the outside, for a moment, and acknowledges that she’s definitely turned rather sharply as a character. He’s right, though, and she nods. And then she has a better idea; she moves his hand so she can rub her sleeve in the blood on his neck and head. He gives her a look when she does that, clearly finding it gross. Especially when she wipes some of it on her face. So they think I’m, she pecks out with her clean hand, and he nods before she’s done. 

Maddie starts the fire then, just to make sure that’s going. Her notes light up fast, the marker catching fire with a blue-green edge. The smoke curls in the air, smelling sweeter than a campfire. She shuts her eyes for a second - thinks about how she’s got her back to the man that told her he’d kill her only a few hours ago. 

Told her she’d want to die. Shows what he knows. 

She startles at a hand on her shoulder; it’s him, of course. Wincing, other hand over his ear. Oh, the alarm is going off. Go upstairs, she tells him. And he goes, but not before he gives her another look, incredulous and awed. She’s used to that too; people don’t seem to understand that deaf means deaf. Not for a while. 

She pulls out the saran wrap too, then, and a roll of duct tape. Leaves the door half-open. It’s dark, the flashing light is giving her a headache on its own. She uses saran wrap to block the base of the steps, to buy them a couple crucial seconds. The house is quick filling with smoke, semi-opaque. 

He’s watching, from the top of the steps. His crossbow is reloaded, poking between the slats of her stair railing. She picks his knife up, just in case she’ll need it. This moment matters, when she and him make eye contact across the room, both holding weapons. He could kill her. She could sell him out. But the look in his eyes means trust. That’s just a fact. 

The police car lights give her plenty of warning. Maddie curls up small on the landing of the steps, the knife at her side and takes several quick shallow breaths. She’s never been much for crying. The cars pull up, park, and she has her idea. Slices her hand on the edge of the blade and squeezes it to bring tears to her eyes, and then she smears a little fresh blood on her cheek. It’s the moment. She’s not an actress, but she doesn’t need to be. All she’s doing is buying him a few seconds of stillness to shoot. She has to be pathetic enough to make them stupid. Shouldn’t be too hard.

When he fires for the first time, she misses it. The bolt is small, quick. The body falling on the porch is what tips her off, the vibrations of a person hitting the ground. And then the motion of him reloading, in the dark up to her left. He threaded the needle, hit the guy at the back of the cluster. The others are coming further in; they didn’t hear the bolt hit.

The department knows she’s deaf. She actually replaced her door with the glass one after they broke the previous one down the first week she was here. John had called them, concerned about a possible break-in. He didn’t realize the house had sold. Maddie hadn’t heard the knock, and the officers panicked. Sarah was the only one who’d apologized.  

She watches a crossbow bolt go through the neck of the first one when he’s only a few feet from her without a flinch. Done. The next gets hit in the shoulder. They’ve figured out where the shots are coming from by then, She sees the last deputy standing reaching for his gun as he moves to fire up the staircase. Not his walkie, at least. She looks up the steps; he's still loading, so she waits for the officer to trip, saran wrap making him miss the first step, and then she sits on his chest to sink the knife deep into his throat. He gurgles, surprise on his face. She uses the tail of her jacket to take the walkie from him, and the gun. As she's doing that, she sees another bolt sprout from the eye of the guy with one in his shoulder. He stops struggling. She watches the bodies carefully. None of them move. The flashing light is acting like a strobe, and she sees in snapshots. In pools of blood, growing and soaking in. 

She stands, knife in hand, and takes a deep breath. She didn't imagine the air would smell so metallic, so sweaty. It also smells a lot like smoke; she needs to get the alarm off. Before she moves, she sees him - the man, the killer, she really needs to learn his name - out of the corner of her eye, waving at her. She stops, looks at him. He says something to her that doesn’t make a ton of sense. Catch him? She frowns, and he tries again, longer words. Camera in dashboard. 

Oh shit. Good point. Maddie peers out the window. One cop car directly behind her car, likely not a clear view. The other one is facing the house. If there is a camera, it would see the light go out. She’d have to explain that. Good call. She sits back down, just in case that’s visible. He crouches on his way down the stairs, and then sits on the step right next to her. 

They have a few minutes. She wants to do more than mime questions, so she pulls out Sarah’s phone and goes to the notes app. The man stops her, hands her her own phone back and then covers his ears as he waits for her to type up what she has to say. Right. Loud. She should hurry. 

You have a car? she asks first, and shows him the phone. 

He nods. I’ll ditch it today. Where are you going? 

Good question. She shrugs, and types, Family? Where are you from? 

She thinks, for a second, that he’ll refuse to tell her. Maybe their trust doesn’t get her this far. Maybe she’s been wrong. He looks her in her eye, blinks. He’s aware of the moment too. Around Nashville, he says. You? 

Here for six years. Family in Minneapolis. I should probably go back to them to seem normal. They won’t want to leave me alone. 

That makes sense to him; he nods. So I should come to you? Maddie nods back. Write your number down, he says. 

She fishes the marker out of her pocket. As she’s doing that, he takes off one glove with his teeth and offers the back of his hand to her. And then she’s halfway through writing before it occurs to her that she should ask why. She definitely, definitely shouldn’t trust him. Not like this. 

She asks when she’s done. Why? 

So I can text you when I find you again, he says with a wicked glint in his eye. He pulls his glove back on. 

Oh right. This is his only chance at a repeat victim. He’s probably excited to start the stalking process anew. That’s kind of pathetic. But Maddie doesn’t really care about that. 

I need defensive wounds, she tells him, and hands him his knife back. 

That catches him off guard. He frowns, a little, and wipes the blade clean on the arm of his jacket. How, he starts to ask. She holds up her arms in front of her, mimes him slashing down at her. She’s worried, for a second, that he’ll need to be convinced. But he doesn’t. Quickly, he cuts her arm in a couple places. Not deep enough to be seriously dangerous, deep enough that she’s ready for the police to come sooner, actually. Then she takes the knife back. Okay, he says. I’ll see you around. 

Not quite yet. There’s one more thing. Maddie holds up one finger and mouths her question. What’s your name?  

That makes him grin, in a warm way. Already so familiar, before she knows his name. Sam, he says. Nice to meet you. What do you think, a month maybe? Maddie nods. Sam mirrors it, still smiling. See you in October, he says. And then he leaves. 

There are several minutes to think, then. She shuts her eyes against the flashing lights. He said it was nice to meet her. In a way that sounded like a normal person. Interesting. Does he act normal, outside of this? Maybe he’s a Ted Bundy type. That’d be convenient - she hopes his mask is good. As good as hers, hopefully. 

Ted probably could’ve gotten a lot more done if he’d just told his wife. 

She gets up after a decent amount of time, picks up a dishtowel and wraps it around her arm, and then sits on the floor against the kitchen cabinets. 

Sam. He’s probably a decent ways away. She doesn’t have to worry too much about him getting caught; he’s made it this far, after all. Thirteen kills. When did he start? How old was he, at the time? How old is he now, actually, that’s a more relevant question. She starts a list in her head, questions she needs to ask him. It keeps her mind occupied while waiting, and then on the drive to the hospital, and while she gets stitches.

She has to stop the list briefly, to give her story. To tell them about the masked maniac that tried to kill her after killing her neighbors, about his crossbow and knife and the way he murdered all of the police officers in cold blood and how scary that was. It’s an easy story. She has to write it down, since there’s no interpreter here. That makes keeping the facts straight even more simple. The ableism does the rest of the work. And in less than a day, she’s on a plane to Minneapolis. Her belongings will be packed up and sent along in the next week. 

Her family, of course, is very concerned. To them, this is proof she was wrong to isolate herself. They think she’s in denial, when she has the most productive three weeks of her life. Maddie wishes she could find a normal way to suggest that she move out; she’d like to be waiting for Sam in a space she controls. But her parents won’t even hear any suggestion of her leaving so soon, and Max is so worried. Maddie decides to risk it. Whatever. 

