Blue realized she had fallen asleep on the sofa when the morning light came pouring in through her windows. For once, it looked like the sun was attempting to poke its head through the dense layer of clouds and smog that covered Milecity. She groaned as she turned away from the window.

Without getting up, she knew that Cash was gone. Either he was still at work, or he was back at his penthouse. Slowly, she stretched out and convinced herself that she couldn’t sleep the day away. There were too many things to do.

Eventually, Blue gathered the confidence to stand up and make her way to the kitchen. She wrapped herself in a blanket as she made a cup of coffee. She glanced outside, surprised that the sun was winning. The clouds were fading away.

When was the last time I saw the sun? She wondered. It felt like it had been years.

Blue situated herself back on the couch, now with a laptop and a cup of coffee. The first thing on her to-do list was to make sure no one had taken the pictures offline. Additionally, she needed to stir things up. There was outrage and conspiracy around “Brain Dead,” but not enough.

Fortunately, it wasn’t hard to anger people online. There were some who already believed the truth–that something truly dark had been spliced into the horror movie. Others, however, played it off as a hoax. It didn’t matter that Blue knew the truth. What mattered was that she knew how to create controversy.

Under a forum dedicated to theories about “Brain Dead”, Blue found a blurry image someone had managed to capture. It depicted a shipping container and a sobbing child.

Beneath it, Blue wrote, “Can you even prove this is real? It’s probably all staged.” She spent the next ten minutes writing similar questions beneath a myriad of pictures and statements claiming that there was something dark about the movie.

Blue knew that shortly, the replies would be full of outrage and proof. It didn’t matter; what mattered was the attention. She needed people to keep talking about “Brain Dead”. She needed them to talk about the ‘flashes’.

She logged into a different account, found a forum that was full of hate for “Brain Dead”. Blue then began to ask the critics if they saw ‘flashes’ and what they supposed it meant. Some of them would probably write it off, but the curious ones might investigate. Once again, she didn’t need people to agree with her; she needed people to talk.

​

It was afternoon by the time Blue decided she had spent enough time provoking strangers on the internet. After getting changed for the day, she grabbed her skateboard and headed out of the apartment.

The day was still sunny, but it wasn’t particularly warm. The wind felt cold against Blue’s cheeks as she skated through the familiar streets. She didn’t have a particular destination, but it felt nice to be outside in the sunlight.

Maybe Cash is right, she thought to herself. Maybe we should move to the middle of nowhere.

Blue tried not to let herself linger on the fantasies of leaving Milecity. As much as she wanted to beg Cash to escape with her, she knew he never would. Imagining a future where they lived happily, someplace nice, was more painful than helpful. It didn’t give her hope in the way it used to.

The clouds were fluffy. Blue took a moment to admire the day as she flew through the city, avoiding all the traffic. She told herself that someday, she and Cash would be out of the hole they found themselves in.

​

It was late when Blue clocked out of her job. Her shift at the coffee shop went well enough. However, she cursed herself for agreeing to be on the later shift. Who the hell gets coffee at ten in the evening? The evening had gone by so dreadfully slowly. Only a handful of customers and a bit of cleaning helped her pass the time.

Rain had begun to fall in heavy drops, and Blue knew she should just go back home. However, she felt restless. Cash was likely working, and she wasn’t in the mood to sit around her place alone. With the timing of a goddess, someone began to call her.

Blue fumbled with her phone before pulling it out of her pocket. Margot was attempting to video-call her. She answered immediately.

“Are you still up?” Margot asked, groggily. Blue could tell she was in her bedroom. An array of fairy lights twinkled behind her.

“I answered, didn’t I?”

Her friend yawned. Then her eyes widened as she held the phone closer to her face. “Are you outside?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s…raining.”

“It’s always raining.”

“I hope you’re not by yourself. It’s dangerous-”

“Chill,” Blue told her friend. “Are you at your place? Wanna do something?”

“Yeah, that’s why I was calling you.”

“Well, what do you wanna do? Movie?”

“No,” Margot groaned. “You always make me watch something scary, and then I can’t sleep.”

Blue couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, I don’t know. I could come over and we could smoke and…” She shrugged. She didn’t feel like she needed a plan to hang out with her friend, but Margot liked plans.

“Wanna go out?”

Blue’s skateboard hit a rock, and she stumbled off it. Fortunately, she hadn’t been going that fast. “Out?”

“Are you alright?”

“You wanna go out? You never wanna go out.”

“I know, but…” Margot bit her lip. “I was invited to this…party.”

“Who’d invite you to a party?”

“Ha, ha,” she rolled her eyes. “At least I’m invited out.”

“Good point. So, you wanna go?”

“Sure.”

“Wanna come over here? We can smoke and…my parents have booze around here somewhere.”

​

Margot still lived at her parents’ house, and Blue would have, too, if she had parents like Margot’s. Drew and Rosanne Foster were the perfect image of the all-American family. Drew had a desk job downtown that he occasionally complained about but would never actually leave. Rosanne was a receptionist by day and an artist by night. She had decorated the entire Foster residence in eccentric art from all across the world.

Since Margot was eighteen, both Drew and Rosanne let her do basically whatever she wanted. One time, Rosanne walked into Margot’s room only seconds after Blue had put out the joint. She gave the two girls a knowing expression before simply saying, “I’ve got pizza rolls in the freezer if you two get…snacky.”

Blue liked the Fosters’ place. In many ways, it felt like a second home. As she arrived, she grabbed her skateboard and ran around back. A ladder leaned up against the house, leading directly to Margot’s bedroom.

“Ugh, it’s cold outside,” Margot complained as she closed the window behind Blue.

“Do you really just leave that ladder out there like that?”

Her friend shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

Blue looked out at the dark night. “Someone could break in.”

“Don’t freak me out.” Margot walked across the room and sat down at her vanity. She pulled off the little stud earrings she was wearing and put on a pair of hoops. They stood sparkling against her mass of dark curls. “What do you think?”

“Nice,” Blue collapsed onto Margot’s bed.

“Don’t fall asleep. I’m serious. I wanna go to this party.”

Blue rolled to face her friend, still lying on the bed. “Fine. I won’t sleep. But don’t expect me to get dressed up.” She eyed her friend’s tight skirt and the heels by the door.

Margot turned to face her. “You really wanna wear that?”

“What’s wrong with this?” Blue looked down at her attire. She wore a faded black hoodie under an old flannel. Her jeans were baggy and covered in patches she had put on herself.

“Grab something from my closet. Oh, and did you bring any-”

Blue tossed a zip-lock bag onto the vanity. “Pack a bowl. I’ll look through your closet.”

In the end, the party was as lame as she imagined it would be. Some guy Margot knew lived in a basement a few blocks over. He had invited a variety of people, mostly from the area. From the moment Blue set foot in the basement, she wanted to leave.

