When her hellish day in the ward had concluded, Lyla collected her phone from Charles the security guard and hurried down the hallway and through the atrium. She was pretty sure that by now, Petie had told Dr. Hayden about her hysterical elevator episode.

Shit.

Desperately in need of a dose of Packer's peculiar brand of humor, she hoped that he had returned to being his normal, goofy self. But the moment she saw him on the walkway, anxiously fidgeting and peeking over his shoulder, her hopes were dashed.

"Hey." She smiled looking up into his eyes. They weren't the clear blue eyes she'd become accustomed to seeing.

"Hey," he replied unenthusiastically.

"So look. If you got something else going on, I can ride the bus. No prob."

"No, nothing else. I'm good. Totally good." He glanced across the driveway, obviously paranoid.

"You don't seem good."

"Yeah. Well."

As they walked toward the parking lot, it was evident that his mood had soured. When they approached his car he moaned, "So, look at this." He gestured toward the hood of his blue Honda. "Why?"

Someone had keyed a large O in the center of his hood, through the paint and down to the bare metal. She had never seen Packer angry and it was unsettling.

"What's that even supposed to mean?" he sizzled. "I'm a zero? A loser?" 

"Probably doesn't mean anything. Just somebody being a dick."

He unlocked the doors and she got in. With some difficulty, he wedged his long legs beneath the steering wheel.

"Did it happen in this lot?" She pointed to a camera mounted on a light pole. "They have security cameras." 

"Pretty sure it happened at the playground." He started his car and drove out of the lot. "Finished up playing some ball and when I got to my car, there it was. This car was in perfect condition when I got there, so..."

"Maybe one of your b-ball bro's is a sore loser."

"Nah. B-ball bro's? Who even says that?"

"Then who would do something like that?"

He exhaled. "That's kinda why I was asking you about a boyfriend."

She shrugged.

"Last couple of days, some dude's been following me around."

"Who?"

"Never saw him before." He gave her a penetrating look.

"What?"

"Saw him in the parking lot by the hoop courts a couple of times and even thought I saw him outside my house yesterday."

"That's creepy."

"Definitely the same guy. Shaved head. And some big blue tat on his neck."

The jagged tip of an electrical current began at Lyla's bottom lip, shot along her tongue and down her throat where it anchored deep in her gut, pulsing. Her lips and fingers went numb at the image of Packer's vandalized hood. That wasn't a zero. It was Keenan's ring. Ouroboros.

........

Slumped at her desk with a pen in hand, Lyla squinted at her Calc book. She mumbled, "Cosecant is the reciprocal of the sine function." She drew a y-axis and x-axis on her pad, then dropped her pen and hung her head. Who was she kidding? There wasn't a chance in hell that she could concentrate on her school work. She was crushed by guilt. She should have said something to Packer about his stalker. But what? 

That sounds like you're describing my dead boyfriend. 

And then what?

Yeah, he's been coming after me and my crush, Jack, ever since we killed him and dragged his body through the woods.

She rose from her chair, catching her reflection in the broken mirror. While turning it toward the wall, she noticed a crusty stain on the sleeve of her hoodie. She brought it to her nose. 

Ew. Disgusting.

She yanked the hoodie over her head and tossed it onto the bed. She gathered some dirty clothes from the floor, added the hoodie to the collection, and trundled downstairs.

When she descended the creaky basement steps, she noticed a small pile of laundry on the floor near the washing machine, the majority of which were her dad's clothes. She turned on the machine, added a cup of detergent, then fed her small armful of clothes into the washer. She gave her hoodie one last sniff before dropping it in.

I'm so gross. I've been wearing the same clothes since... I don't even know when.

Chilled by the dank basement air, she rubbed her exposed arms, then transferred the laundry from the floor into the washer and closed the lid. She heard what sounded like footsteps above her in the kitchen.

"Dad?" she called.

No response. When she started up the stairs, the basement door began drifting shut. Lyla froze.

"Hey, Dad," she said in a shaky voice.

The door slowed to a stop before closing. She heard the washing machine filling with water but no longer the sound of footsteps. She climbed another step, eyes on the door. She gulped, barely a half-teaspoonful of saliva making its way to the back of her throat. Steeling herself, she ascended the last of the wooden stairs and extended her shaking hand.

Lyla jumped when the washer CHUNKED, the old motor agitating the load. She pushed the door. It swung open revealing an empty kitchen.

"Hello?" she said softly, entering the room, her eyes sweeping the kitchen and entryway. With trepidation she crossed the kitchen, nerves prickling her skin. Just before stepping into the entryway she glanced toward the front door and stiffened. Through the frosted glass, she saw the silhouette of someone standing on her porch.