The Social Media Murders Page 4

As Charlene turned in her seat, Britney asked, “Why do you care so much about this? It's tragic and all, but it's really none of our business. Just let the teachers and police handle it.”

  Charlene sucked her lips inward as if she were trying to stop herself from laughing. She frowned instead. She tried her best to avoid the rumors, she wanted to bury her pessimistic thoughts, but she couldn't escape the truth.

  She said, “I'm worried. Tiffany didn't hang out with us, but I had a few classes with her over the years. She had my number and I had hers. We spoke on Facebook, Instagram... everything. She had my contact information and I'm worried about that. Aren't you? Whoever killed her could have your home address.” She turned to her right and said, “Or even yours, Dom. We could be next.”

  The group remained silent, unperturbed by the ominous suggestion. Dominique munched on her fries while Michael tapped his phone and shook his head. The sound of a lighter clicking emerged as Stephen and Adam smoked a bowl around the corner. Britney stared at Charlene, her lips puckered. She could see the fear in her friend's eyes.

  Britney said, “I didn't know her like you did. I don't even think I had her as a friend on Facebook. I'm sorry.”

  Still chewing her fries, Dominique held her hand over her mouth and said, “I didn't know her, either.” She giggled, then she said, “Maybe I need to smoke to remember her better.”

  Charlene glanced at Michael and asked, “What about you? Do you care at all or are you just going to keep messing with your phone?”

  “I didn't know her, Charles,” Michael said without taking his eyes off of his phone.

  Charlene turned in her seat and stared at the stoners. Eyes welling with tears, she pouted as she gazed at her boyfriend. She begged for a supporting hand without uttering a word. Lungs full of smoke, Adam stared back at her with bloodshot eyes. Smoke billowed from his mouth as he coughed and grunted—the bud was good.

  Adam shook his head and said, “Don't look at me. I didn't know her.”

  “Shit,” Charlene muttered, disappointed. “It's always the same with you...”

  “I knew her,” Stephen said as he held his breath. He handed the pipe to Adam and exhaled, covering his face with smoke. He said, “She had my number. She knows a lot of my usual 'spots,' too. I sold to her every once in a while.”

  Charlene asked, “Will you help me?”

  “With what?”

  “Let's go talk to Kyle. Let's get to the bottom of this.”

  Stephen clenched his jaw as he considered the request. He already knew the answer—a resounding 'yes'—but he wanted to play it cool.

  He said, “Okay, sure. He should be in the cafeteria right now. That's where he usually eats.”

  As Charlene stood from her seat, Michael said, “We have Kyle in fifth period, Charles. Just talk to him then.”

  Charlene grabbed Stephen's wrist and pulled him away from the group. As the couple departed, she shouted, “I can't! I have to know what he saw!”

  ***

  “There he is,” Stephen said as he nodded at the other end of the cafeteria.

  Beyond the bench-tables, Kyle stood with a group of friends near a trash can. All smiles and chuckles, he acted as if nothing were wrong. No one would have suspected him of knowing any significant details about Tiffany's death. He was naturally casual.

  Charlene walked ahead, ignoring her other friends and pushing past her classmates. She marched forward, hurling herself deeper into the mystery. Stephen followed closely behind. He wasn't as serious due to the influence of the marijuana, but he refused to abandon her.

  Without uttering a word, Charlene grabbed Kyle's arm and pulled him away from his friends. Kyle nervously smiled and indistinctly mumbled as his friends laughed at him, amused by the situation. He was dragged to a quiet corner in the cafeteria.

  Kyle pulled away from Charlene's grip and asked, “What the hell are you doing?” He glanced over at Stephen and asked, “What? Do I owe you money or something? Did you bring your bitch to come beat me up?”

  “Fuck off, man,” Stephen responded, irked by his insult.

  Charlene said, “This isn't about weed. This is about Tiffany—Tiffany Anderson. I heard you were there when... when she died. What happened to her?”

  Kyle's smile was wiped from his face. He stared at Charlene, then he glanced at Stephen, then he glanced back at Charlene. The expression on his face read: is she serious? He thought about running, slipping and sliding past the couple, but he didn't want to cause a scene.