The entire space was barely decorated, save for an American flag that was hung on the farthest wall. There was a massive flat-screen TV that was playing a football game while music blared from a speaker near the entrance. The basement smelled faintly like wet carpet and tequila.

Blue looked over at Margot. “This is it?” She whispered.

“C’mon, I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

Introductions were just as disappointing as the party was, but Blue put up with it for Margot. Her friend seemed to be enjoying herself as they played a round of beer pong against two men with interchangeable names.

The night went on, and smoking was the only thing that kept Blue content with her situation. Soon enough, she found herself sitting on a couch with a bunch of people she barely knew. Margot was playing another drinking game with a man who clearly liked her.

Good for her, Blue thought to herself.

“Nah, man, it’s eighteen and over. And Carter can buy us all drinks.” The man next to her said. Suddenly, Blue began to listen in on the conversation happening around her.

“I don’t know,” replied one of the others.

“I hear the DJs are crazy. It’s gotta be more fun than sitting around in a basement.”

“What do you think?” The man next to her bumped her elbow with his.

Blue blinked, surprised to be asked a question. “I…wasn’t paying attention. Where you all wanna go?”

“The Dollhouse.” One said.

“It’s that big club downtown,” another explained.

Blue didn’t need any explanation on what The Dollhouse was. She hesitated. “I don’t know. I’m not really-”

“Are you guys talking about The Dollhouse?” Margot suddenly appeared, grinning. Her face was flushed from alcohol.

“Yeah, tell your friend it’ll be fun,” said one of the men.

Blue wanted nothing more than to grab Margot’s arm and drag her out of the basement.

“Oh, Blue,” Margot began. “It’d be so fun. C’mon, we’ve never gone out to a club.”

“I don’t-”

“Just for like an hour, then we’ll leave,” Margot insisted.

​

Apart from Tiff, Cash was the only family Blue had ever known. She had never decided if she thought of him as a father or a brother–likely, he was somehow both and neither all at once. However, as she pulled up to the front of The Dollhouse, she felt what it was like to disobey a parent.

Cash was quick to emotion, but he had never been angry with her. If he were to find out about her going to The Dollhouse, he’d be angry. Blue wasn’t sure she wanted to know what that felt like.

“C’mon,” Blue was dragged inside by Margot.

A bouncer checked their IDs at the front door, and then they were free. The men they had come with disappeared quickly into a sweaty crowd. Music shook the entire building while lasers bounced off the walls, creating strange patterns of light.

“This is fucking awesome,” Margot said as she found her own way into the crowd of bodies dancing.

Blue reluctantly followed.

The club was like nothing else. There was a wild kind of ecstasy that rushed through the crowd. People danced as though they were all a part of the same gigantic organism. The music was a heartbeat, pulsing through them.

Margot danced freely. Her clothing sparkled in the lights, and her hair took on a variety of colors as the song changed. Soon, Blue felt herself getting pulled away into the rhythm, as well. It wasn’t long before she found herself dancing along with everyone else.

It was impossible to tell the time while inside the club. At some point, both Blue and Margot were able to get someone to buy them a drink or two. The night passed, and Blue was secretly thankful that Margot had brought her out.

​

It was nearly four in the morning when they left the club. Blue had taken off the shoes Margot had borrowed from her and was not carrying them. The concrete felt cold and damp beneath her feet, but at least it had stopped raining.

“Wasn’t that incredible?” Margot asked wistfully as she walked beside her. For whatever reason, she didn’t seem the least bit bothered by her uncomfortable shoes.

“It was.”

“Aren’t you glad we went out. And I’m glad you came with.”

“Where’d your friends go, anyway?” Blue hadn’t seen the guys they arrived there with for nearly the entire night.

Margot shrugged. “Who knows. Should I call my mom to pick us up?”

“It’s four in the morning. No, you shouldn’t call your mom,” she glared at her friend.

“She wouldn’t mind.”

It was true. Rosanne probably wouldn’t mind, but the idea of calling her didn’t sit right with Blue. She knew that Cash was probably awake, and they could certainly call him. However, that would mean they’d have to explain where they were.

Instead of making a plan, Blue continued walking. Her toes felt like they were going numb from the chill.

“I’m gonna miss this,” Margot said softly.

“We’ve literally never done this before,” Blue replied.

“Not the club or walking or whatever, I’m talking about us…just doing things together. I’m going to miss that.” Her voice was thick, and Blue felt her heart twist. It wouldn’t be long until Margot left Milecity.

“You’ll have fun,” Blue offered.

“But it won’t be the same. No one will know me as you do. And where am I supposed to find weed?”

Blue laughed. “It’s college, not the military. You’ll find whatever drug you want.”

Margot stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Are you sure you can’t come with?”

“It’s too late to apply for the fall semester. Besides, I…I can’t leave right now.”

“Cash would understand.”

“I know. That’s why I can’t leave. If I leave Milecity, he’ll be alone.”

“He could come with.”

“I don’t think so.” Blue had never explained the full details of everything to her friend.

However, Margot knew enough to know that her situation was unique. At that moment, Blue wondered what it would be like to be in her friend’s shoes.

The most Margot had to worry about was getting into college, and she had accomplished that with flying colors. Margot had two parents in a healthy relationship, with good jobs, and a positive outlook on life. Rosanne had a rotating menu of foods she cooked throughout the week. Drew mowed the lawn on Sundays and got his hair cut–all of them–once a month.

By contrast, Blue had lost the closest thing she had to a mother. She had been forced to grow up before she could drive. Cash was rarely home anymore, and when he was, he was anxious. He lived like a refugee, looking out windows and never entering a building unless there was a clear escape.

“But you’ll be back home for the holidays, right?” Blue continued walking. She didn’t feel like thinking about Cash at the moment.

“Yeah,” Margot agreed, but she didn’t sound all that excited.

“Wanna stay at my place tonight?” Her apartment was much closer than the Fosters’ house.

“Sure. I love staying at your place.”

“If I order a pizza now, it’ll be there by the time we make it back.”

“You think?”

“I know,” Blue smiled.

​

She was right because Blue had a knack for timing things. Blue was under the belief that everyone had tiny superpowers—hers was always on time. They stumbled upon the deliveryman near the elevator. Blue provided her name and order and accepted the pizza before they even reached her apartment.

The booze Margot had drunk was wearing off. Between dancing and walking, she seemed to have sobered up.

“I’m so glad you ordered food,” Margot said, opening the door for Blue.

Blue walked in and placed the pizza on the counter. “I still can’t believe you convinced me to go there. By the way, you can’t tell Cash we were there.”

“Why? He’s always so chill about that stuff.” Margot didn’t wait to dig into the pizza. “Plus, doesn’t he like…bartend there, or something?”

Fuck, Blue had forgotten what she had told Margot. “Yeah, he works there, but he mostly does…administrative work.”

