1. ONE

ONE

" T eagan, if you do this, then that's it. When you come back, don't call me, don't text me. I'm done. And I'm serious this time."

Looking up from my journal, I roll my eyes at the half-naked man in my bed. "You're not my boyfriend, Hunter," I tell him. "You don't get a say in this. And if you don't support me, you can just leave right now."

"Support you in what? Becoming a groupie?"

"No…in becoming a journalist," I snap.

"You're not a journalist, Teag. You have access to the internet and a hobby. If that makes you a journalist, then I'm a fucking male model."

"I think you should go." It comes out calm, even. But that isn't how I feel. On the inside, my blood boils. I grind my teeth, waiting, and when he doesn't move or reply, I turn to him. "Get out. Go! Now!"

"Teagan, be fucking reasonable. I actually care about you—believe it or not—despite all of your quirky bullshit. That's why I'm telling you this…I want to help you."

"What you're doing right now isn't helping, Hunter. It's the same shit I hear from my mom and my sister every fucking day. I don't need to hear it from some guy I'm fucking, too."

"Some guy, huh?"

I shrug.

"That's real fucking nice," he says, shaking his head. He gets up, pulls on his t-shirt, and starts toward the door. "There's something wrong with you. You realize that, right?"

I swallow hard, taking a deep breath, hoping it'll steady the rage building inside of me. Maybe he's right—maybe there is something wrong with me. It isn't the first time I've heard that. It certainly isn't the second time, either.

"That doesn't seem like something someone who cares about me should say," I tell him.

"Teagan…"

"Just leave, Hunter. And don't worry—I won't call you when I come back. I promise."

I turn my attention back to the journal in my hands. I feel him watch me for a few seconds before he sighs, surrendering, and stomps out the door, slamming it behind him.

I refuse to cry. Hunter was never my boyfriend; I've never been in love with him. But he has been my only friend for a few months now. I've never been very good at making or keeping those.

When I realize I'm still just staring at the same empty page, unable to focus, I snap the journal closed and toss it onto the bed. I decide to make another cup of coffee. It's late enough to drink, but I still have a lot to do tonight.

"Hey, Teagan," Blakely says as I step into the main living space. The small apartment I share with my sister and, for the past six months, her fiancé, in Fullerton is two bedrooms and right around 700 square feet. We're lucky enough to have our own bathrooms, but out here, we don't have room for a real kitchen table, and the cabinet space is so limited that we keep the coffee cups in the entryway closet. I open that closet and grab one now.

"Hey."

I feel her watching me; there's something else my sister wants to say, and she will say it. Blakely never could just mind her own fucking business. Already in a terrible mood after my fight with Hunter, I feel myself getting pre-irritated with her, and I'm sure she can see it, too. I pour fresh grounds into the coffee maker, press start, then turn and wait.

"I saw Hunter leave," she says. "He seemed upset."

"Yeah, I guess he probably is," I say.

"What happened?"

Here we fucking go.

"I'm going away this weekend," I tell her. "Maybe for longer. He doesn't think I should go."

"Teagan…" she starts, shaking her head. "Why…"

"I think I really have something this time, Blakely—actually, I know I do. And if I'm right about this story, my podcast is going to blow up."

"Teagan, if you want to be a journalist, you should re-enroll in school. That's how you become a real journalist. Not…running around the West Coast proliferating internet conspiracy theories."

"That's not what I'm doing—"

"That is what you're doing. And you're further alienating yourself from the people who care about you and from reality, Teagan. I'm worried about you."

"I was right about that murder in Black Rock, though, wasn't I?"

"Maybe, but your entire hypothesis was based on the fact that the kid had 'kind eyes.' You had no evidence, and you have no resources, Teagan. You're twenty years old. You need to get a job; you never should have quit Yard House. You need a plan."

"I hated waitressing," I tell her. And the truth is that if I had to deal with one more entitled old asshole screaming in my face, I would have smashed a plate against the table and slit their fucking throat with the shards. I couldn't take it any longer. "And I have a job."

"What you're doing on social media does not count as a job."

"It's paid my fair share of the bills for the last three months, so I'd say it counts."

She shakes her head. "Listen, I was talking to Austin, and he told me they're hiring a receptionist. I asked him if he could get you an interview, and he said they could get you in tomorrow at 4:00 PM."

"Blakely, no. I don't want to be your fiancé's receptionist."

"You should at least go, Teagan. The pay is good, it has medical and dental. It's not like waiting tables; it's pretty low stress, so you could even start taking classes again."

"I don't want to take classes, either, Blakely. God, you never fucking listen to me, do you? I am fine. I don't need your help. And I won't be here tomorrow anyway."