  Stony-faced, he said, “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “Don't do this the hard way, Kyle. I'm not trying to get you into any trouble. I just need to know the truth. Talk to me. Please.”

  “I told you: I don't know what you're talking about. Go smoke some weed and leave me alone.”

  As Kyle tried to push past her, Charlene said, “If you don't talk to me, I'll tell Sheriff Jackson that you know something.” Kyle stopped and glared at her. Charlene nodded and said, “That's right. Call me a 'snitch' or a 'bitch,' but I will get to the bottom of this. What happened last night?”

  Kyle clenched his jaw and glanced around the cafeteria, as if he were considering his options. His classmates appeared normal, oblivious and happy. They didn't notice the storm of doubt and fear brewing in his mind.

  Kyle said, “I really don't know anything. We were talking on Skype. It was... It was Melanie, Hailey, Tiffany, and me. Tiffany heard something in the house, so she left for a few minutes—and she left her laptop open. While she was gone, some guy walked into her room and hid in her closet. He waited for her...”

  Stephen asked, “Then he... he killed her?”

  “I guess.”

  “What do you mean you 'guess?' What did you see?” Charlene asked.

  Kyle explained, “I didn't see her die. I logged off as soon as he got out of the closet. Like I said, I didn't actually see anything. I didn't see what Melanie supposedly saw. I wasn't there.”

  Charlene nodded as she absorbed the information. Melanie saw the entire death, she thought, I have to talk to her if I want to find the killer. She stared at Kyle and examined his behavior. His eyes darted left and right as he rubbed the nape of his neck. Sweat glistened on his brow and his breathing was erratic. She could read him like a book—he had more information.

  Charlene said, “You said you saw him go into the closet. Did you recognize the killer?”

  “First of all, I didn't say that a guy was the killer. So, don't go around telling people that I know who did it. I don't want to get involved.”

  Charlene repeated, “Did you recognize the killer?”

  Kyle sighed, then he said, “No. The person I saw was wearing a black raincoat and a mask. It was a white mask with some paint on it. He was bigger than Tiffany, but everyone is... was bigger than her. She was a small girl. Maybe he was a guy, maybe he wasn't...”

  Charlene furrowed her brow and lowered her head. She stared down at her feet as she thought about the person she saw in the morning. Black raincoat, she thought, is the killer a student? She shook her head, shrugging off the possibility. She didn't see the person's face after all. He could have been an adult as far as she knew.

  “What did the mask look like?” Stephen asked. “Was it the mask from Scream? The movie or the TV series? Or was it a knock-off?”

  Kyle huffed and shook his head—this asshole. He said, “I don't know. I didn't get a good look at it. It was a white mask with a blank expression. There was some paint on his lips and cheeks and... I don't know, okay? It just looked like a weird mask.” He squeezed past the pair, then he stopped. He glanced back at Charlene and said, “You shouldn't be worrying about any of this anyway. You're over here acting like a cop with a stoner partner. It'll be better for everyone if you just ignored it. I mean, look around you: everyone is ignoring it. There shouldn't be any problems as long as you don't interfere, okay?”

  Charlene responded, “Did you know he took Tiffany's phone and laptop? He
could have all of our information. Walking around here pretending like there aren't targets on our backs won't help any of us.”

  As he walked away, Kyle shrugged and said, “You can't see an invisible target, Charlene. You know what they say about making assumptions.”

  Infuriated, Charlene watched as Kyle returned to his group of friends. She couldn't help but feel like he was hiding something. She refused to cause a scene, though. If there was a target on her back, she didn't want to make herself visible to the hunter.

  Charlene and Stephen glanced at each other—doubtful, worried, frightened. Before they could utter a word, the bell rang and called them to their next class.

  Chapter Six

  Fifth Period

  The desks in the classroom were pushed together, forming four small clusters of students. The groups were supposed to discuss the assigned chapter of a novel, presenting their opinions and analyses. Most of the students discussed the rumors of murder instead. The teacher, a haughty middle-aged woman, walked around the groups and examined their interactions.