Fortunately, Margot had no interest in hearing about an administrative job. “Ah,” she replied, sitting down on the couch with a massive slice of pizza. “So, what’s the deal then?”

“He’s just protective. Those places can be…dangerous.”

“I mean, yeah. That’s why I didn’t accept that drink from the dude near the bathrooms. But I just can’t picture Cash really caring about that stuff.”

Blue had to give it to her. Had it been any other place in the city, Cash would have accepted Blue’s decision to go out with friends. But The Dollhouse wasn’t just anywhere.

Cash sat in the sterile interrogation room, realizing he had mis-stepped into dangerous territory. For over an hour and a half, the chief of police, a barrel-chested man with thick sideburns but no hair, interrogated him. In the middle of the table was a plastic bag that contained his bottle of pills.

Over and over, the chief attempted to get Cash to admit he was the one poisoning his viewers.

“Your movie never would have done this well without these murders, would it?” And, “you’ve created quite the following, you know?” were among the only things Friday had to say.

Cash was tired of the endless questions and the way the cold metal of the cuffs dug into his wrists. As Friday went off on another tangent about how killing someone with drugs was cowardly, Cash let his mind drift off towards something else.

He wondered, idly, why he hadn’t grabbed a sweater before leaving his house. The police station was frigid and dank. The cold bit his exposed arms. Why the hell hadn’t he worn something warmer?

“Don’t you have anything you want to say for yourself?” Friday concluded.

Cash contemplated asking for a lawyer, but that would only add to the look of guilt, wouldn’t it?

“That man you sent to my place, where is he?” If he had to get interrogated, he preferred the gruff, larger man. Lane.

Shortly after the detective left Cash’s penthouse, he had done a bit of his own sleuthing. Detective Montgomery Lane–what a name–had been with the Milecity Police Department for years. The man was a certified workaholic, from the looks of it, given how many cases he solved. Then, about five years ago, he lost it. He beat the shit out of a suspect, leaving the man unable to testify.

Lane was fired. Then, later, he was rehired as a private detective. He wasn’t on the MPD’s payroll, but he worked nearly every case.

In Cash’s eyes, Lane was still a cop. But it was hard to miss how observant he was. He had walked into Cash’s penthouse with the eyes of a hawk, looking around and categorizing everything–including Cash.

“Are you asking about Lane?” The chief asked.

“Yes. He’s the one who found this, right?” Cash asked, gestured to the pills at the center of the table. He wished desperately that he could break them open and take one or two…or several. Fuck, the day was becoming long.

“He is,” Friday seemed hesitant to give Cash any details about Lane.

“Well, isn’t he the-”

There was a knock on the one-way glass. Friday pulled out his phone and let out a sigh. “I’ll be right back,” he told Cash as he left the room as suddenly as he arrived.

Cash was left to stare at the glass, wondering who was on the other side. He smirked at his own reflection. Even given his current circumstances, he looked good. As a taunt to whoever was watching him, he wiggled his fingers in a half-hearted wave.

They won’t get what they want, he thought to himself. And they’re stupider than I thought if they genuinely think I’m behind this.

After several long, excruciating minutes, the door opened. This time, it wasn’t Friday who walked in but Lane. Cash smiled at his fortune and leaned back in his chair. It was cold against his back, grounding him in the moment.

“I had hoped you’d come back,” he remarked.

Lane entered the room in the same battle-weary way he had entered Cash’s house. It was as if the fate of humanity itself was settled on the man’s shoulders.

He’s violent, Cash reminded himself. He’s dangerous.

Despite the thoughts, Cash found himself intrigued by Lane. He had been a respectable detective once–one of the best in Milecity. Now, he looked as though he was surviving off spite and stale beer. How did someone fall so hard? What made him lose his mind and attack someone?

“Where’d you get them from?” Lane asked as he sat heavily on the chair across from Cash. His dark eyes were filled with a new kind of rage.

It took Cash a moment to process what he had been asked. At last, the realization dawned on him. Oh, he’s seen the film again, and he’s noticed something new this time.

“I’m not sure what you’re asking, detective,” he replied as pleasantly as possible. He wanted Lane to say it out loud.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I’m a busy man,” he shrugged. “What are you asking?”

“The pictures that were spliced into the movie.”

“Film.”

A muscle in Lane’s jaw tightened.

Cash couldn’t help but smirk. This was not what he had expected, but he was pleasantly surprised. He hadn’t expected Lane to march in and ask about the images. Maybe the cops weren’t nearly as terrible as he had assumed.

“Did you find them yourself, or did someone tell you to look for them?” He leaned closer to Lane.

“Are they real?”

“Answer my question first.”

“I found them online. You’ve built quite the…following.”

Cash hummed in response. He had built quite the following, and in what? Two weeks? How long would it take for more people to know? For the truth to be known? Would he be alive to see the empire crumble?

“Are. They. Real.” Lane’s words were sharp, and for the first time, Cash picked up on the hint of an accent. He wasn’t from Milecity. Interesting.

“Yes, they’re real pictures.”

“But the…context…is that real. Are they actors?”

At least he’s asking the right questions, Cash thought idly. “What do you think?”

Before Lane could answer, Friday stepped back into the room. “A moment, Lane?” The conversion was over.

In a moment of panic, Cash reached out suddenly and grasped Lane’s arm. “They’re real. They’re not actors.” He said quietly. “Find Layla-Rose.”

Lane pulled his arm out of Cash’s grip and stepped away from the table. The two men left the room together, while Cash was left with his heart beating rapidly in his chest. All he could do was hope that Lane was better than the rest.

He hated that his future was being balanced on the shoulders of a giant, angry ex-cop.

​

In the end, it was decided that Cash’s prescription medication was not enough to build a case around. However, the police made it crystal clear that they would do everything in their power to put him away. He was released forty-eight hours after being arrested, but he failed to feel truly free.

I’m still their number one suspect, he thought bitterly as he found his way across the city and up to Blue’s apartment.

Blue answered the door and nearly cried as she threw her arms around his shoulders. Cash stepped into the small space and let the door shut behind him.

“I’m fine,” he told her.

“You’re an idiot.”

“That too,” he admitted.

Blue pulled away and aggressively wiped her tears away with the back of her sleeve. “Sorry, I just…I knew this would happen. They…they’re not going to let this go. It’s going to get pinned on you.”

“I know,” he agreed as he walked across the apartment and collapsed onto the sofa.

For Milecity, Blue had a nice place–far nicer than any teen ought to have. Cash paid for the place, of course. Blue’s various part-time jobs weren’t enough to cover the rent, and he preferred her to save her own money.

“Maybe for school,” he had once said.

“I don’t know about that.”

They never talked about school after that. Cash gazed out of her large windows at the factory near the banks. A column of blue rose from its massive smoke-stack.

“Maybe you should just run,” Blue sat beside him on the couch and leaned into his shoulder as she turned on the TV. “That’s what I would do.”