She finishes her book, sends it to her agent and starts a new outline and fleshes out an idea she had last year. She researches the psychology of mask-wearing, and brushes up on her serial killers. Mostly that just means reading about them, and then deciding that isn’t relevant. Sam isn’t any of these. And none of them account for anything like her, either. 

She’s sitting in the living room with her sister, emailing her editor over some notes, when her phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number; a picture of her from outside the window to her left. 

Be careful, she answers. Neighborhood watch. 

He sends her a pin then, too. A location. A little pub down the street, she’s been once or twice while visiting on other occasions. Meet in ten.

Twenty. I have excuses to make.  

No answer. She looks up from her phone then and looks at her sister. Don’t overreact, she signs, and Max frowns. Not a sign she knows that well. Also, probably concerning. I have a date, Maddie says, and that’s the first time it feels real.  

Max is shocked. What? Where? With who? 

With a guy. I need to leave soon. Maddie gets up, shuts her laptop and starts looking for her wallet. She hasn’t touched it for days at least. 

Hold on!! Max said that out loud, and then she stomped her foot. The equivalent of clapping her hands to get Maddie’s attention. Maddie gives it to her. What guy? Since when do you want to meet somebody?

This sets Maddie up perfectly. Since I was attacked, she signs. I want to have someone around.

The sympathetic look on Max’s face is almost enough to make Maddie feel guilty, almost. Max nods, argument dried up. 

Don’t worry, Maddie tells her. He’s not-

A killer? Max says aloud, cutting her off. 

Maddie feels her heart beating a little a harder with the delicious rush of knowing what to say. Exactly what to say. Please. I would know, right? 

Max lets her go. She insists on driving her, on meeting him and seeing his face just in case. Maddie agrees to it all. For whatever reason, she’s not worried about this. She can handle this, these people. She understands her sister best of anyone she knows. Or at least, anyone before Sam. 

They pull up outside the bar. Sam is nowhere to be seen; maybe Maddie should text him. She and Max park and get out, and Max is coming over to say something when she looks away sharply in the way that means she hears something. Maddie looks too. It’s Sam, jogging up to them with a slight smile on his face. Maddie takes in everything about him, the normal jeans and boots and generally the clothes that aren’t meant for walking through the woods for hours. He’s wearing a flannel shirt, and a thick bomber jacket, and Maddie is so happy to see him she can’t think of anything to say. 

Hey, he says to her. He looks mostly the same. A little more of a beard. He’s looking at her in a way that makes it so easy to pretend that she’s really excited to meet him. And unlike any of her dates in the past, she’s actually feeling a little bit of a rush of something. Adrenaline, maybe. Not quite nerves. 

You’re Sam, she asks, mouths it to him and spells his name out too. 

He copies the signs, poorly. Maddie can’t help but smile. Sam? he asks, and she nods. Yeah, that’s me. You’re Maddie? 

She nods. After a second, she gathers her wits and looks at her sister. Signs at her. See? All good, you can go. 

Ok ok! Text me if you need anything, I’ll be here fast. I love you. 

I love you, Maddie repeats and hugs her goodbye. 

It’s hard to look at him. Maddie can feel him looking at her, and it’s several seconds before she can bring herself to look back. Sam waits, hands in his pockets. Hey, he says again when they make eye contact.

Hi, she says. 

Should we head inside? It's pretty cold out. 

Okay. 

He doesn't move; she doesn't either. Sam hasn't touched her except that brief moment the night they met to get her attention and when she wrote on his hand. His hands are still in his pockets. She isn't sure why that's on her mind right now, but it is.

He mumbles something, looking past her at nothing in particular. Then he seems to realize she missed it, and faces her more directly to say, We don't have to go in.

Maddie shakes her head, signs no, which he copies. 

This is no? he asks, doing the gesture, and Maddie nods. So you want to go in, then? She wishes she could hear his tone here, because it seems like he might be nervous too. His eyes are darting around sharply, he’s blinking more than usual. Maybe he's wondering if she called the cops, maybe he's just worried about that. 

There's a lot on her mind, but nothing she could succinctly communicate standing here on the pavement so she just nods again and heads for the door. He holds it open for her, follows her in. The back of her neck prickles with his proximity. He was closer before. He'd been right next to her. 

They get one of those table booth combinations, and both move to take the booth side. Maddie types. Do you mind? I need to see the room. I’ve knocked stuff out of waitress’ hands before.

Sam bites his lip, releases it. Sure, he says, but he’s not thrilled. He sits in the chair on the other side, shoulders high, both feet firmly on the ground. Can’t help but look behind himself and take stock of their surroundings, like in a nervous compulsion way. When he turns back, Maddie shows him her phone. 

Thank you x1000. 

His expression lightens a little, when he reads that. It’s fine, he says. You gonna get something to eat? 

Are we eating? Or are we talking?

Can’t we do both? He’s being charming, she can see it even if she can’t hear it. He’s charismatic. Okay. It’s weird for a second, and then it’s a new fact. Sam’s someone like her. He can turn it on and off. It’s on, now, as he looks at her and speaks. Clearly, and close to her. Look, I know you want answers. I’m here to give ‘em to you. I promise. But I also… 

What? she signs after a second. 

I don’t know. Whatever. What do you want, so I can tell her. 

She picks something, a southwest salad type of thing. He says it for her, his head turned away so she can’t quite read what he’s ordering for himself. She can, however, see how he smiles at the waitress before turning back to talk to Maddie. He has different smiles, it seems. Or it looks different when it’s facing her at least. Facing her, it looks like he likes her. 

That was your sister? he asks, when they’ve gotten water. He also got a beer; the waitress sets it down and he has a sip. So he drinks beer, Maddie muses. Gross. She wonders if that means he’s not worried about keeping lies straight, or if he just wants her to think that. Or maybe he thinks he’d win, if it came down to a fight again. 

Oh, right. She has to answer, does so with a nod. 

What’s her name? 

Mackenzie, call her Max. He finds that cute; she can read him easily. Then again, she always thinks it’s easy until she’s wrong. Maddie tries to calibrate her expectations, stay wary. She asks a question back. You have siblings?

He nods once. Older brother, he says. And then she watches him decide not to say anything else. 

Interesting. 

They do a little more of this, while they’re waiting for their food and then eating, because she’s following his lead and he wants this. Small talk, getting to know each other. She learns that he is, in fact, a veteran. Ex-Marine. It’s a ram’s skull on his neck and yes it hurt when he got it and he has a bunch of other tattoos. He read one of her books, since they last saw each other, and liked it. 

She tries to share reciprocally. She tells him where she went to college, and some of the bullet points about her writing career, and how she wears headphones in most public places to keep people from trying to talk to her. Though, truthfully, she doesn’t go public places that often. Or, she hadn’t before the last couple weeks. 

Okay, but come on, he says after all of that. You’re just a writer? You’ve never done anything like… our weekend together before?

That was an interesting euphemism. Maddie shakes her head. Why would I? 

Because it’s fun, he says, like that should be obvious. 

Oh boy. Maddie’s looking right at him when he says that so she sees the way his face doesn’t change. That’s a fact to him. Just a fact. It’s fun to kill. Not to me, she types. And then she adds to that before showing him. That’s part of what I want to know more about.

Sam’s getting more comfortable reading off her phone; they’ve worked out the angles. He’s nodding while he’s reading, and then says, Right. Research. 

Yes. But for some reason she gets the feeling that they’re not on the same page. Should we go somewhere? Don’t want you to be overheard. She turns her phone back to him, catches his little smile and mirrors it back. 

Nah. May I? He holds his hand out to take her phone, and she decides to let him take it. It’s her turn then, to wait for him to type. Plenty of time to give her vitals a moment to recover; for some reason, this conversation with him has her adrenaline up. 