  Charlene sat in a group towards the back of the classroom. Michael sat in the neighboring group. Kyle sat in Michael's group, too. The era of passing notes was long gone. Instead, the students communicated by using their cell phones under their desks and behind their books. Holding her phone under the desk and above her lap, Charlene sent a text message to Michael.

  The message read: Talk to Kyle!!

  She gazed at Michael from across the room, trying to convince him with a set of puppy eyes. To her utter disappointment, the young man didn't glance her way. He furrowed his brow as he checked his phone, as if he had just received a cryptic message. Holding his phone behind his backpack, which sat at the edge of his desk, he quickly composed a message.

  Charlene's phone vibrated. She checked her phone and frowned.

  Michael's message read: About what?

  Charlene responded: About Tiffany!! He knows something. Please talk to him. Please, please, please!!

  Michael did not immediately respond. He took his time to answer his other messages. Charlene grimaced and bounced in her seat, blatantly anxious. Her phone buzzed again.

  Michael's message read: No.

  “Asshole,” Charlene muttered.

  She glanced at her group. A young brunette girl spoke about the assignment, discussing the underlying themes of the book. She could see her lips moving, but she couldn't hear the girl's words. Charlene was a good student, but her sinister thoughts stopped her from thinking clearly. She puckered her lips and stared down at her cell phone.

  She opened a text message thread she shared with Adam. Her last message read: Why are you always like this? You're always running... I hate it. The text was followed by a sad emoji. She typed a letter, preparing to send an apology, then she stopped herself. He doesn't have service, she thought, it's useless.

  Instead, she sent another message to Michael: Has Adam said anything about me? About our status?

  With a creased brow, Charlene glanced over at the neighboring group as Michael laughed. Michael glanced back at Charlene and shrugged, a sly smirk on his face.

  He responded to her message: What would he tell me about you?

  Charlene sighed and dug her fingers into her hair. She was irked by Michael's nonchalant attitude. The pair were friends since middle school, but the baseball player was always distant. He didn't enjoy prying into other people's business because he didn't want the same to happen to him. He had his own relationship issues to handle.

  Wide-eyed, Charlene watched as Kyle stood from his seat. The young man approached the teacher at the front of the classroom. His lips flapped, but his voice couldn't be heard over the classroom chatter. Their teacher nodded and spoke, too, but she didn't seem annoyed or angered.

  Charlene's mind was flooded with dozens of questions: what is he up to? Is he going to confess? Is he trying to get away? She knew he had a knack for fighting and running. She glanced over at Michael with a set of worried eyes.

  Michael stared back at her and shrugged—I don't know a thing. Kyle smiled and nodded at the teacher. He grabbed a narrow piece of wood from the whiteboard—the bathroom pass—then he casually strolled out of the classroom.

  The pieces were easy to link: he was going to the restroom. Yet, due to the violent deaths in the past week, suspicion still reigned supreme.

  Charlene snapped out of her contemplation as her phone buzzed. She received a message from Michael.

  The message read: Check the time.

  Charlene tilted her head, baffled. She checked the clock on her phone. It was 1:15 PM. Her phone buzzed again as she received another message from Michael.

  The message read: He ALWAYS goes to the bathroom right now. His fucking bladder is on the clock. It's nothing.

  Michael easily dismissed the rumors. He didn't think much of Kyle's behavior, either. Everything seemed normal to him. Charlene was a different story. She feared for her safety. Despite the lack of proof, she believed she was being targeted. As a matter of fact, she believed everyone at the school was a potential target and she was certain the killer would strike again.

  Her classmate asked, “Did you finish the homework, Charlene? Or should we skip you?”

  Still lost in her thoughts, Charlene said, “No, no... I finished it. Let me just get my worksheet out.”

  “Okay.”

  Charlene couldn't smother her suspicious thoughts, but she tried her best to bury them. She pulled her worksheet out of her bag and finally participated in the group assignment.

  ***

  Kyle rubbed his face with lukewarm water, sniffling and muttering. He was discreet about his knowledge concerning Tiffany's death. He was able to keep his poker face afloat around his peers and teachers. He was cracking under pressure, though. He knew Charlene was snooping and gossiping, he knew the law was breathing down his neck.