"So, you're just going to stand them up? After Austin went out of his way to arrange this for you?"

"It's not my fucking problem; I didn't ask for it."

"No, it'll be my problem, as usual. You're embarrassing me, Teagan! Do you even care? You're always embarrassing me. I'm sure you're embarrassing Hunter, too, right? That's why he left? This is why you don't have friends. Do you even care about any of this?"

I don't. Not in the way I'm supposed to anyway.

"I'm sorry that I'm embarrassing you by existing and not having any friends," I say. "What a terrible inconvenience that must be."

"Please, take this seriously, Teagan."

"Why are you always so concerned with what I'm doing? I'm not hurting anyone. Just…fuck off, Blakely."

I take my coffee and leave the room, slamming my door behind me.

I set the mug on my desk and sink into my chair. Dropping my head into my hands, I take a deep breath to steady myself.

Don't cry, Teagan . Never let them see you cry.

It's sort of become my mantra over the past four years. And I don't. I won't.

I pick up the backstage pass on my desk, examining it in my hands. Maybe I've been wrong before, but I know I'm right about this. I know there's something here—something big, something dangerous. And this is precisely what I need to put my podcast on the map. I could finally be taken seriously. At the very least, it'd make the holidays less awkward.

Oh, Blakely? Yeah, she's doing great. She and her fiancé are both software engineers; they're getting married on the beach in Mexico this summer. Oh…Teagan? No, she dropped out. She's still trying to figure out what she wants to do. We're praying for her.

I wonder what I should pack. If things go my way, I could be gone for a while. I start making a mental list when there's a knock on my bedroom door.

"Teagan? Can I come in?" Blakely asks.

"I guess…"

She pushes the door open, walks across the room, and sits at the edge of my bed. "I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings," she says.

"You didn't."

She cocks her head to the side, her pale blue eyes—the same as my own—search mine for the lie. "Austin and I are meeting with the realtor this weekend. We're going to start looking at condos, maybe even put a couple of offers in. We want to be settled somewhere before the wedding. What are you going to do then?"

"I told you already—I'll just move back in with Mom and Dad until I can find a roommate situation."

"I went to lunch with Mom last week. She said she isn't going to let you come back unless you get a job."

I scoff. "She doesn't mean that. She won't just let me be…fucking homeless."

"I don't know, Teag," she says. "She sounded serious."

"I can't go to the interview tomorrow; I won't be here. When I get back, I'll start looking for something."

It's a lie, but I need her to get off my back.

"Okay," she says, sighing. "So…tell me about this story you're looking into now."

I turn my chair around, eyeing her skeptically. "You really want to know?"

"Yes, of course. I'm very curious. And you know what? I like your podcast, Teagan. It's not that I don't like it. I think you'd make a great journalist. I just think you should do the work—go to school, you know?"

I frown. "Do you want me to tell you or not?"

"No, I do. I'm sorry."

"Okay," I say. "Have you heard of that band, Gods of Tomorrow?" I open my desk drawer and pull out a manilla folder, trying to contain my excitement. The truth is I'm dying to tell her all about it. I can't remember the last time I was this excited about anything.

It was probably back when that serial killer was loose in Trabuco Canyon. I also probably shouldn't say that out loud.

"Yeah, of course. They have that one song, 'One Last Funeral,' right?"

"That's the second single from their second album," I correct her, "but yeah, that's them."

"Okay, and?"

"I think they're killing women."

"What? What makes you think that?"

"A few things. First…" I pause, pulling a news article from the folder and handing it to her. "Bridget Lassiter. She was one of their groupies. Last summer, the band went out to celebrate after a concert in Vancouver. They were partying on a rooftop downtown, and Bridget just jumped off."

"Okay, I kind of remember that story. I didn't realize that band was Gods of Tomorrow, though."

"Exactly. Because no one knew who they were last year. They came out of nowhere."

"That's not exactly true. Aren't two of the members the sons of some billionaire or something? Money can make anything happen."

"Yeah, like murder cover-ups."

"There was video footage, wasn't there?"

"There was. And everyone at the party was just watching; no one showed any alarm or expressed any concern whatsoever. They just waited for her to jump."

"Maybe they were all high; they were probably in shock. You don't know how you'd react in that kind of situation until it happens. Fight, flight, or freeze, right? Maybe they all froze." She pauses, and I wait while she skims the article. "It says here that the band covered the funeral costs. That's nice."

"That's not all," I tell her.

I hand her another news article. "This is Heidi Collins. I bet you haven't heard about this one…"

"Girl found barefoot and dirty in Idaho wilderness, refuses to speak," Blakely reads from the page.