“And go where?” Milecity was all he had ever known. He had tried to leave dozens of times. Each time, he found his way back.

“There’s a whole world out there, you know?”

“You’re right.” After all, it was fun to pretend. “I could go to New York, maybe.”

“Or Paris?”

“I don’t speak French.”

“You could learn. I’ll go with you, I’m great with languages.”

He squinted at her. “What other languages do you speak?”

Blue hesitated. “Well, I’ve been watching this show in Japanese, so I’m basically fluent.”

Cash rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah? Say something.”

“Don’t put me on the spot.” She sat up, glaring at him.

“Alright, alright,” he relented. “So, you know some Japanese. We could go to…Tokyo or something. Where else?”

“Singapore?”

“I like it. What about Korea? I hear they love blond men,” he ran a hand through his hair.

Blue snorted and rolled her eyes. The conversation fizzled out, and he knew she was thinking about everything that had happened in the past month. She leaned back into the sofa and began to mindlessly scroll through movie options.

“Actually,” Cash said quietly. “I don’t think I want to move to a big city. I’m kinda over it.”

“Yeah?” She met his eyes. “Are you going to move to the mountains and become a hermit?”

“Tempting. But I was thinking of a farm. I could raise cows and chickens and…”

“You’re a vegan.”

“I wouldn’t raise them to eat, you monster. I would just…raise them.”

“Not sure if that’s how that works,” Blue remarked. “But I’d visit you. Even if your dream kinda sucks.”

“Farms are cool.”

“You’d have to wake up early and get your hands dirty.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have to deal with…” Cash trailed off. He didn’t really want to consider all the things he hated about his life.

“Fine, but don’t complain to me when you realize you have to actually work hard,” Blue retorted.

“Maybe I’ll find a big, strong ranch hand who’ll come help me out,” he winked.

“Ew,” she wrinkled her nose. “That sounds like one of those trashy books Tiff used to read.”

At the mention of Tiff, Cash’s smile faded. He could almost picture her, lounging on the couch beside Blue. Her platinum hair pulled away from her face while she read a book with a cover so embarrassingly sexual that she should have been blushing. Of course, she wouldn’t have been blushing because nothing bothered Tiff.

She should be here with us, he thought.

“I was thinking of ordering pizza tonight,” Blue said.

“Yeah, that sounds great.” His mind remained stuck on the thought of Tiff. His heart ached, thinking about her. It wasn’t right. She should have been sitting with them, insisting they order pizza with extra olives.

​

The Dollhouse was abuzz with new customers. The rhythmic music pulsed through the venue as Cash led a well-dressed group of businessmen up to the second floor.

“I’ve never done anything like this,” whispered the youngest of the group. He was a fresh-faced man with a bit too much light in his eyes to be at a place like The Dollhouse.

“Don’t be weird,” remarked the man next to him, likely the second youngest.

“It’s alright to be excited,” the oldest man looked at Cash, his eyes drifting down over the open button-down he wore. “Right?”

Cash replied with a wink and a smile. “It’s more than alright to be excited.”

The elevator opened, and he led them out onto the second floor. Jules stood at the bar, watching with a vague sort of interest.

“Welcome to Level Two,” Cash turned to face them, forcing himself to smile while the youngest of the group looked like he was about to pass out. His eyes were glued to a topless dancer who was performing for a group at the bar.

“Where did you put us?” The oldest asked.

“You three ordered an hour, right?” Cash

He nodded.

“Follow me,” he turned and walked across the room.

Cash approached one of the few doors on the outside wall. “VIP” was written across the door in deep red. He held the door open for the three guests. They stepped in and found their seat on a u-shaped couch that took over a majority of the room.

“I’ll have drinks sent over. Your dancer will arrive shortly. If there’s something you want to listen to, use the tablet on the wall,” he smiled as he shut the door and made his way to the bar.

“New?” Jules asked as she poured a pint of beer.

“Yeah,” he leaned against the furthest end of the bar, far from the performer and the crowd.

“Who’s going in there?”

“I don’t know yet. If Halle is there, maybe she’ll want to take it.”

“Was it a real Rolex?” Jules raised a brow.

“How did you see that from here?”

She grinned. “I have a sixth sense for rich people.”

Cash rolled his eyes and stepped behind the bar. Hidden in an alcove was a narrow door that led into the dressing rooms. The moment he set foot into the back room, he was met with the intense scent of floral perfume and cigarettes.

“Halle,” Cash approached the only person in the room. She sat in front of a massive mirror, perfecting her hair. “I thought you quit smoking.”

Halle’s dark eyes rose to meet him in the mirror. The bright bulbs illuminated her face with a soft glow. “I thought you were over the sequins faze.”

He glanced down at the shirt he had chosen and frowned. “There’s a group of three in Room Two.”

Halle touched up a bit of her makeup before standing. She put out the remainder of her cigarette in a half-empty soda bottle before turning to face him. “Jules could have told me.”

“She’s working the bar.”

“And where are you working?”

“There are new guests. Hammer asked me to-”

“You might be his newest favorite,” she stepped close to him. “But you won’t last. No one ever does. Those wrinkles,” she paused and flashed him a cruel smile. “Will only grow larger.”

Cash let out a long sigh. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Halle. “Listen, I don’t want us to be-”

“Sorry, but I have to go,” Halle stepped around him and out the back door.

He listened as the sound of her heels faded into the distance. Cash pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered how much longer he would have to do this.

Until your debt is paid, he could almost hear Debeaux’s voice.

Lane’s apartment was little more than a dimly lit cube on the twelfth floor of a complex near the police department. His neighbors were a strange collection of individuals: college students, temp workers, and a myriad of drug-addled deviants. Lane hated the place almost as much as he hated every place he had ever lived. However, its proximity to the police station kept him rooted there.

Unlocking the door, Lane let himself into his apartment. He turned on the light, hung up his jacket, and toed off his soggy leather boots. A shiver crossed his back and arms as he stepped into the small space. He adjusted the thermostat, knowing full well that it was nothing but a placebo at this point. The landlord, a grouchy man in his mid-fifties, kept the entire complex at a balmy fifty-nine degrees–and that was being generous.

There was nothing but beer and a cold slice of pizza in the fridge. Lane opted for the can and walked out onto the tiny balcony that overlooked the road below. In the near distance, he watched as someone walked into the police station.

“I’m sure as shit not making that mistake again,” a voice declared.

Lane looked over at the balcony beside him. His neighbor–Dee, he thought her name was–was having a heated conversation on her phone.

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” she practically shouted into the phone.

Lane felt guilty for listening in, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Fine. Do what you want, but I’m not bailing you out this time.” With that, Dee hung up her phone and slumped into one of her weathered patio chairs. She let out a long sigh before noticing Lane.

Lane quickly looked away, embarrassed to have been caught.

“Sorry about that,” Dee remarked. “I didn’t know you’d be out here. But you’re kinda a creep for eavesdropping.”