Finally he hands her phone back, and she reads the little paragraph he wrote for her. I’m hunting my prey. Like the angel of death. I just take them when they’re ready. And I keep my word. Every time they’re begging me to do it. If you think about it this way, I’m doing them a favor. 

Why do you do it? Maddie asks, instead of telling him that doesn’t make any sense. 

Sam just shrugs. 

When did you start? she tries. 

A while back. 

Frustrating, that he seems to have put so much effort into coming here only to not answer her questions. It does make sense, though. They don’t really know each other. He only had a crossbow pointed at her heart. 

So you came here to fuck around? Why bother? Didn’t have to come at all. That’s what she types out, and she’s trying to decide if she’s going to say it when he flinches at something behind him, glancing over his shoulder. He’s been flinching, she realizes. 

Oh, right. He’s on edge with his back to the room, he’s nervous. She’s stronger, she has to keep that in mind. And she might get better results if she helps him be more comfortable. 

So she grabs his arm, and she pulls him out of his seat over onto the bench next to her. She couldn’t explain it, if asked, but something about him is inspiring a degree of protectiveness in her. He seems smaller up close. 

He says something she misses, can’t quite see his face well enough until she shifts. Why’d you do that? he repeats. 

Maddie looks him right in the eye, pointedly, and then erases what she had to write her answer. Because you’re uncomfortable, and that wasn’t my plan.

You have a plan? His eyes don’t leave her face. 

Not just one, she answers. 

What does that mean? Sam asks with interest she can feel on her skin. 

Then they really start talking. Maddie has never really explained the way her brain works to someone before. She tried, when she was younger. When her parents were worried about her. That had taught her not to do it again. But the way he looks at her is making her feel brave. The full measure of his attention. And the way they understand each other, the way he treats everything she says as reasonable. It encourages her. She starts by explaining her writing process, the way she plans out everything but can never quite nail down the ending. And Sam doesn’t react like her parents, or her sister, or anyone she’s ever opened up to and lost. He just nods. It all seems to make sense to him. 

She means to ask questions, to make sure he’s understanding in the right away. Instead she ends up explaining more. How that approach doesn’t really work in real life, how she knows intellectually the right thing to say or do but can’t quite seem to make it work. There’s something missing. And when she’s finished writing, when it’s all typed out and he’s reading, she feels like she’s given something away. Something fragile. This is more trust than that moment, that night a month ago. Then, she just knew she got him. Now, she’s offering him the chance to get her too. 

Her former killer is sitting next to her, an arm over the back of the booth so he can see her phone easier, and he picks out his response on her phone with his pointer finger. It’s almost intimate, watching him do it. She’s holding her breath. 

That tracks. I like how your mind works. 

She looks at him to gauge tone, not suspicious but wary. His face is hard to read. All she can compare it to is that first night, the first time he was reading her words on the window. Assessing. She makes a face now, a really? kind of face, and he answers it verbally. I’m serious. He does appear to be serious. 

Maddie is glad for the chance to look away and type. It’s a lot, to look at his face right now. To see what he thinks. You’re the first. So that’s why I want to know more about you. You make sense to me, I think, but I can’t know unless you tell me more. 

Sam’s reading as she types, she feels him nodding as she finishes. He asks for her phone again, half in gesture, and she gives it to him. He moves his arm, sits up straight to type with both hands and Maddie tries to interrogate why that makes her want to lean in closer. She doesn’t look, she lets him type and for the first time in what feels like hours, looks at the rest of the room. The place isn’t very full. No one nearby. And still, his side is pressed against hers. He’s right here. Does it mean something? Is it a ruse? If she’s guessing, it’s a yes and a no. And then he hands her phone back. 

Why do you write? It’s just something I do. I’m good at it, and it’s fun. Sorry I don’t have some deep psychological reason. I started when I was seventeen. At this point it’s like a hobby. That’s the best I’ve got, okay. I’m not that interesting, I guess I didn’t want to admit that because I’ve literally never met anybody like you. And you’ve written a dozen books full of people like me.

The smart move would probably to agree with him. To not push. But she’s gotten her best reactions pushing. So she answers, I think there’s more to it than that and I want you to stick around so I can figure it out.

Sam’s been avoiding her eyes, while she read and then when she was typing her answer. He reads that, and then his eyes flick up to hers. Stick around, he repeats. Like here? 

She shrugs. Maybe not. I could move in a few months, when my parents have relaxed. Stick around as in around me, was what I meant. If you want. 

He’s reading as she types again, and when she’s finishing he turns fully sideways to face her. It seems to be important to him to look her in the eye, so she looks back and he says, Hold on. We’ve got to be specific, here. Stick around as in… 

Maddie shrugs, but not an I don’t know, shrug. A shrug that’s affirmative. Yes. Stick around as in whatever he’d like that to mean. In whatever way he’d like to. Max already thinks we’re on a date. But I’m sure you have things to get back to, she adds, to prompt him into answering.

I’ll drop it, he says, without hesitation. Everything. 

This isn’t specific, as explicit as it is. She doesn’t know if he’s going to move here, or if he’s got a girlfriend or something, or what their relationship is or will be besides decidedly not normal. All those possibilities spread out in front of her, like her endings. 

Sam leans closer, looks in Maddie’s eyes with a smirk. Come on. Want to make a plan? he says. 

Of course she does. 

 

 

 

Real life is more complicated than a story. She knows that. It’s not a surprise. But it is a bit of a disappointment. 

They make a plan, yes. At first, Sam categorically refuses to leave her side, which makes things weird. I’m here already, why would I go back? he says, and she’s just expected to find that reasonable? Sure. Definitely not suspicious. 

What is he running away from? Nothing, he claims. Nothing to run away from, nothing to go back to. And she’s supposed to just buy it. 

No way. Not for a second. 

She bides her time, waits for the right moment to ask her follow-up questions. A few days later, when they meet up again and they’re walking through a park together, and he’s talking about finding an apartment. Then, she pushes the issue. What about your job or where you live or friends? What about your brother? 

Don’t worry about it, he says. 

Maddie stops walking, which makes him stop too, to read her response. I’m worried. 

He sets his jaw. I can handle my life. 

Okay, she signs, and doesn’t mean it for a second. 

Sam can tell. Come on. Don’t start lying to me now. He says more, but she looks down to type her response. 

Shut up. I’m only lying because you’re not trusting me. What worked was when you did trust me. This isn’t working. And she hands him her phone and walks away. 

It’s a gesture more than anything else. He obviously follows, and plus he’s got her phone so it’s not like she’s going anywhere, not for real. But gestures are important. Making him follow her, catch up, that means something. Reminds him she’s not playing around, for example. It’s not as effective as a knife in a man’s chest, but. It’s what she can do right now. 

Sam catches her hand to stop her, to pull her back around and face him, and then he lets go. No, she keeps it when he tries to let go, so then they’re facing each other with one hand linked. What? she asks, even though she knows he’ll tell her anyways. 

I trust you, he says first, which is a good start. Obviously I trust you. But I don’t need you to be part of-

She interrupts, drops his hand to sign, What are you hiding? and hopes her point is understood. The signs are pretty literal. 

Nothing! Nothing, I’m not hiding anything. 

Lie, she signs emphatically, a scoff that’s visible. 

What’s that mean? he asks, throwing his arms out in frustration. So she enunciates the word while finger spelling it. He’s learned that much, at least, he can follow spelling. Lie? I’m not lying, Maddie. It’s just- 

Again she looks down to answer before he’s done and types her answer. I wanted answers, I didn’t ask you to move here. It is your decision so you have to explain. 

It looks like he stopped talking when she looked away, waited with her. That’s satisfying, to be able to cut someone off like that. When she raises her eyes again, he can’t resist but say something really quick. I’m not lying, he repeats. I wouldn’t lie to you. 