  He turned off the faucet, then he leaned forward with his palms on the countertop. He stared at his reflection on the mirror. Except for him, the narrow restroom was empty. So, he only saw his reflection—and he hated it. He saw a coward and a fool. He bit off more than he could chew and he was struggling to swallow the hard facts.

  Kyle whispered, “I pushed myself into a corner, didn't I? Fuck... I should just tell 'em what I saw. If I don't, Charlene will say something and I'll be deeper in this shit. I... I have to tell someone. I have to do something. I fucked up.”

  He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He thought about calling the police to give an anonymous tip. He opened his phone app and dialed 911. He didn't tap the green 'call' prompt, though. He hesitated for a moment, reconsidering all of his options. I can run away, he thought, I can just lay low until they catch the guy.

  A snickering sound emerged from one of the stalls.

  Kyle quickly turned and glanced around the bathroom. There were five urinals to his left at the very end of the restroom. Parallel from the sinks, there were five stalls. The entrance waited to his right. He checked under the stalls when he first entered the restroom. It was supposed to be empty. Yet, the snickering sound emerged from the last stall to his left again.

  Kyle asked, “Is someone there?” There was no response. He said, “If you're watching me, eavesdropping like some nosy bitch, I swear I'm going to fuck you up. You hear me? Huh? Are you listening to me, asshole?”

  Yet again, no one answered.

  Kyle swallowed the lump in his throat—gulp. He crept forward, walking with wide, careful strides. He approached the last stall. He pulled a pen out of his pocket and popped the cap off. He was ready to stab the eavesdropper. As he touched the stall door, another snickering sound emerged from the last stall to the right. A thud quickly followed, as if someone had bumped into the stall wall.

  Kyle nervously smiled and asked, “Is this some sort of game? Huh? What are you trying to do to me? What's the point of this?” He kept his eyes low and stared at the gaps under the doors as he approached the other stall. With a devi
ous grin, he asked, “Or, am I walking in on something? Are you fucking in there, hmm? Guy-and-girl or guy-and-guy? Are some fags getting some action in there?”

  He couldn't help but chuckle at his offensive remarks. He used his vulgar mouth as a defense mechanism—he was still an asshole, though. He tightly gripped his pen, then he kicked the stall door open. The door wobbled as it hit the wall.

  To his utter surprise, the stall was empty. He walked in and examined the stall. The walls, the floor, and the toilet were clean—spotless, in fact. He didn't notice any dents on the walls, either. There was nothing out of the ordinary.

  As he stared up at the ceiling, Kyle muttered, “What the fuck, man? What the hell is going on here? Am I... Holy shit, am I going crazy?”

  Unbeknownst to Kyle, a person's arm protruded from under the stall wall. The person in the neighboring stall held a sharp pocket knife in his gloved hand. His forearm was covered with the sleeve of his black raincoat. As the student mumbled, the hidden person grabbed Kyle's shin with his free hand and sliced Kyle's ankle with the knife.

  Kyle didn't have the opportunity to respond or pull away. He shrieked and staggered as blood gushed from his mutilated ankle. The person in the neighboring stall, refusing to release Kyle's shin, cut his ankle again. He sawed into Kyle's Achilles tendon with the sharp blade. Blood dripped onto his leather gloves and spilled onto the floor, but it didn't stop him.

  Out of breath, Kyle shouted, “Stop! Stop! Oh, fuck! Stop it!”

  He fell to his knees and leaned over the toilet, as if he had just spent a night drinking. Tears plunged into the toilet water as he sobbed and babbled. He couldn't form a comprehensible sentence, though. He just screamed at the top of his lungs, hoping someone would hear him. He glanced down at his mangled ankle and grimaced.

  His skin, sock, and shoe were drenched in blood, but he could still see the deep, peeling gashes on his ankle. Through the blood and flesh, he could see something white in the cuts. Bones?–he thought. The killer sawed down to the center of his ankle, causing his foot to dangle—barely connected to his leg through a flimsy piece of flesh. His foot was nearly severed by the knife.