He couldn’t help but smirk at the comment. “Sorry.”

“How was the performance?” She raised a brow as she pulled out a vape from her pocket.

“Good. Maybe next time don’t answer the phone in the first place.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “The man’s a bastard but…” Dee trailed off before letting out a puff of vapor from her vape.

Lane had seen Dee’s boyfriend a handful of times. More often than not, he could hear the two fighting next door. He had never spoken to the young man directly, but he knew he caused more problems than he was worth.

“I think I’m finally done,” Dee said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m serious about it this time.”

“Good for you.” He raised his can in celebration but said nothing further.

“You don’t have another one of those, do you?” She asked.

Lane hesitated before answering. He didn’t really want to talk to Dee, nor did he want to give her one of his beers. However, he could see the young woman was in desperate need of company; he just wished it was someone other than him who could provide it.

“I’ve got more.” He stood, walked into his apartment, and grabbed a beer from the fridge. Walking outside, he reached across the railing that separated their balconies and handed the drink to Dee.

“Thanks,” she smiled as she took it. She took a sip and sat back down in her chair. “I appreciate it. Hey,” she looked at him. “You’re Monty, right?”

Lane bit back the desire to shiver at the nickname. “Montgomery,” he said, although he rarely used his first name.

“Huh, quite the name.”

“Most people call me Lane.”

“Most people call me Dee…or mom.” She smirked.

Lane faintly recalled seeing a couple of young kids go in and out of her apartment. “How many kids do you have?” He asked because it felt like the right question to ask.

“Three.”

“That’s quite a few.”

“Do you have any?”

“One,” he replied. “A daughter. She lives with her mother.”

“Oh,” Dee wasn’t sure what to say from there. No one ever did. “You’re a cop, right?”

“A detective.”

“Cool,” she took a sip of beer.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Below them, the city was alive. Sirens, car horns, and the gentle drone of traffic came together in a chorus. Lane was certain that Dee had forgotten about him, but then she turned to look at him once more.

“I don’t suppose you know anything about those movie-murders?”

“Only a bit,” he lied.

“It’s weird. I’ve been reading about it all day. It’s terrible but…it’s like a car crash. I can’t look away. I just keep reading about it.”

“Yeah?” He prompted. “What do you think?”

“Oh,” she looked surprised. “I don’t know. I’m not a detective, but it’s….odd, isn’t it?”

Lane shrugged. He wanted Dee to keep talking. Sometimes hearing other perspectives helped him see things from a new angle.

“I mean, this guy–the guy who wrote the movie, he’s blowing up online. People are talking about his movie a ton.”

“Yeah? What are people saying about him?”

Dee thought for a moment. “All kinds of things. He sorta came out of nowhere. Apparently, the guy never made a movie in his life and then came out with this one.”

“I suppose that’s unusual.”

“Unusual,” she snorted. “I’ve got a sister out in Hollywood who’s been trying to make it big for decades. She’s got all kinds of connections, but she still hasn’t produced and created a movie.”

“So, how do you think he did it?”

“It’s low budget and not…particularly good but…”

“The murders have certainly made it popular.”

Dee nodded and took another deep inhale of her vape.

“So, do people think he has something to do with it?” Lane asked.

“A lot of people do, yeah.”

“What do you think?”

Dee paused. “I went out to see it with a friend of mine,” she began. “It was fun–a zombie movie, but that’s about all. But, there were these flashes…like a sudden image of something else. It creeped me out…I keep thinking about it.”

“Flashes,” Lane didn’t remember any flashes.

“I don’t know how to explain it. It was like random images appeared on screen, over the top of the movie, but only for a split second.”

“Did other people notice this?”

“My friend thought I was crazy,” Dee laughed. “But I looked it up and other people online are talking about it, too.”

Lane’s curiosity piqued. “Did other people see it? The ‘flashes’?”

“Yeah.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah,” she repeated, letting out another exhale of blue vapor, it rose into the skies. “Paired with the murders…it’s all a bit spooky, isn’t it?” She grinned in the way people did when they were talking about something they shouldn’t have been. Dee was frightened by what she spoke of, but she was also intrigued.

This, Lane, thought to himself. This is why Brain Dead is popular. Whatever she saw that night, other people saw it, too. And it stuck with them.

​

It was well past midnight when Lane began his research. He switched his beer for coffee and settled into the overcrowded desk. As he waited for his laptop to turn on, he considered everything he had learned that day. He pulled out his notes and collected his thoughts as well as he could.

1. Cash financially benefited from the murders. The movie grew in popularity only after the first few murders.

2. Cash had access to the drug that killed the victims.

3. There may or may not be ‘flashes’ in the movie.

Lane wasn’t sure what to think about Dee’s claims. However, her insights were helpful. In fact, they prompted him to begin his search online to back up the things she had said.

Very quickly, Lane learned that Dee was mostly accurate. Cash had never produced a movie before. In fact, from what little he could find, the man had never so much as taken a college film class. Instead, he had been working at a nightclub downtown for the past ten years. As far as Lane could tell, Cash had never spoken, posted, or vaguely mentioned making a movie until recently.

One month ago, Cash posted a trailer to his movie, claiming he had secured a one-night showing at a small, local theater. The comments to the post were mostly congratulatory. However, the suddenness of it all struck Lane as odd. Who just decides to make a movie?

Dee was right, the movie wasn’t well-loved online for its acting or storytelling. Rather, the movie had become big due to the murders attached to it. Additionally, other people claimed to have seen the very thing she had seen.

Her so-called “flashes” were believed by many online to be spliced footage. Cash–or someone–had purposefully edited still frames into the movie. From what he could find, no one had a clear recollection of what these still frames depicted, but everyone left the theater feeling unnerved.

“I saw the splices,” wrote an anonymous user on a conspiracy forum. “One was for sure a killing. I saw a woman lying on the ground with her brains spread around the room.”

“I saw a dead child,” another commented.

“It’s not real,” argued a different user. “Obviously, it’s just a way to freak people out.”

“I never said it was real,” replied the first user. “I just didn’t like it. I feel like it took away from the movie.”

“I had to leave. The sudden flashes made me feel sick.”

Lane scanned the thread of comments, unsure what to make of it. He wasn’t a conspiracy theorist. He didn’t have the time or passion to create entire worlds from fiction. However, he would have been lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued by what he found.

​

When dawn finally broke out across the gray landscape of Milecity, Lane was already on his second pot of coffee. He hadn’t intended to stay up all night, but sleep never arrived. He had spent most of the night attempting to make sense of the case before him.

As far as Lane was concerned, Cash was the leading suspect. He scrutinized the files the police had given him and no one else stood out to him.

It was around eight when Friday gave him a call.

“So how’d it go with Kincaid?” Friday said instead of ‘hello’.

“Good.” Lane’s voice was rougher than he had expected it to be.

“And what’d you think?”