I know, she signs, and then he reads what she wrote. 

Okay, he says once he’s read it. Good point. Sam scratches his forehead and looks off in the distance to the side aimlessly, thinking. I trust you, he says again. You gave me a good reason to. And I haven’t given you that yet. 

That’s a surprisingly good summation of where they are. Yes, she nods. 

So that’s what we need to plan for first.  

I think so, yes.  

That’s the sign for think? he asks, copying it. 

The plan, as it turns out, needs to include him learning sign language, that’s important. And it does involve some separation, so their relationship can develop organically - or, as organically as a fake relationship can be. Sam goes back home but first he gives her his actual phone number, not the burner he’s been using. They start to text. She keeps it light and vague, getting to know each other, and he responds in kind. And then when he comes back to visit, she takes his phone. 

Why do we need to do this? he asks as she’s typing out their first deep text conversation. He’s practicing his sign language. It’s slow, but intelligible. And easier to read than his mouth. 

Because we need to look legit, she answers. And to keep our stories straight. They met at a bar. He’s in town for work. She’s wary, but swept off her feet. She tries to capture as much of their real dynamic in these texts as she can, to keep things easy, and copies his style for his texts. 

Okay, but. He’s struggling. She looks up, and he just says it. Sorry, I don’t know how to say overkill. 

Maddie snorts. It’s ok.

You don’t think this is overkill?

No. We are not going to get caught.  

Sam puts his hands up in the universal signal for surrender, and Maddie goes back to writing. 

She does these first few exchanges, setting up all the information. Building a believable romantic tension, the kind of couple she’d write for people to root for. It’s easy. A nice distraction from the editing process she’s going through. A fun reason to spend an afternoon with Sam in his hotel room, him watching the TV while she works. 

To make sure the tone is consistent, she asks for his input on several things, like punctuation and abbreviations and such. And then one time, she looks over and his eyes are closed. She makes the call herself. Then she looks back over at him. She doesn’t get the chance to examine him as closely as she’d want to, most of the time. He’s always looking back. So she takes the chance right now, to really study him. His eyes are sort of narrow, his beard is a little fuller than before. His hair’s getting longer, too, a hint of a curl near his temples. And then that tattoo. 

Actually, he’s wearing a T-shirt. She can see the tattoos on his arms now, ones she hasn't seen before. One that looks like an eagle on the inside of one arm, and on the opposite side something that was a skull and an anchor and maybe something with rope. She googled the Marines after talking with him, she knows those things are symbols associated with that. They're big. She wants to touch it, to see if the ink-saturated skin feels any different. 

She looks at his hands, too. They're less blocky than she would've thought, narrow and strong. He's taken to sign language surprisingly well, for the most part. Only a few weeks, and he can get the gist of what she's saying, if she goes slowly. Sometimes he can even make a sentence back. It's more than she was expecting. 

The thing is. Maddie sets aside their phones for a second to think about this. The thing is, is that while she's always known what her motivation is, she's been much less clear on his. That's the answers she wants. Gut instinct isn't answers. Guessing his moves isn't knowing why he's making them. So she takes a second, she looks at him and the bridge of his nose, and thinks about Sam's why. 

She likes the way she can read him. Does he like that too? He never seems upset when she assumes correctly, so that would seem to indicate he likes that she knows. He liked, that first night, when she figured out how to give him exactly what he wanted. That’s not a dealbreaker, though. If she’s guessing. It seems a lot more like her attention is what he wants. Her undivided attention, which interpreting him is proof of. So what’s his life like, if this is all it takes to get him interested? What is he so eager to leave behind? 

Okay, what does she know about him. She runs through the facts, and experiments with some tentative conclusions. He has a brother he’s avoiding talking about, and no friends he’ll go into detail about either. Is he just not going to tell her ever? Not sustainable. Do these people not exist? Unlikely. But he hasn’t gotten any texts while she’s been doing this, and that seems weird. 

Does he not trust her? He must, in some way, but something might be missing. Or maybe he does trust her and it’s something else. Maybe he doesn’t want her to tell his brother about his particular habits, if they meet. Maybe he doesn’t want to risk losing her attention. Maybe his brother is dangerous? 

Interesting, either way this turns out. She thinks about it while she sends a few more texts, makes sure to wait fifty to eighty percent longer to reply as herself to keep with their existing patterns. Then the conversation reaches a lull - she ends a text she’s decently sure Sam wouldn’t reply to. Then she turns his phone off, and opens up her notes app. The questions list has turned literal, and under that is the hypothesis list. Winnowing these down is a lot like narrowing in her endings. A challenge. She adds more to the list, these considerations about family and attention, and thinks about what she could say that might start to get some answers. In a new note, she drafts it to show him. 

Eventually, waiting gets boring. Maddie wants to wake him up but doesn’t want to surprise him, so she ends up touching him. His hand, because that seems like the least objectionable place to touch him. It’s sitting on the couch between them, too, palm down, so it’s easy to press her fingertips against the back of his hand. She doesn’t even have to move. 

If, she considers, someone was writing a metaphor for him making it easy to include him in her life, it wouldn’t get much more obvious than this. 

He stirs, says something as he wakes that she misses because he’s mumbling. Then he looks at her, eyes sleepy. Hey, he says, and turns his hand over to capture her fingers. You hungry?

She shrugs. She’d take her hand away, but she thinks it’ll help her get an answer. Question for you, she signs with her free hand, and hands him her phone. Does anyone else know about the hunting you do? 

Sam reaches awkwardly across himself so he doesn’t have to move the hand in hers to hold her phone. She watches him read it, sort of sigh out through his nose, and then begin to pick his answer out. Eventually, he hands it back. You know this is kind of manipulative, right? And then under that after a space, he answers. Yeah my brother knows. Why? 

Their hands are still connected. Manipulation implies unfair. I think this is fair. Do you not want to tell me? I want to know who could expose you/us. 

Conversations done this way are almost impossible to get heated, because of pacing alone. It’s a luxury, not having to hurry. And when he hands her phone back, he scoots himself closer, hanging onto her hand tight. She reads while he’s settling in again. I guess not unfair. I’d tell you either way. He won’t say shit, we used to do it together. 

A new fact. A fucking big one. Holy shit. She must actually show an emotion on her face or something because Sam gives her a look. He knew this was going to be a thing, and he said it anyways, and he looks her in the eyes as she sorts through her thoughts, here. What, he says out loud. You really couldn’t guess that?

Maddie shrugs again. Not the point, she answers, and shows him, and then thinks about what else she’s going to say to this.  

Sam squeezes her hand to get her attention, and when she looks up he says, You don’t have to hold my hand to get answers. 

That sounds like the truth. She doesn’t let go. So then Maddie’s left with the possibility that she’s holding his hand because of a little more than manipulation. I know, she says, and pretends she’s watching TV with him. He has the subtitles on for her.

And then that night, she goes home and researches every unsolved murder within a hundred and fifty miles of Nashville. Him and his brother. She has thirteen to account for, at least. It only takes a couple weeks to get a list going. By that time he’s gone back home again, and they’re texting again. In the interest of keeping their text trail innocent, she doesn’t ask him about it. She just reviews these cases. A woman stabbed while her husband wasn’t home - that’s most of them. But the oldest ones are strange. A couple killed in their back yard. A woman found dead in alley from blunt force trauma. A man shot in an apparent hunting accident. 

That bothers her, pokes at the back of her head for a while until she has an idea. Hunting accidents. Nashville. Ex-Marines. Sam seems like the type to follow in his dad’s footsteps. And sure enough, she finds one. A man called Clint. Short obituary. Survived by his two sons, Ryan and Sam. She can’t find anything about their mother, not even a name. But, now she knows his last name, and his brother’s name, and that means Maddie’s officially got enough information to start to put together a hypothesis.  