"That was in December," I tell her. "They don't know how long she was out there, but she lost toes to frostbite and think that adrenaline must have kept her alive. Heidi's family said that the last time they saw her, she was leaving for a Gods of Tomorrow concert with her friends. That was nine months ago. She was invited backstage, and they weren't, so they left her there and barely heard from her for the next few months until she stopped talking to them altogether. She was found in the woods a month after communication stopped."

"Okay, that is a little weird," Blakely says. "But again, this sounds like drugs."

"The place where she was found is about twelve miles away from where the brothers, Luca and Declan, grew up and still spend a lot of their time. But…people say things about them, too, Blakely. There's an entire subreddit for superfans and people who have partied with them before…and they all claim that they drink blood."

"I'm sorry…what?"

"They say they lace the food and drinks with blood. You actually have to sign a waiver acknowledging that you know some of the items contain bodily fluids when you get tickets to these things. There are videos of them cutting fans and the fans cutting themselves during concerts or backstage. I've found videos online of people cutting themselves or drinking another person's blood for the band …as a way to show their devotion. And they make people cut themselves to get into their parties. If you listen to the lyrics of almost any of their songs—really listen—they're all about blood and death, disguised as love songs."

"Sounds like some rich kids trying to make themselves look hard to me," she says. "I'm not impressed. A lot of celebrities do that shit for attention."

I frown again. "I think there's more of a story here, Blake. There's this other girl, Layla. Her mother posted a letter online begging her to come home or at least call them. They said they haven't heard from her in over a year and a half now. They know she's with the band because they've seen her in some of the pictures online. And it's not just these girls, either. Other people on the sub say the same thing—that they have friends or relatives who have pretty much disappeared or come home completely changed. They're obsessed with blood and death."

"You mean like you?" she asks.

"No," I tell her. "Not like me. I think they're hurting people, Blakely."

"Well, what's your plan?" she asks. "How are you going to prove it?"

"They like to take pretty girls with them on tour, so…I'm going to get on the tour. Or try to, at least. I got a backstage pass to the show in L.A. tomorrow. And from what I hear, this one…" I pause, bringing up a picture on my phone and zooming in on Luca De Rossi, the guitar player with the long blonde hair, "is the easy one. If I can get him to like me, then that's it—I'm in. Shouldn't be that hard. I memorized all of their songs. I know everything there is to know about him. I'm his biggest fan."

I smile.

"You really think it's going to be that easy to get on a tour bus with rockstars?"

I shrug. "Heidi and Bridget did it. Why not me?"

"Let's say this doesn't work, and you come home tomorrow night after the concert. What then?"

"That's a loser mentality. I'm not considering that."

She looks at me like that's the most deranged thing I've said all night. "What if you come home, and you wish you'd gone to the interview? Or you regret what happened with Hunter?"

"I never wanted to work for Austin. And Hunter was always going to leave. He never understood me."

And that's the truth. Hunter was just someone I swiped right on who kept coming around—probably because he was too busy with grad school to try to find anything better. It was always going to end just like this. I'm not surprised; I'm not hurt, either. I have never been in love, but I've read about it, and I've seen it. I have this idea of how it's supposed to feel.

It never felt anything like that with Hunter. The sex was good, though.

Admittedly, maybe a lot of it is my fault. I've gotten used to being alone; I don't mind it. But it's been so long since I felt a real, genuine connection with another human being that I can barely remember what it's like, and sometimes, that's difficult to wrap my head around.

"Okay, Teagan."

"You don't believe me, either, do you?"

She shrugs and holds up a picture of the band. "He has kind eyes, too," she says, pointing to Luca. "Doesn't really look like a serial killer or a vampire."

Great. She's mocking me. She isn't wrong, though—the younger brother and guitar player smiles in the photo; long, dirty blonde hair falls around his face as he plays the instrument with his shirt off like he always does. Tattoos cover the entirety of his tanned torso and arms, down to the fingertips. The man is an entire snack.

"Look at the older brother, Declan," I say, pointing to the lead singer. "He's the one in charge. He's the only one who talks to the press; he's the one who makes all the decisions. I think he's the one killing women, but I think the others are aware of it." The older brother has jet black hair and, with eyes just as dark, stares straight ahead in the photo, emotionless in black denim pants and a black v-neck t-shirt. His own muscular arms are bare—no tattoos like his younger brother. "Do you think he has kind eyes, Blakely?"

"I…"

The front door opens and closes. "Blake?" Austin calls out. "Are you home? I picked up dinner."