“He’s my leading suspect,” Lane admitted.

“Yeah? Did you get any real answers from him?”

Lane leaned back in his chair and gazed up at a spot of discoloration on his ceiling. “Well, for one, the guy has directly made money from the murders. If it hadn’t been for the deaths, no one would have gone to see that movie.”

The police chief paused for a moment. “I hope you’ve got more than just that.”

“What do you know about alprazolam?” Lane asked.

“Apart from the fact that it’s what killed eight people in the last two weeks?” Friday sighed. “It’s for anxiety, I think. Strong stuff. Used recreationally, sometimes. Why?”

“Do you find many people overdosing on it?”

“Not as much as other drugs, but mixed with the amount of alcohol the victims had in their system…obviously, it was deadly. Why?”

Again, Lane felt hesitant. He wasn’t sure why. “Cash had a bottle of pills at his house when I went there yesterday. Can you guess what the prescription was?”

“Fuck,” Friday groaned. “How did my guys miss this?”

A smirk tugged at Lane’s lips. “That’s why you still hire me, isn’t it?”

“I’ll send some guys over this morning.” He paused. “Thanks.”

“Anytime. Oh, and I don’t suppose you got access to a copy of the movie, did you?”

“No. That bastard wouldn’t let us anywhere near his film,” he spat the word as it insulted him. “But you hardly need it now.”

“Yeah, I…” He scratched the back of his head. “I just wanted to check something out.” For a reason unknown to him, Lane opted not to share the spliced-film theory with Friday.

“Don’t tell me you’re becoming one of the super-fans.”

He snorted. “No, no.”

“Good, well,” he paused. “Nice work. I’ll keep you in the loop. You’ll be one of the first to know when he confesses.”

The line ended before Lane could say anything more.

​

The case was basically closed. Lane tried to remember that as he continued to scroll through various forums online. He should have been going to bed–or at least eating something. All he had consumed in the past twelve hours had been beer and coffee. The combination sat heavily in his gut.

​

“One day, all this trash is going to catch up with you,” Sam said, as she lounged on the sofa, watching him with kind eyes.

Lane only laughed as he grabbed another beer and sat down at his desk.

“Oh, c’mon. You said we’d watch something together.”

“I’m not watching more reality TV bullshit. I have-”

“Work to do?” She mocked his voice by making hers deeper.

“Work is what pays for this place,” he replied.

“Yeah? And why pay for anything if you can’t enjoy it? You’ve been working all day. We can watch anything you want.” She offered with a smile.

The forum was mostly full of people arguing. Some people thought the spliced-film theory was nothing more than a creative way to add an unnerving element to the movie. Others believe the spliced images to be depicting real-life events.

Over the next few hours, only more comments appeared.

Lane didn’t find anything of interest until nearly midday. That was when he stumbled across a collection of images claiming to be the exact copies of the ones spliced into “Brain Dead”. At first glance, Lane wrote the images off as a hoax–a way to garner attention online.

However, he found himself unable to scroll past them.

There were twelve images, but the user who uploaded them claimed that there were many more; they just hadn’t been able to get them. Some of the photos were of bad quality, while others were vivid in detail. Perhaps a bit too vivid.

Lane had seen countless crime scene photos over the years, but something about these stuck with him. They were graphic; images of men, women, and children dead in some of the most brutal ways. Many of the victims were tied up or restrained. Others appeared to have been badly beaten before their deaths.

Not all of the victims appeared to be dead at the time their pictures were taken, and not all were graphic. While some were bloody, others were disturbing in their own right. A little girl sat in a cage, sobbing. She was attempting to reach out, through the bars of the door, towards whoever was taking the picture.

Lane stood up. A wave of revulsion settled in his gut. Who the fuck puts an image like that into a cheesy horror movie? Where the fuck did these images come from?

They could be fake, he told himself. And even if they’re not, the police should be interrogating Cash now.

Without letting himself consider what he had just seen any longer, Lane pulled on his jacket and boots and left the apartment. If Cash was still at the police station, he needed to see him. He needed to make sure that bastard didn’t slither his way out of custody.

Detective Montgomery Lane stepped out of the projection booth with a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. A handful of cops waited in the lobby, still taking witness accounts from bystanders. A woman stood near the door, sobbing. A group of adolescents stood together, looking sick, silently staring at the floor.

“Well, what’d ya think?” Chief Friday folded his hands across his wide chest. Exhaustion etched his face in premature wrinkles.

Lane turned towards the other man. “I don’t know what I think. It’s a damned zombie movie, what am I supposed to think?”

“I just wanted to know if there was anything suspicious.”

“Not unless you call wasting my time suspicious.”

“So, you don’t think there’s any supernatural factors to this crime?”

Lane let out a long sigh and contemplated the life choices he had made to lead him to this point. “No, Chief, I don’t think the zombies are crawling out of the screen and killing people if that’s what you-”

“Hey, I’m not saying that. I just…these folks are pretty riled up. And the murders…well…they’re definitely murders. No one can say they’re accidental anymore.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” Lane glanced at the crowd of people. “Why were so many people out tonight?” It was hard to imagine so many people didn’t have anything better to do than watch the steaming pile of shit he had just witnessed.

“They like the movie, apparently. The director has quite a following. The murders have…well, they’ve actually helped sales, I guess.” Friday scratched his head.

“Huh.” If Lane were honest with himself, he hadn’t gone to see a movie in well over a decade. Even when he had gone out, he rarely took away much from the movies at all.

“You’re missing the point,” his ex-wife, Sam, declared. “It’s about grief and how everyone feels it differently.”

“Well, it’s…something.”

“C’mon,” she grinned, holding his hand tighter. “You can’t tell me it didn’t make you feel something. I was in tears at the end.”

“I feel like my wallet is lighter and I lost two hours of my day.”

Sam rolled her eyes, but she laughed because she used to be able to laugh off his cynicism.

“All I’m saying is that there has to be more to it than that,” Friday pressed on.

“If you can, send me a copy of the movie, a list of cast and crew, and all the places it’s been played already.”

Friday scratched his sparse beard nervously. “I’m not sure I can get you a copy of the film,” he admitted.

“Why?”

“The producer–director…whatever,” he waved his hand. “The guy in charge of all this hasn’t been the easiest to work with. He’ll lose his shit if I ask for a copy.”

“Let him lose his shit. People are dying.” Lane pulled his jacket on. “And the case files. I’ll need a copy of each victim’s case file.”

“You already have-”

“Not the one from tonight.”

Before Friday could protest any further, Lane left the theater. Outside, the skies were a flurry of icy rain. It splattered against the uneven cobblestone streets, making them glisten in the city lights. Behind him, the little theater sparkled in the rain. The marquee read, “Now Showing ‘Brain Dead’ One Night Only”.