Something that sounds a lot like Sam and his brother killing their father and then perfecting their technique together. 

The confusing thing, though. The thing complicating her straight-forward research into this man’s crimes, is how she’s liking him more by the day. He’s funny, and he asks about her writing and listens, and he tells her enough about his day that her fears about him not trusting her are fading fast. She still wants to understand him, she still wants answers. But now she also finds herself wanting him around more. 

These are all conversations better had in real life, so she waits. She keeps texting him. 

I can’t wait to see you again. I miss you. I can’t talk to anyone like I talk to you, he says, and that’s probably for their paper trail but also might not be just for that. And still, she wonders what his life was like before this, if she’s his best confidante already. 

Whatever. She’s not overthinking this. Yes, same here. When are you coming back? 

Sam replies right away. Next weekend? Are you free? 

I’m moving. So you might want to wait until weekend after.

Wait fr? I’ll help. 

You sure? You really don’t have to. 

I will be there. Take you out Friday night, move Saturday/Sunday? 

Perfect. Truck is coming at 10am Saturday. 

Sam sends a thumbs up, and then, Super excited. 

She heart-reacts to the message, and turns her screen off to think. Is it too early to suggest he stay longer, stay with her when he comes? Will that seem strange? Only four months after her murder attempt. No, that’s not a crazy short amount of time. Normal. She’ll double check with him, but it could work. She’ll have to introduce him to her family. That means telling him she needs to know more about his family in return. And that means thinking of contingencies for if he won’t tell her. 

Somehow, this all comes with sustained productivity. First round of edits on her book are done. She’s finishing up another first draft. A killer that poisons from the McDonald’s drive through. Sam thinks it’s a fun idea. 

Maddie’s picking an ending when he gets to her parents’ house, that Friday night. Working right up to the last minute. Her phone pings, a text from Sam. I’m outside. 

Coming, she texts back and doesn’t get up for a few extra seconds. He’s probably watching. She thinks she can feel his eyes. She can’t determine if that unnerves her, or if it’s just supposed to. Maybe at this point, it’s just sort of sweet. 

Max watches her get up. He’s here? she asks. 

Maddie nods. Be back later, tell mom and dad. 

Is he coming inside? I want to talk to him more, Max insists. 

Tomorrow, Maddie promises. 

She doesn’t bother trying to move quietly, as she goes outside. But she carries a knife now. When he tries to sneak up on her, she feels him coming and has the blade against his throat by the time his hands are on her waist. She can see his lips in the porch light. Hi, sweetheart, he says with a big smile. 

Maddie holds still for a few more beats, then stows the knife. Sam doesn’t so much as flinch. Where are we going? she asks him.

This Mexican spot downtown. If that’s cool with you. His hands are still on her hips. For a second, she thinks he’ll kiss her. They haven’t done that yet, she notes, and also notes that she thinks she’d like to.

My family wants to get to know you, she warns him at dinner. 

Sam shrugs. Okay.  

Should we prepare? she asks. 

What’s that one mean? he asks out loud, and she spells it. No, we don’t need to prepare, I won’t be lying. 

They think we’re dating.  

The look Sam gives her is so long that she half expects him to ask her to repeat herself, to explain the sign for dating. Strange, because she was pretty sure he knew it. Yeah, he finally says, and sets his fork down. I also think that. Or I did until just now. There’s a bit of a smile on his face, softening what he’s saying. 

Oh. Maddie needs to figure out a better response. 

You don’t think so? he prompts her after a second. 

Her mouth makes the shape of ‘um’. I’m not opposed, she finally signs. I just thought there would be a conversation. 

Sam raises his eyebrows, and points out, You wrote both sides of the text conversation where I asked you out. I assumed that was the conversation. 

Oh. Well. That is a very reasonable expectation and one that Maddie is immediately ashamed of not understanding. Her face feels hot. That makes sense, she admits without looking at him. 

He’s saying something, she can see it peripherally, but she doesn’t look up until he takes her hand on the table. Maddie, he says when she looks up. Do you want to be my girlfriend? Or some other word that sounds more grown up than girlfriend, I think we’re probably past that. 

Yes, she says while he’s still talking. 

Partner, he says. 

She agrees and shows him the sign for it, reaching across the table to straighten his fingers. Together, she suggests as an alternative, and he nods, repeats it. 

More accurate, he says. Like partners in crime.

He wouldn’t say that if they were in danger of being overheard, but she still sort of glares at him. Speaking of which, she says, and he doesn’t look either surprised or thrilled. When can we talk about the past, making sure your tracks are covered? 

Sam shrugs. You looked into it, I’m guessing? he says, and has a bite. 

Yes. Duh. 

Tomorrow? he suggests. After moving? 

That works as well as anything else. She nods, and returns her attention to the food. So that went well. After they talk, she should be able to knock a few things off her questions list. She actually could knock one off now, the one reading How far will this fake relationship go? Though, that would mean adding a new one. How far will this real relationship go? And that’s just one of those normal life questions, the things that upset people to ask about. She’s supposed to just be fine with not knowing. 

Sam taps on the table to get her attention, and she looks back up at him. All okay? 

Yes, she promises. Thinking. 

Tell me what you’re thinking, he suggests. 

They are together, now. Partners. So they spend a lot of dinner talking about her new place. He has suggestions about her new place, security measures she should take. And he has questions, too, about different accessibility things she uses. Things like her fire alarm, that help her navigate without her hearing. She’s letting him into her life, and Sam is letting her set the pace. And Maddie thinks that yes, maybe this as an actual relationship will work. 

Sam gets out of the car, when he drops her off, and walks her to the door and then says, So since we’re actually dating, can I kiss you? 

She answers by kissing him herself. Not really a fan of waiting for things to happen.

It doesn’t feel particularly different, to see him the next day with this new understanding between them. She’s glad. Sam kisses her hello, and otherwise it’s the same as it’s been. Partners. And he’s helpful, he takes her direction and works well with her family and movers, and at the end of the day she’s moved in way faster than she thought she’d be and he’s the last one here. 

Your family is nice, he tells her. The first thing he says when they’re alone. 

Maddie rolls her eyes. They are nosy and need to mind their own business.

Hey, they're being careful. I could be a serial killer or something. You can't be too careful, he says, a smug little smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

That's my business, she says stubbornly. She's not worried about anything, she's not. Sam kept a lid on all the parts of him she was hoping he would, he was charming and helpful and warm. Max loves him, and Mom and Dad seem warily optimistic. Daring to hope that their oldest daughter won't be alone forever, maybe. But with all of this, underneath all of it is the slow-creeping fear that she’s misjudged this and and tomorrow they'll be dead. 

Maddie doesn’t do well with fear. It makes her just do things. 

Hey, Sam says, waving for her attention. Maddie. What's wrong? 

I don't want you to kill my family, she says. He shouldn't need her to sugar coat it. 

Sam looks genuinely surprised to hear that. She's starting to be familiar with that expression, from him. Recognizable. I don't want to kill your family, he says. So that works out. Why do you think I'd-

I found your father's obituary, she says. Spells the last word out, because she's not sure he'd understand it. Or I think it’s him. Clint? 

The blood drains from Sam’s face; he looks uneasy, to say the least. He nods a couple times, slowly. Yep, is all he says. 

So, she says after a moment. I just wanted to make it clear, that I don’t want that. 

Okay. I mean, I figured. So, he says, and picks up a stack of boxes labeled Bedroom and goes to take them there. 

He’s trying to get away from her, huh? Well, then Maddie’s going to follow. On the way she looks at the back of his neck, at the patch of sweat between his shoulder blades and whatever the tattoo is on the back of his left arm, barely visible under his shirt sleeve. Her parents probably aren’t thrilled about that, the amount of tattoos he has. The way Sam’s kind of rough around the edges. They don’t know how rough she can be, too. And that’s what she likes, almost more than whatever their understanding is. She likes that she doesn’t have to be careful with him. 