"Yeah, I'm here," she shouts back. "It's not that I don't believe you, Teagan. I love you—you know that. I just worry about you, that's all."

She sets the papers in her hands aside on the bed and walks toward the door, looking back to add, "If you end up needing a ride tomorrow, call me, okay? We can come get you. I don't want you taking a ride by yourself that late."

"Okay," I say, knowing I won't call regardless of the circumstances. I plan on driving to L.A. anyway.

She flashes me a smile as she leaves, pulling the door closed behind her, but not hard enough. It doesn't quite latch. I roll my eyes and get up to close it but freeze with my hand on the knob when I hear my name.

"I told you this would happen," Austin says. "Now I have to tell them Teagan isn't coming. After I went out of my way to—"

"I know," Blakely says. "I know. I just…I feel responsible for her. I'm worried about her. Maybe she could move in with us—just until we get pregnant."

"Blakely, no. We talked about this. We need our own space. And Teagan is an adult. You're not responsible for her, and she's not living with us. I'm putting my foot down on this. Just…I don't get it. What the fuck is wrong with her?"

"I don't know," she says. "I mean, she didn't get hot until the end of high school, and it was like by then, it was already too late. The damage was done. She was already this weird-ass loner who was obsessed with serial killers and true crime. She used to write letters to guys in prison."

"I know, you told me about the letters," Austin says. "So, Hunter just left?"

"Stormed out," Blakely says. "He's had it. He seemed really upset."

"That's even more reason not to invite her to live with us, Blakely," he says. "We're going to go back to the revolving door of random guys coming in and out of the house."

"To be fair, sometimes they're girls, but I know what you mean. It's almost worse that she did get hot, you know? Before, she was just a fucking weirdo who no one really paid much attention to. Now, she's like a weirdo with huge boobs and powers."

Austin laughs. "No, I totally know what you mean. I knew this would happen, though."

"I know," Blakely says. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine. I'll just tell them she's sick; that way, if she changes her mind, maybe they can reschedule her for next week. And if she doesn't change her mind, I'll tell them she accepted another position."

"Thanks, babe. You have no idea how much I appreciate that."

"Of course. Anything for you. Did you decide what you wanted to do for the bachelorette party?"

At the change of subject, I close the door slowly and silently. Realizing I only have a few minutes left before 9:00 PM, I strip down, and then go to my dresser and pull out a matching red lace lingerie set. After putting it on, I take out my makeup bag and apply foundation before going heavy on the black cat eyeliner and dark red lipstick. I brush out my long dark hair, teasing the top just a little to give it more volume, then examine myself in front of the mirror.

I tighten the straps as much as possible without causing my DD cups to fall out of the bra.

A weirdo with powers. It's not exactly an insult. I think people like Blakely—people who have always been beautiful and popular and desirable—have no idea what kind of power they could wield if they decided to use it against others.

But people like me who have been on the other side of it—the weirdos and the freaks—know exactly what we can do with it. And we don't feel bad about it, either. In a way, I've been making up for lost time. For most of my life, guys who looked like Hunter and Luca never noticed me, and that was the best-case scenario. The worst-case scenario was that they did notice me, and so did their girlfriends, and they terrorized me.

Now, I'm the terrorist. I can fuck whoever I want, so I do. And why shouldn't I?

I clip my microphone onto my bra, place my phone on the tripod, log in, and hit the 'live' button.

"Hey, stalkers. It's Teagan here. If you remember correctly, we are currently reading Let the Right One In by Joe Ajvide Lindqvist. I will be reading chapters ten through twelve tonight, and I cannot wait to sink my teeth into this one, but…before we get started, I have an announcement of sorts…"

I pause, reading through the comments for just a second before continuing. "Aww, thank you guys so much. You are all so sweet. And thank you for 300K followers. I haven't forgotten about my giveaway, I'm just trying to think of what the perfect prize would be. You'll know when I know. Also, as my regular viewers know, I've recently started a true crime podcast: True Terrors with Teagan . You can find the link in my bio, and I encourage you all to come and follow me. Um, unfortunately, that little adventure is going to have me offline for just a little while, so I will have to leave you all on a bit of a cliffhanger tonight."

The crying face emojis start rolling in.

"I know, I know. But I will be back ASAP. I will post updates on my blog when I can, and I am going to miss you all so much. So, with that said, let's get into this story. For new viewers, I won't be able to read and respond to questions and comments while reading, so please save those until the end. I know. I'm a horrible, mean girl. But I'm your hor…rible mean girl."

A couple of hours later, I log off, change back into a t-shirt and shorts, and climb into bed.

Tomorrow. They'll fucking see. After this, they'll have to take me seriously.