Chapter 63

Chapter Sixty-Three

BEFORE

TOM

I've got my arm around Cindy's shoulders as we walk out of the theater where we just watched Blood Lake 2 , and I'm holding her close to me to stave off the February chill. The night is frigid but clear enough to see the moon above us, and it's so peaceful. I'd love to just enjoy a quiet walk home with my girlfriend, but Cindy's mind is only on one thing.

"That was hands down the most disgusting movie I've ever seen!" Cindy rants. She can't seem to shut up about it. "Seriously, Tom! I thought I was going to lose my lunch."

"Uh-huh…"

"That scene where the killer slices open Kay's stomach and her intestines fly out everywhere…" Her whole body shudders. "That might've been one of the most disgusting things I've ever seen. I'm going to have nightmares over that for weeks. Weeks , Tom!"

"Yeah," I mumble.

She tilts her heart-shaped face up to look at me accusingly, the edge of her white puffball hat nearly concealing her eyes. "How could you take me to that awful movie? I thought you saw the first one! Didn't you realize how awful it was?"

"Sorry. The first one was different."

I don't tell her that the only thing that disappointed me about Blood Lake 2 is that it wasn't nearly as gory as the first Blood Lake movie. But it made up for it with phenomenal special effects. It looked as real as any of the patients I cut into during my surgery rotations in medical school.

She smacks me in the arm, but it's playful. We've been dating eight months, and it's starting to get serious. I just turned twenty-six; so far there's only been one girl I've ever been in love with, and it's not Cindy. But that girl was a freaking psychopath , and Cindy is nice. There's potential here. I could imagine settling down with a girl like Cindy. Getting married. Having kids. Maybe a dog.

"I suppose I can forgive you," Cindy finally says thoughtfully. "After all, you're going to be a surgeon, so that sort of thing doesn't bother you as much."

"Actually," I say, "I decided not to apply for a surgery residency."

She stops walking so abruptly that she nearly stumbles. "Seriously? But it's all you ever talk about!"

She's right. Becoming a surgeon has been my dream ever since I can remember. But when I got into the operating room and was staring down into the chest cavity of a fellow human being as it filled with warm, pulsating blood, it became painfully clear that it wasn't the right career path for me. I finalized my residency applications last night, and even though it nearly killed me, I applied to only pathology programs, where my only patients will already be dead.

It was for the best. And anyway, it's done.

"I changed my mind," is all I can come up with by way of explanation.

She cocks her head to the side. "You are quite the mystery, Tom Brewer."

I walk Cindy the rest of the way to her apartment building as she continues to rant about Blood Lake 2. More and more often, I've been spending the night at her place, but tonight I don't really feel like it. So I don't ask to come up, and she doesn't offer.

I walk home by myself. It's a thirty-minute walk, and it's below freezing, but I've got a warm coat and a beanie, and somehow I barely feel the cold. I'm the only one on the street, and my mother would probably be furious with me if she knew how often I walk around Philadelphia alone at night. But I like to be alone. There's no one I've really managed to connect with out here. Making friends has always been hard for me, and that hasn't changed. I buried the only close friend I ever had back in high school.

Anyway, I'm fine on my own. I worry about my mother much more than she worries about me. She hasn't remarried or even dated—as far as I know—since my father "disappeared." The investigation into his disappearance was shockingly minimal. As it turned out, my dad had been racking up debts all over town, and he'd gotten on the bad side of a few dangerous people, so everyone figured he took off to escape having his kneecaps broken. It didn't hurt matters that the daughter of our town's police chief was on my side, telling her daddy how I helped save her life.

But my mother knows who was responsible for what happened to him. We've never discussed it, but I see it in her eyes every time I visit her. When I told her I'd decided against becoming a surgeon, she said, Thank God .

When I get back to my apartment—a small one-bedroom that's a short drive from the med school campus—I yank off my hat and coat, then make a beeline for my laptop on the futon in the living room. I couldn't enjoy the movie while Cindy was sitting next to me shooting me disgusted looks the whole time, but I bet I can find some of the better scenes online. I'd rather watch them alone—what was I thinking when I brought Cindy to that movie? Maybe I'd hoped she'd…

Well, never mind. That was stupid.

I place my laptop on my thighs, but when I get my hands on the keyboard, I don't search for Blood Lake 2 videos. Instead, I do something that I find myself doing just a bit too often lately. I load up Facebook and search for Daisy Driscoll's page.

Of course, she calls herself Gretchen now, but I'll never be able to think of her that way. We're not Facebook friends, but I know from previous experience that her profile is public. I scroll through her feed, pausing at a selfie she took of herself a few days ago. I used to know that face so well—I used to smile every time I saw it.

And then I catch a glimpse of a movie marquee captured in the background of the selfie: Blood Lake 2 . I wonder if she went to see it. And if so, did she go alone? After all, no one knows she enjoys movies in which characters get their faces ripped off by disembodied hands emerging from the lake. Nobody knows the real Daisy Driscoll.

Only me.

I close my eyes. For a second, I allow myself to imagine an alternate universe where Daisy and I can see Blood Lake 2 together, and then, after it's over, we can go back to her place and make passionate love. For hours.

I whip out my phone and bring up my address book. This is the third phone I've had since high school, and it's got Daisy's number programmed into it, even though I've been careful to avoid her since graduation. I don't know why I keep transferring her number into my new phones. I should delete it. Block her.

But I never do.

Impulsively, I click on Daisy's name and start a new text message. After a moment of thought, I tap out a message:

Hey, how are you doing?

I stare at the words. Wow, that sounds so lame. Daisy and I haven't spoken in eight years—well, except for that one time in college when I was dating that girl who drowned over the summer and she came to the funeral. Daisy probably barely remembers me, and I'd seem like such a loser if I sent her a random text like that on a Saturday night. It's not even what I really want to say.

I delete the text before I can do something dumb like hitting send. I chew on my lower lip, and then, before I can stop myself, I type a second message to Daisy:

I miss you.

Christ, that's even worse. If I send that, she's going to think I'm drunk and looking for a booty call. I delete it and nearly toss my phone aside, but I can't stop staring at Daisy's name at the top of the screen. You know you've got it bad when even looking at a girl's name makes your heart skip a beat. And now I find myself typing the words that have been running through my head all night, and for the last eight years:

I don't think I can live without you, Daisy.

No. No . I can't say that , for God's sake. I can't say anything to Daisy Driscoll, it'd just be asking for trouble. No, it's better to focus on Cindy, who is sweet and pretty and doesn't like horror movies, just like any normal girl. And I like Cindy. I really do.

Okay, I'm not in love with her, but I could be. I will be.

I delete the message to Daisy, then I bring up Cindy's name in my contacts. I'll call her, and if I take my car I can be over at her place in five minutes. She'll help me forget all about Daisy, I bet.

I click on Cindy's name, and I feel only a slight twinge of regret when it rings on the other end of the line. I brace myself for Cindy's high voice, but to my surprise, she doesn't pick up. The phone rings and rings, then finally goes to voicemail.

Huh. That's weird. I only dropped her off less than an hour ago, and it's not close to bedtime yet. Why isn't she picking up her phone? Cindy always answers her phone. Where could she have gone?

But I'm sure she's fine. After all, what could have happened?