Sam sets the boxes down and turns back to look at her. What? he says sullenly. 

Why are you acting like this is unreasonable for me to say?  

Because I’m not an idiot, I know the difference between your folks and mine and I’m not gonna go and take out people you love without fucking talking to you about it. He’s mad, it seems like. Or something a lot like mad. 

What’s the difference? she asks, and he hates that she asked. He gives her a look, that look that says he’s onto her which is confusing given that she isn’t trying anything underhanded. Sam! she says. She got to give him a sign name a few weeks ago, that was a moment between them. One that she’s annoyed to think about now, but it was nice. And he answers, so at least it works. 

He’s testy about it. Do you really need me to get into this? Or can you trust me, that I’m not a moron and I know the difference.

This isn’t an either/or. You said we’d talk about this. 

Yeah, about our other ones, not this one. I don’t know why I didn’t think you’d find it, but- 

She still likes cutting him off, signing while he’s still talking. Well, I did find it so why are you being like this? Are you upset about your dad? 

No.  

A lie. It’s novel, it’s been so long since he’s tried to lie to her. Maddie feels herself smile, before anything else. A big, broad smile that makes Sam uneasy. But the thing is, she doesn’t really care that he’s lying. It’s how easily she knows it’s a lie that’s getting her. The more she gets to know him, the fewer surprises she’s finding. Increasingly, she’s feeling strangely safe.

Sam throws his hands up. Okay, fine! I am! I’m fucking upset about my fucking dad like every other lameass cliche loser in the fucking world. Is that what you want me to say? Are you happy? Yes. Great work, Sherlock, you’ve cracked the fucking case. Game over.

It doesn’t make a ton of sense. Okay. Yes, I did it, she repeats, sort of wondering why that’s a bad thing. 

Yeah. So. There are your answers. You want me to fuck off now?  

Hold on. What the hell does that mean? Maddie frowns. Why would I want that? 

Sam shrugs, a stiff, furious gesture. Oh, you have a different ending in mind, once you got everything you wanted? Because you’ve been very clear about what this is, so. He thinks that’s enough, until she continues to just stare at him. And then he shrugs again, bigger, and lets his hands slap down against his legs. What? 

When did I say I’d throw you away, after? she signs. 

When did you what? he asks, and she goes looking for her phone only to realize she has no idea where it is. And the last time she lost track of her phone was probably that night, the first one she met him. Tonight, Sam hands her his. He doesn’t seem to realize the meaning. 

Maddie types out what she just said, and then gives him his phone back and watches him read it and then look at her. He doesn’t seem to know what to think. Weirdest of all, he also seems to think he’s told her all of the truth there is to be told. But that’s not the thing that’s bothering her right now.

You should tell me why your self-esteem sucks, she suggests. 

That shocks a tired sort of laugh out of him. Well, he says, and puts his hands on his hips. I’ve got to keep some of my mystery. 

I’ll get it out of you, she tells him. And I won’t be done once I know.

He doesn’t believe her. He does let her kiss him, though, and he stays the night. She’s still up and moving around, putting things away in the bathroom, when she finds that he’s already passed out on one side of the bed. The side near the window, she notes. As if lightning might strike twice and someone else will try to kill her. Kind of stupid. 

How someone sleeps at night is really no indication of the state of their morality, Maddie knows that, but it’s still kind of funny to think about someone asking Sam how he sleeps at night. He sleeps well, doesn’t move - which is good, because that would probably catch her by surprise. After the first night, he starts to hang onto her in his sleep. Not too much, a hand around her arm or on her shoulder. It makes her wonder if he’s afraid she’ll be taken in the night or something. And then she has to admit that’s not a baseless fear, given his hobbies. 

Have you gone hunting since me? she asks him the next day, while they’re unpacking her kitchen. In the second before he answers, she thinks about the list of possibles on her computer, the thirty-eight people he might’ve killed, maybe. The pattern is clear; people are dying more often. Every couple of months. There was a girl not even two months before Sarah. 

Sam flicks a glance at her, looks back down at the silverware drawer. He nods. 

Extremely patiently, she waits for him to decide he’s ready to talk about it. When he looks back up, she says, With your brother? 

He shakes his head. Just me. We don’t really do it together anymore.

Why? she asks, even though she knows he'll hate it. 

Sam sighs visibly. Because, he says reluctantly. I wanted to do my own thing. We already work together and live together, so-

Why do you live with him? 

Well, Dad left the house to both of us, so it doesn't make a ton of sense to, like. Why are you giving me a look? 

I'm not, Maddie lies, and drops it for the moment. 

She expects him to be glad she's letting it go. Instead he gets her attention after a second and says, I can tell when you're lying too, y'know. I just don't make a big fucking deal about it. 

Good, she shrugs. I'm not trying to fool you. 

Then why lie? 

Because it's expected. You didn't want to talk about it so I pretended I was done. 

He sighs again and looks at her, gives her several frustrated blinks. Right, but the point is that I'm supposed to believe you're done. It's not satisfying to know you're lying. 

Well, I've never been great at that, she says. Now you can see why I was alone in the woods. 

I thought you said you were alone in the woods because you wanted time to write. Right? Yesterday, you told your mom-

She cuts him off again. I thought you said you knew when I was lying, she says, and Sam smiles. 

Okay, he says. Alright, I'm catching on. 

I knew you would, she says, which is mostly supposed to be a joke but makes him flushed the next time she looks over at him. And that's cute.

He finishes unpacking her silverware and utensils, breaks the box down and then waits for her to finish stacking all the pots in their newly-appointed cabinet. When she straightens up, he's there waiting and takes both of her hands. Very gently silencing her. Thank you for pretending for me, he says sincerely. And then, Ryan and me started doing solo hunts a couple years ago. We don't agree on everything. Dig into my shit all you want, but stay away from him. Okay? 

Why? she mouths. It's nice to be holding his hands. 

Because I'm asking you to, Sam says. 

Not the response she would've predicted. Surprisingly more honest. Any other reason would have this one behind it. Okay, she nods, and frees her hands to say, Does this mean you'll tell me which victims are yours?

Don't call them victims, he rolls his eyes. 

Oh, should I call them prey? she asks keeping her expression innocent. 

This doesn’t go over well. They all ask me to do it, in the end, he begins.

And Maddie wants to talk about the victims more than she wants to debate semantics, so she lies a little better and says, Will you tell me? That’s all I care about. 

He does, in fact, tell her. They sit at the table together and clear one side of boxes to make room for her laptop. Maddie pulls up her document of research and sees the alarm that crosses his face briefly, the realization that yes, she is extremely good at this. The only reason he got away from their encounter alive is because she wanted him to, and the only reason he’s not in jail is because she doesn’t want him to be. She watches that or something like that sink in for him anew, and then he quietly goes through and bolds the victims that were his. The ones he and Ryan did together, he bolds and italicizes. 

The pattern is clear. After their dad, there’s six they did together, over four years. Then, a split seven years ago. Twelve on his own - now thirteen, and he gives her the name of the most recent victim too. Someone older, named Cathy in West Virginia. Opposite direction from Maddie, so he didn’t go on the way or anything incriminating like that. 

If everyone else on the list is Ryan’s, then he’s killed twenty-six people in the same time frame. Increasing frequency. Four last year alone. 

The first thing you need to do is take a break, she says. Break up the pattern. Six months or so, and then kill a man. With a different kind of weapon.

Why? He frowns. 

She pulls her laptop over and hits return several times, then types, Police rarely look across gender or racial divides, since most killers have a very specific type that helps them achieve the catharsis they’re searching for. Your brother’s narrowed in on a very particular type of woman, that’s not a good idea. 