For a moment, Lane stood in the middle of the empty street, gazing up at the flashing sign. Rain soaked through his heavy leather jacket as he pulled out a small flask from his pocket. The cheap whiskey was a bitter relief. He contemplated the irony of the movie title before continuing his journey home.

Lane’s office was nothing more than a stuffy rented room above a laundromat. There were four other offices, each hardly larger than a closet. Lane did his best to keep things organized, but it was no easy feat. Around him, shelves of case files, books, and other documents closed in on him. There was hardly enough room for his desk and chair, let alone company.

Despite this, a young woman sat across from him, fiddling with a vape as she watched him flip through a file.

“Blue, you said?” He repeated for what had to be the fourth time that morning. His head was fuzzy from a late night of research and whiskey.

She let out an irritated huff, “Mary-Anne Bluebell Simon. I go by Blue.”

Lane looked up. Blue was young, likely fresh out of high school. Despite her youth, she showed no fear of speaking to Lane. In fact, she had organized the meeting herself. When he had first taken the call he had expected her to be older and a bit more…conventional.

Blue wore an black oversized sweatshirt with the image of a decapitated king on the front of it. Upon removing her hood, Lane had been shocked to find that her hair was shaved. Only a faint fuzz covered her head.

“Well, what have you come here to talk to me about?” It was obvious the young woman was eager to get something off her chest. He wondered what she might know about the murders.

“Cash.”

He waited for further explanation. When she didn’t offer any, he sighed. “I’m gonna need more than that, kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” she raised a pierced eyebrow. “Are you actually looking into this case or are you just…pretending?”

Lane leaned back in his chair and assessed the woman in front of him. She held herself with the calm confidence of someone who was entirely comfortable in their own skin. Fleetingly, he was reminded of Sam.

“Tell me about Cash,” Lane said at last.

“He’s the director, producer, and writer for ‘Brain Dead’. I told him to come here himself, but obviously, he’s pretty busy at the moment. So, I’m here on his behalf.” She raised her chin.

“Cash Kincaid,” Lane remembered the man’s name from the files.

“Yes. Do you have any suspects yet?”

“I can’t share that kind of-”

“Cash isn’t behind this. People are going to make you think that he’s some kind of…murderer, but he isn’t.”

Lane crossed his arms. “Alright.”

“I also…” She trailed off. Her confidence faltered. “I also think this is bigger than a few murders.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I think someone is trying to frame him. Someone really…bad.” It was a rather childish statement, but Lane took a note anyway.

“Who is this ‘someone bad’, do you suppose?”

“All I know Cash wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s a vegan.”

Lane stared blankly at the young woman. “That’s not an alibi.”

“I know, I just…” she let out a long breath.

“What can you tell me about his movie, ‘Brain Dead’?”

Blue thought for a moment before continuing. “He had a hard time getting it into any theaters at all. It almost didn’t work out. Then one small theater accepted the film, and it was a huge success. More theaters accepted it, and it developed a big online following.”

“Does Cash have anyone in his life that might be jealous of his success?”

Blue bit her lip again. “It’s not like that. I mean, yeah, sure, some people are jealous of him, but I don’t think that’s who’s killing people.”

Lane nodded. Despite not having much faith in what Blue was explaining, he wrote down everything she said. If nothing else, he was thorough.​

For about an hour, Lane questioned Blue. She answered mostly in vague responses. The only clear thing she ever insisted upon was that Cash was innocent and someone was trying to frame him. He accepted this opinion.

When Blue eventually left, Lane busied himself with organizing the files and re-reading them.

Eight murders in two weeks. Each murder happened at a showing of “Brain Dead”. The victims were all killed the same way: a deadly combination of alcohol and alprazolam.

After the first few deaths, no one considered it murder, but rather a few unfortunate deaths. The case was closed–overdose. Alcohol and Benzodiazepines were by no means uncommon substances. Unfortunately, the combination of the two was well-known to have taken lives.

Now, however, after eight deaths and hordes of families and friends explaining ‘they never took any medication’, the Milecity cops believed otherwise. After several more deaths and testimonies from family members, the case was reopened.

Lane’s phone rang while he was in the middle of scouring the files for who to interview. Blue hadn’t provided anything concrete and he was eager for answers.

“Hello,” he answered the phone.

“Can you do me a favor for me?” Friday asked.

“Sure.”

“One of my men just interviewed Cash Kincaid and it…the guy is suspicious at best. I just don’t have a reason to bring him in.”

“You think he’s behind this?” Lane thought about Blue’s insistence otherwise.

“I do. I just don’t have enough to make an arrest.”

“So, you want me to interview him? Ask what he saw?”

“I want you to do what you do best, Lane.”

Lane glanced out the window at the muddy skies over the city. “I’ll leave in the next half-hour.”

“Great,” he could practically hear Friday beaming on the other line. “Let me know what you find.”

Milecity had two types of weather–ice cold rain or fog so thick that driving was a hazard. Sometimes, if the heavens particularly hated them, it would be foggy and rainy. The second Lane stepped outside, he regretted leaving the warmth of his office. He pulled the collar of his jacket up against the cold and walked towards his car.

The old vehicle had once been a thing of muscle and power. Now, it was nothing more than a relic of a time long passed. Lane didn’t have the heart–or the finances–to get rid of it. If he were to ever have a rare moment of honesty with himself, he would admit that he saw himself in the old beater.

There had been a time when he had been a great detective, motivated by the unyielding sensation of justice and moral obligation. Now, just like the car, Lane found himself as nothing more than a nod to a memory. He slid into the driver’s seat and let out a long sigh. Rain cascaded across the windshield as he stared at the laundromat ahead of him. His office sat, dark and quiet, on the second floor.

Cash Kincaid lived on the nicer end of Milecity. ‘Nicer’ was a relative term considering the city was slowly becoming overtaken by boarded-up shops and neglected roads. The address Lane had been given directed him to a shiny black skyscraper near the heart of the city. He parked his car and gazed up, unable to see the top few stories due to the weather.

Lane got out of his car and was immediately approached by a valet. The man held out an umbrella as he stepped out of the old vehicle.

“How’s your afternoon, sir?”

“Fine,” he replied gruffly as he handed over the keys.

The interior of the building was as luxurious as the exterior. A woman stood at the front desk with a friendly smile and a well-tailored suit.

“Good afternoon,” she called out. “Who are you visiting today?”

Lane felt wildly out of place as his heavy, leather jacket dripped onto the shiny, white tiles. His boots had already made a mess of the lobby. “I…I’m visiting Cash Kincaid.”

“Wonderful,” she pressed a button and spoke so softly Lane could hear her. After a moment, a voice replied and she looked up, still smiling. “Top floor. He’s expecting you.”

Lane nodded and made his way through the lobby and towards the elevator. He got in and pressed the top floor, level thirty-three. The doors of the elevator shut and in their shiny surface he viewed his reflection for the first time in days. It was hard for him not to notice how rough he looked. He needed a haircut and maybe to trim his beard as well. His well-worn jacket and jeans were a stark contrast to the nice interior of the building.

