To Tell An Altswood Lie (The Altswood Saga #3)

Chapter 11 - Mirror

Chapter 11 - Mirror

"Bad news first or good news?" Annabelle asked through the screen, her face occasionally freezing from the poor connection of our video call.

After yesterday's heart attack caused by exploring a secret tunnel system underneath the school, I was more than happy to sit at home and nap for all of today, until I was forced awake by a phone call from Annabelle reminding me of Livana's party at 8PM.

Now, I propped my phone up against my mirror to continue talking to Annabelle while I rubbed an inch of foundation onto my face. It was amazing that humanity had invented a product to fake the appearance of energy.

It was also rather useful when these products were worn by suspicious cave dwellers, and they ended up smearing their dusky pink lipstick on my hand. I grimaced at the thought. If only I could find its owner.

"Good news first," I replied. I held up two eyeshadow tubs. "Blue glitter or firetruck red?"

Annabelle squinted at the shades. "Blue glitter. So, the locksmith guy beside my dad's shop got back to me and said he'd totally open whatever I need free of charge, as long as it's legal."

I scoffed, twisting open the eyeshadow tub. "The legal aspect is a little debatable, but go on."

"The bad news," Annabelle continued, "is that after looking at the image I sent him, he said the lock is impossible to pick. It's expensive high tech—multiple tumblers. It'll open with a very weirdly shaped, complex key."

"Fantastic," I sighed, picking up a brush. "I'm going to scream if this turns out to be a metaphorical dead-end."

"You haven't gotten a note in a while," Annabelle said optimistically. "Maybe you'll get another breadcrumb—Jesus, how are you doing that?"

I paused, peering at her with my nose in the air so I didn't smear the eyeshadow with my rapid blinking. "Doing what?"

"It's so—" Annabelle leaned in, trying to get a closer look, "—perfect."

"Why, thank you." I did my other eyelid until they matched. Years of trying to be someone else had made me an expert at doing my face. "It's as far as my artistic skill extends."

Annabelle was quiet as I drew my eyeliner in one go. She whistled. "Have you ever thought about becoming an Instagram model—okay, wait, shit, I'm getting sidetracked. Have you gotten any new messages?"

I shook my head. "Work faster was the last message correspondence," I told her, "and then the freaky mannequins."

Annabelle clasped her hands in front of her face, then pressed them into her cheek. "Do you ever get the feeling," she began slowly, "that this killer doesn't know their own identity?"

"What?" I asked, raising my eyebrows—which was a bad idea while I tried to fill them in. "Are we talking on a deep and introspective level where no one really knows their true self or are we talking multiple personality disorder?"

Annabelle shook her head. "Neither." She made a frustrated noise low in her throat. "There needs to be an explanation. Why do they want you to figure out who they are? Why do they want to be found, five years later after the first kill?"

I shrugged, with no more to offer than the last time we tried to find an answer. "Maybe they're sadistic?"

"But how are they determining what breadcrumbs to leave you?" Annabelle continued. "How far is too far when they could just give you their name and a taped confession that they killed Beatrice and Maire?" She mushed her hands together, as if she was trying to physically mush her thoughts together too. "What is the endgame?"