Sam stares at her. Okay. But what about my catharsis? 

If that doesn’t do it, you’ll have to find another way to get it, she tells him, and she knows she’s bad at empathy but she’s unrepentantly unsympathetic here. Try writing, she adds. 

Right, he says. Sure. He looks back at her list, and then at her again. Anything else you want to know? 

She wants to know everything, eventually. But right now she asks, Is your mom dead, too? 

Yep. Before Dad. I was nineteen? I think?  

He was twenty when they killed Clint. Interesting. A familial spree. 

There’s something Maddie’s been avoiding thinking about so she can avoid factoring it in, but the fact of the matter is that in pairs that kill together there is always a dominant personality calling all the shots. So which brother is in charge? Sam’s smart, it could be him. But if he was really such a control freak, would he be so eager to leave his patsy behind? He’s not making any decisions here. That wouldn’t work. So it’s not him in charge, it’s Ryan. 

Which, that’s not to say that he doesn’t enjoy the hunt, but it does seem like he’s not particularly interested in the whole crossbow thing. The thing that’s important to him is that faux consent, this illusion of him doing these girls a favor. At some point he and his brother decided to do their own thing. And that is unusual in the extreme. 

If he’s not the dominant personality, then there’s no way of knowing what is him and what’s his brother unless he gets out from there. And if she doesn’t know what’s really him, then she doesn’t have all the facts. 

What, Sam says. He’s watching her face closely. What are you thinking? 

Would you marry me?  

Sam draws back. His ears go pink. What? he repeats.

I don’t think my parents would be happy about us moving in together unless we were engaged. And I wouldn’t want to get engaged unless we would really get married. 

We haven’t even… He pauses, searching for words. Are you in love with me?

Maddie shrugs. 

That’s not a thing you can shrug about. 

Are you in love? she counters, and he swallows hard and then nods. How do you know? 

Because I… Again, he’s at a loss for words. He gets even more red. I’m… I don’t know. I want to be around you and shit. You get me, and you’re… incredible and I just. Yeah, I love you. Of course I love you. 

I think all those things about you too, she says, thinking out loud. So I think I probably do love you. I don’t know. 

You’d know, he says. You’d feel it. 

I don’t think I would, she says, and then explains, Sarah. 

It’s that moment where he’s telling her she hates him for killing her friend again. She can see he’s revisiting it, with new mental context. Oh, he says at last, inadequately. Okay. That… makes sense.

But I do think all the things you just said, like. I like being around you and I’d like you to be here more and I want to know everything about you. So. I think that’s it. 

Sam crosses his arms, and then uncrosses them, and then doubles over to scrub his hands over this face. He says something, she sees his lips moving. It looks like Okay, over and over again. Then he looks up at her. Do you want kids? 

This seems like a non sequitor. She frowns at him. I don’t know. Why? Do you? 

Maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. 

So why are you bringing it up? 

Because we need to have these conversations before you propose!

Maddie is having fun with this. She does her best not to smile. Well, that’s not an option anymore, she points out. 

Sam looks at the ceiling and digs his fingers around deep in his eye sockets. It might be the grossest thing she’s seen him do. Okay, he says again.

There’s tone information she’s missing. It takes a second to put together that he just agreed. Good, she says, and pulls him closer to kiss him. It seems like the right thing to do. 

So there’s a lot of things she gets to cross off her list in the coming weeks, things she learns about him in the process of him moving in with her. Like that their relationship is obviously going to go as far as she’ll let it, and that they agree on most groceries except chips. They can’t agree on chips. He won’t eat barbecue, it’s the craziest thing about him. And, she learns, that any mention of his little hobby, as he likes to call it, will make him clam up faster than anything else. He’s deep in denial. But there’s time to work on that.

He doesn’t move in right away - they both agree on the importance of seeming normal. He keeps visiting her, staying with her when he’s in town. They do a few more dinners with her family over the months, where Max becomes convinced that he’s Maddie’s soulmate and Maddie can’t even argue. She even does a dinner in Nashville, when his brother insists. And his brother insists when Sam tells him that he’s moving to Minneapolis for a girl, even though Sam leaves out the part about them getting married. 

That’s an interesting night. And Maddie knows now, with a certainty she didn’t have before, when she’s calling something interesting that Sam would call a total shit show. It’s a good sort of gut check to have now. To know what Sam would say, and use that to say something a little more charming. 

So anyways. The night is sort of a total shit show. The drive there is kind of nice - or it would be if Sam was less tense. He refuses to let her visit his family home, which brings to mind Psycho vibes, skeletons in the basement and whatever but Sam assures her that it’s not about that. Maddie knows he’s telling the truth, or most of it, so she drops it and they meet Ryan at a steakhouse. Ryan’s an inch or two taller than his brother, he’s got thicker beard and more tattoos than Sam. Their interaction begins when he mutters something to Sam that she misses, and that’s probably the high point of the night. 

He doesn’t hate you, Sam says when they’re in the car. 

Oh, now you remember how to sign, she says. Which is probably more angry-sounding than she feels. Truthfully, she isn’t angry. She’s thinking. It’s on of those seconds where she can feel her mind working, almost clicking through thoughts in quick succession. Usually she’s working on a new outline, not overwhelmed with information about her fiancé, but so be it. 

I’m sorry, he says, and he probably wants to say more but then his hands are busy driving. And it doesn’t seem fair to talk when he doesn’t want to, so the drive passes in silence. They get back to the hotel and he turns the car off. 

It’s definitely a bad idea to sit in a car in the same city as someone who is a murderer and proficient at ranged weapons and doesn’t like Maddie, so she gets out and heads for the door. Sam follows, at a distance. He’s keeping a distance from her, and it’s not until she’s inside and turns around to look at him that she realizes he’s really upset about this. His eyes are a little red, she notices, and then, oh. He might cry. I didn’t think it would be quite that bad, she says, attempting to lighten the mood. 

I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, he says again. It was like it was happening in slow motion, I couldn’t… do anything. Except for all the things that I obviously did do wrong. 

Like leave her out of the conversation most of the time, and let his brother mock ASL, and overall treat her like she’s dumb. If she had more feelings, she’d be upset with him. He clearly thinks she should be upset with him. But all Maddie is is curious. Obviously, he didn’t want to do that, so. Case closed, really. But she has to figure out how to say that best. 

If you want to go home, he begins, and she takes his hands in hers. To quiet both of them. She holds his hands, and she looks in his eyes and mouthes, 

I’m not mad. 

You’re a little mad, he tries to correct her. And that makes sense. I was a dick, and he was a huge dick.

I’m not mad, and I’m not lying, she says firmly. 

Sam can’t meet her eyes. Okay, he says. Whatever. 

I love you, she says also, which is something that she’s also decently sure to be true. 

Okay, he says again. No whatever this time. 

She has to let go of his hands to ask her next question. I want to shower. Do you want to talk before or after that? 

After, he says, predictably. Which is good, because she wants to shower, anyways. 

So she kisses him, and promises things are okay again and he sort of seems to believe her a little more. And then when she’s in the shower, she thinks about Ryan. He’s mean. That’s sort of the thing. He’s a mean guy and chooses to be. He likes hunting a lot, and he thinks writing isn’t a real job, and holy shit he is not willing to let his brother leave. He pretended that he just wanted to warn Sam about the dangers of marriage and didn’t trust her but the real thing is, he’s not going to let Sam go anywhere without a fight. Family is very important to him, he said it many times tonight. 

Fortunately, Maddie knows she’s very good in a fight. 

When she comes out of the bathroom in her pajamas, Sam’s sitting on the end of the bed, half-heartedly watching basketball. He mutes it when she comes out, which is sort of sweet. A gesture. Alright, he says. He’s been thinking too. I should’ve told him to knock it off, that’s definitely on me. I’ve never been great at calling him on his shit, but that’s no excuse, and you’ve always had my back so I’m especially sorry I didn’t have yours. 