Before Lane could pick apart his reflection any further, the doors opened with a soft ding. Suddenly, he was in the front entrance of a luxury penthouse. An elegant coat rack sat to his left while the rest of the small space was filled with massive plants. Standing at the center of the foyer was Cash Kincaid.

The man was likely about ten years younger than Lane himself. His hair was blond and well-manicured. In fact, everything about this man was impossibly well-kempt. His face was shaved, and his skin was so perfect it nearly looked fake.

Cash wore sweats and a sleeveless shirt. On anyone else it would have looked casual, however, the way he held himself reminded Lane distinctly of an off-duty model. His lips were pulled up into a well-practiced smile.

“You must be the detective,” he held out a hand.

“Detective Lane.” They shook hands.

“I’m Cash but I suppose you know that already,” his smile remained firmly in place. “Come on in. Do you drink coffee?”

Lane stepped into the penthouse and realized quickly he was out of his depth. The entire place was lavishly furnished with impractical furniture and artwork that was likely designed to provoke feelings. The only real feeling Lane felt was a longing for a strong glass of whiskey.

“There’s no need for coffee. I just have a few questions.”

Cash regarded Lane for a moment. His eyes lingered on his soaked jacket and the files in his hands. “You’re very committed to the bit, aren’t you?”

“What?”

Cash gestured to Lane, but Lane had no idea what he meant.

“The jacket and files,” he smirked. “Did you watch a lot of cop shows as a kid?”

“Blue came by my office this morning. She seemed to think that whoever is behind these murders is attempting to frame you. What do you think about that?” Lane decided it was best just to get started.

“We’ll talk in the kitchen. Take off those boots, and you can put your jacket on the back of the rack.” With that, he turned and walked towards what had to have been the kitchen.

Lane did as he was instructed before following Cash. The kitchen was large with granite counter tops and a stove that hardly looked like it was ever used. It smelled faintly of fresh coffee–the expensive kind–and vanilla.

Gazing around the penthouse kitchen it occurred to Lane that Cash possessed a kind of wealth that few people had. But how? From the information he had, Cash worked at a nightclub. Surely there wasn’t this kind of money in that industry?

Lane took in what he could from his surroundings, carefully documenting the little aspects of the house. It was strange just how much he could learn from seeing where someone lived.

Everything was name brand–Cash wanted to show off. The furniture was uncomfortable but trendy–he had good taste but likely did not spend much time at the penthouse. Everything felt a little too impersonal–he definitely did not live here.

Lane took a seat at one of the bar stools and laid the files out in front of him. He pulled out his notebook and pen and waited as Cash poured two mugs of coffee.

“Do you want cream or sugar?”

“No, thanks.” The only thing Lane cared to put in his coffee was whiskey.

Cash placed a mug of steaming coffee in front of him. He added two giant spoonfuls of sugar into his own before turning his attention back to Lane.

“So, the cops reopened the case?”

“After the fourth death, yes.”

“They think it’s murder?”

“That’s the leading theory.”

Cash nodded and sipped his coffee. “I want to help,” he admitted. “But I don’t know much. I’m really not the one you should be asking questions to.”

“I don’t expect you to solve it. I’m just gathering a better view of what’s going on.” Lane explained. He was, however, keeping a very close eye on the way Cash reacted to the questions.

Cash answered the questions with ease. He didn’t appear to be stressed. In fact, he seemed to be having a good time, despite the circumstances. He didn’t know the victims personally. He didn’t know anything about alprazolam. He had never seen anything suspicious. It was hard to tell if any of his answers were truthful. Everything from the way he spoke to the way he carried himself felt like a performance.

Perhaps the most fascinating part about Cash was that he was intelligent. He didn’t have the kinds of smarts that looked good on a resume. However, he noticed details the way Lane did and knew how to ask the right kinds of questions.

“I know I’m your lead suspect,” Cash said as he finished his coffee.

Lane acknowledged what he said with a nod. “There are others-”

“There isn’t. We both know your chief thinks I’m the murderer. He probably sent you here to confirm his suspicion, right?”

Lane was surprised by the remark. “Everyone is innocent until proven guilty.”

At that, Cash’s perfect smile faltered. He gave a small scoff, raising an eyebrow in protest, “don’t tell me you actually believe that.”

“I do.”

“Everyone is only as guilty or innocent as everyone around them believes them to be.”

“That’s an awfully bitter way to view the world,” he returned despite halfway agreeing with the remark.

Cash shrugged dismissively. He glanced over at the massive wall of windows. The rain had only intensified. It hammered against the windowpanes, angrily. “So…you’re sure this isn’t just overdoses? I mean, those happen in Milecity all the time, right?”

“Sure, that was what the cops believed at first,” Lane explained. “However, eight people dying from the same drug in a short timeframe raised some flags.”

“I swear,” his eyes met Lane’s. “I had nothing to do with this. I know the cops-”

“Will hear you out,” he promised. “I’m not here to arrest you. I’m just here to gather some facts. Would you say your movie–film has gotten more popular since the murders began?”

“I…well…yes but that’s not…”

“Originally, your film was only playing at one small theater. Now, it’s playing all over the city. When did it become so popular?”

Cash swallowed. “A few days after the second murder. An article in Mile Times came out about what had happened. It wasn’t reported accurately, and people thought the film had been scary enough to kill someone. That’s not true, but…it created a bit of a following.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to share with me?” Lane asked at last. He had mostly gotten what he needed from the other man.

“I hope you find whoever this is,” he said, but his eyes were glued to the table.

“I will.”

Cash smirked and looked up. “I actually have a question for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you watch it?”

“Your movie?”

“Film.”

“Yeah, I watched it.”

“What’d you think?”

Lane struggled to find something good to say about the movie. “I think my wife would’ve liked it.”

At that, Cash cracked a smile. “Anything else?”

“It was…bloody.”

Cash nodded; his smile only grew wilder. “You didn’t like it, did you?” Why the hell did he look so happy about that?

“It wasn’t for me,” Lane admitted.

“No, I suppose it wasn’t,” he replied with a strange tone.

Lane found himself eager to leave Cash’s penthouse. It was hot inside, and something about the way Cash’s eyes lingered felt…off. He might have been perfectly kind and polished, but Lane could see something simmering just beneath the surface. There was something that Cash was lying about, but it was impossible to tell what it was.

As he exited the house, Lane assumed he would find Cash’s lies later when he looked over the notes and compared them to the files. Instead, his eyes caught a glimpse of something, only for a moment.

Just as he walked out the door, Lane passed a table in the entryway. A collection of supplies filled the surface: keys, a lighter, bills, and a little orange pill bottle. Across the side of the bottle was the word ‘alprazolam’.

Read the next chapter at the link below!

https://gracieautumn.substack.com/p/dolls-dont-talk-two