Webb practically the whole time, so I’ll be safe. We’re just gonna kick back. So don’t sweat it.”
“Listen, Britt. Will you promise me something? Will you call me if you find yourself alone for a while? I don’t want you to be alone.”
“Sure, but like I said, Webb will be with me,” she replied.
“And promise to be careful, okay? I know you’ll probably want to get high, but please don’t take any chances. I don’t want you to end up with a bad dose. Do you understand?”
Britt laughed. “Sure, whatever you say, Hannah. Listen, I gotta go. Webb’s here, and we’re headed out.”
“Okay,” Hannah said. “But promise me you won’t take any chances.”
“All right already,” Britt replied, giggling again. “God. Hannah, I’m not Sharon Stone in
Hannah heard the click on the other end of the line.
She figured her coworkers hated her right about now. After coming to the store nearly four hours late this morning, she’d spent most of the afternoon in the break room. She’d been tapping into the computer for rental histories on
Hannah began looking for patterns elsewhere. She charted out a timetable of the events since all of this started:
There was no consistency in the time lapse between her receiving a video and the subsequent murder. The first two victims were each killed three days after she got the videos forecasting their deaths. But Craig had been mowed down within hours of her finding the
Hannah felt like she was banging her head against a wall. The only pattern she saw was the obvious one: someone was making her a reluctant, silent accomplice in a series of murders. He slipped her videos of Hollywood death scenes as a preview of his lethal handiwork.
The homemade
On that first night, October 9th, she’d thought she saw someone videotaping her from an alley.
She kept coming back to Paul Gulletti, with his knowledge of film and his unhealthy interest in her. When she’d first met him, he’d claimed he was planning to direct his own movie. Was it the
She’d been selected to see that video. The cassette hadn’t been dropped off at the store by accident. Someone knew she would take it home and look at it.
Hannah remembered her first day in Paul’s class last semester. Each student had to stand up, introduce themselves, and talk about their interest in film. Hannah mentioned working in a video store. Paul got a laugh when he jokingly asked if anyone ever dropped off their homemade sex tapes at the store by accident.
“Well, I haven’t seen any,” Hannah had replied. “And I’m the only one who ever takes home the wrong- returns and looks at them. No one else cares. Guess I’m just curious.”
The
He must have been watching her that whole time. Somehow, he must have been listening, too.
Three different men had been following her, so Ben Podowski claimed. If she were looking for patterns, there were a few common denominators with two of those three men. Both Ben Podowski and Ronald Craig had lied to her about their true identities. Yet each man professed a desire to help her. She wondered if Ben—like Ronald Craig—had been hired to spy on her by her estranged husband. Ronald Craig had been murdered because he’d seen too much. Ben could die for the same reason. Maybe he would be the next victim, dying from a “hot dose” in some hotel. Her stalker could have taken liberties with the locale in
Hannah stared at his phone number—among all the notes and lists she’d been making. She picked up the phone and dialed. While it rang, she wondered if her husband, Kenneth, was somehow behind all these killings. Thanks to Ronald—and perhaps, Ben—he might have tracked her down. Maybe he was playing some sort of sadistic game with her for revenge.
There was a click on the other end of the line, then a recording:
Hannah hung up. She wanted to warn Ben. But for all she knew, he could be the killer or an accomplice.
“Shit,” she muttered, staring at the phone. She didn’t know what to think or whom to trust. If she was compelled to make a phone call, it should be to the police.
Someone knocked on the door, and she jumped a bit. “Um, yeah? Do you need me up front?”
Scott poked his head in. “No, in fact, it’s dead as Planet Hollywood out there. C’mon, step outside with me while I grab a smoke. Cheryl can take over for a few minutes. You need some fresh air. It’s really pretty out.”
Scott was right. Orange and pink streaks slashed across the twilight sky. Along the sidewalk, leaves scattered in the cool, autumn breeze. Hannah and Scott leaned against a bicycle rack outside the store. He lit up a generic-brand cigarette.
“Scott, you understand my situation,” she said. “I have no business asking you to do this. But could you— maybe contact the police for me? You can say all this has been happening to you. Tell them about the videos, and the deaths that followed.”
He exhaled a puff of smoke and gave her a deadpan stare. “So—I’m supposed to tell them I found this latest video in my purse?”
“Okay, say it was in your backpack,” Hannah retorted. “The important thing is someone—maybe Britt—could be in trouble. Maybe the police can do something. Maybe they can catch this guy before he does any more harm.”
“You want them to follow Britt around? Hello? Hannah, they’ll pick her up for possession. And hell, I’ll bet good ol’ Webb is dealing. They’ll throw his sorry ass in jail, too. I don’t give a crap about him, but I couldn’t do that to Britt.”
“Would you rather see her dead?”
“Of course not. But I won’t get her—and myself—in trouble because you want me to tell this story to the cops for you. Hannah, you need to do it yourself.” He took another drag off his cigarette and shook his head. “The cops would have all sorts of questions for me that I couldn’t answer. I’ll back you up, but I can’t be your beard here.”
“You’re right.” She sighed. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
If she hoped to prevent another murder, she would have to go to the police with her story. But once they found out who she really was, she’d be as good as dead.
“What are you thinking?” Scott asked quietly.
“I’m thinking I’m screwed,” Hannah replied.