That is all a very good apology, and Maddie studied apologies when she was younger, trying to put together a sincere one. This is textbook. Takes responsibility and explains why he made the error, expresses empathy with her point of view. Too bad it’s largely wasted on her. Okay, thank you, she says, and adjusts the towel her hair is wrapped up in. What about when you started hunting separately? Didn’t you stand up to him then? 

Yeah, eventually. Didn’t exactly go well. 

She’d ask if Ryan will get over it, but she knows he won’t. That’s not the important thing, anyways. She sits cross-legged on the bed, tugs at him until he turns to face her. I’m not mad, she says again, because he needs to hear it. You told me he probably wouldn’t be friendly. I know you two don’t have the best relationship. I accept your apology, it’s okay. 

Sam bobs his head in a nod. Okay.

Maddie would also ask who got Sam so freaked out over doing something wrong, but she’s pretty sure she knows the answer there too. She’s pretty sure she just met the answer. So instead she asks, Was it just me, or did he actually gloat about his kills? 

Yeah, I thought you caught that. He puts his head in his hands again. 

The last thing they don’t talk about is the killing. Which is sort of ridiculous, given that they met while he was mid-murder. As much as he assures her that he knows he can and knows she won’t be unnerved, Sam’s just very clear that he doesn’t want to talk about it anyways. No specifics. Jokes about murder in general are fine. He’ll help her brainstorm for her books, he’ll talk about his experiences vaguely but. That’s it. Honestly, she’s pretty sure he’s in denial. But she doesn’t stop trying. 

She lifts his head back up so he looks at her, and she pushes. Is it about numbers, for you? 

No, he says firmly. 

Is it about the competition with him?  

Sam bites down on his lip hard, which she takes as the answer it is. He won’t tell her. That’s a yes, though. And is it really a secret he’s keeping, if she knows the answer and he just won’t say it? Some people probably think so. Maddie doesn’t. 

He wakes up in the middle of the night a couple times; she feels his hand tighten on her. He says something in his sleep, she feels the vibration of it, but she can’t make it out. That’s okay, though. She gets the gist. 

It’s a relief to be back home after all of that. A place made for her, but not just her anymore. It’s for them, now. Him too. He’s got his snacks in the kitchen, and his half of the closet and his super over-cautious security measures. Four locks on the door. Curtains over every window. His crossbow is stashed in a closet, and that’s far from the only weapon he’s brought into the house, but Maddie has made concessions to her personal convictions about appearing normal so she’s okay with it. He’s made concessions too. He’ll eat almost anything she attempts to cook, and he lets her know when he’ll be late getting home, and he sleeps the first couple of hours every night while her lights are still on. 

This is their space. She’ll defend it, like she did before. So the first thing Maddie does when she’s home is get one of Sam’s knives and tape it under the mattress on her side of the bed. Sam passes by the bedroom on his way to the bathroom, sees her, and doesn’t say a thing. 

Maddie thinks for the next couple of days. This isn’t one-sided. The whole secrets thing goes both ways. He knows all the things she doesn’t say she thinks, the lies she politely tells and fails to convince him of. Those things aren’t secrets, but she hasn’t said them. 

And the conclusion Maddie comes to is that saying things is overrated. Communication is so much more than that. It’s whatever understanding blinked into existence between them that first night, it’s the things said incorrectly or out of earshot or to yourself. It’s the way he looks at her when he knows she missed some social cue, or the way she can hold his hand and know from his touch how he’s feeling. That’s real. That’s more than words. And maybe the reason people never acted like she planned on was all these things she never saw before. 

They’re getting married in eight months and she’s thought about her vows and some part of this revelation is going in them. She’s not much for sentimentality, but this is as close as it gets. Knowing he’s changed the way she acts, and knowing that whatever the rest of her life holds, she’ll be keeping Sam in it. Those are facts that are also love. 

So, when Ryan breaks into the house, Maddie doesn’t have any qualms about what needs to be done. 

She and Sam are on the couch, Sam dozing against her side as she rereads Carrie. The TV is on, the hum of noise comforting to him in a way he’s described but she suspects she’ll never understand. Usually, Sam arms the alarm system before bed. This is one of the gaps in their routine. So, of course, this is when Ryan makes his entrance. Through a window, after he tosses a rock in. Sam’s awake immediately, goes for the end table and gets a bolt in his leg for his trouble. Leg, not heart. He probably cries out. It’s probably good Maddie can’t hear it. 

Maddie shuts her book and looks at Ryan directly. And in the same way she understands Sam, she finds an instinct for understanding his brother too. This is it. If he gets his way, she’ll die. Sam might too. So it goes without saying that he doesn’t get his way. Her brain slips into crisis mode easily, makes a map of everything around her. There’s a knife in the end table. The bolt in Sam’s leg. Ryan’s crossbow pointed at her heart. She’ll never get to the knife in time. 

Sam’s within reach. Maddie reaches over and puts her hand on him without breaking eye contact with Ryan. You can read my lips? Ryan asks, and Maddie nods. Good. I’m not letting some dumb bitch break up our family. 

It’s okay that she can’t reply. There’s nothing she needs to tell him, anyways. He shoots her in the shoulder. It really fucking hurts. She takes a deep breath, her vision blurs, but she stays mostly where she is. Keeps looking at him, and waits for him to move in closer with his knife. 

Thought you were more of a fighter, he taunts her. Sammy, thought you said-

Sometimes, other people act exactly like she thinks they will. He’s in arms reach, so now’s her shot. She’s practiced this a couple times mentally in the preceding seconds, and pulls it off without a hitch. In one smooth motion, Maddie pulls the crossbow bolt out of Sam’s leg and sinks it into Ryan’s side. And she’s very glad she can’t hear either of them scream. 

 

 

 

Endings are hard. Maddie never gets any better at them. They spiral out from pivotal moments in hundreds of ways, depending on things like people and ideas and coincidence. 

There’s an obvious one, the one where she kills again and discovers it’s just as easy as it ever was. That feels likely. It wouldn’t even be something personal, not mostly. Just something that needs to happen. This is her home, and Sam’s home, and she’s defending it. She’ll be able to argue that in court, no problem, and Sam will back her up. Of course he will. This will only bring them closer together. 

But maybe she could do a little better. Maybe they could expose Ryan’s kills, heroically catch him post-mortem. Sam would probably cry and mean it, that’d help. And it’s not like it’d be hard to connect the cases. The injuries are consistent. 

That’d do a lot for her career. Horror writer shocked by horror in her real life? The people would eat that up. 

The only thing that’d be better is if Sam was revealed as a killer, too. Nobody would ever suspect her of being in on it, not after the performance she’d give. And Sam might even be talked into giving himself up. His denial wouldn’t be that hard to puncture, if she really wants to. 

And while she’s discussing options, it’s also possible that she kills both of them tonight. That Sam’s furious with her for killing his only remaining family member, and he comes after her and of course she’ll do what she has to. She’s not willing to die here any more than she was that first night. That will be harder to sell as self-defense, but not impossible. If Ryan was the killer, that night at her old house, and Sam had infiltrated her house to help get the one that got away, yes. That could all track. It would require some work, but. Maddie’s comfortable with work. 

Those are just the worst case scenarios, anyways. It’s a lot more likely that it never comes to that. Maddie wants to live her whole life with him. Long afternoons together doing different things next to each other, and making mostly terrible meals that are good just often enough to keep them trying. He’s talked about taking her hunting for deer and improving her aim. Keeping his hobby under cover. Maybe even kids, though they haven’t talked about it since she proposed. That would definitely make her family proud. So that’s the ending she picks. 

 

 

 

Unless something forces her hand.