Mara finished counting out her meager book. Finished rolling her silverware. Amparo was already gone, Mara had told her she’d handle closing. Amparo and Martín had finally agreed to come to a Crystal Lake Counselors show, the one where they were opening for WaveRace97. It felt silly, but Mara was excited to introduce them to Parth.
She changed clothes in the upstairs bathroom. She’d never loved using the cramped, ancient bathroom in the basement, but now? Now, she really wanted to change in the single-occupancy bathrooms in the back of the diner.
“Martín?” she knocked on the office door. “I’m headed out.”
“Okay, Mara!” Martín called, extending an unmoving hand in a grandfatherly wave. “Good work tonight!”
“See you in a little while?”
“I’ll be there!”
Alewives tonight. Her toe had been tapping for the last hour. She needed some music. Plus, it was the night Crystal Lake Counselors was opening for WaveRace97. Plus, Amparo had finally said yes to “getting her high heeled combat boots off the shelf.” Plus, Martín had heard them getting excited and asked if they “had room for one more old person or if this was a ladies’ night.” It made her heart happy. Amparo and Martín were not that old—and is there ever a too old to experience the wonders of live music? All good things were coming, as soon as she clocked out.
Amparo had gone all the way home to get ready, and Martín still had to do whatever manager stuff he had to do. Mara didn’t mind a solo walk over to Alewives. That was 10 minutes to clear her head, to forget about the customer who had snorted about “being able to taste the heat lamps” or the one with the booming voice who had kept a knee stuck into the aisle between tables even when it was pointed out to him that he could trip someone, to sweep all the bad energy away and let herself feel excited to see Parth and Melissa.
Problem was, she kept having Tommy’s sweaty face pop into her head. She imagined he was at a crosswalk, detailing his knife-sharpening routine to some disinterested commuter. She imagined he was sitting on a step in front of a closed storefront, his hand leaking blood and pus all over his knife bag. She closed her eyes and he was in front of her, knife sticking straight through his hand and his hand coming for her face.
She felt guilty, like she was being unfair to Tommy. Diego had agreed that there was something off about the guy, and that made her feel less alone. That was before Tommy was sweating and panting all over her in the stairwell this afternoon. Veins popping out of his head like he was about to have a coronary. He’d been so twitchy and distracted in the basement, like he had buried all the bodies down here or something.
It wasn’t fair to think of a coworker this way. The guy was a little awkward sometimes, and he had an accident. That didn’t make him Chef Ghostface.
Alewives had a van parking area in its back alley, and something from the universe told Mara to walk back there before going inside. Parth’s black jeans and Chuck Taylors were sticking out from the back of Crystal Lake Counselors’ fade-colored van.
“Hey sexy,” she said, slapping his ass.
He dropped the clunky set of van and practice space keys that had been precarious on one finger. Turned to her and smiled like his lips could part clouds. “Hey you,” he said.
“Where you at? Excited? Nervous?”
“Maybe starting to get a few butterflies, maybe. We smoked a blunt about 10 minutes ago, though, so. Chill out now, be sharp when we go on.”
They fell into talking as easily as they ever had, since that first day of freshman orientation when they bonded over both wearing Op Ivy shirts, except now there was this charge between them. It felt like there had been an amp somewhere that they hadn’t realized was unplugged, letting out a dull, deadening hum of feedback. Now, instead of feedback, there was music.
Parth had talked about putting together a set of their more poppy songs to fit a little more with WaveRace97. There would be a lot of people in the audience tonight that had never heard Crystal Lake Counselors. Neither of them had ever heard of the band playing the middle set.
“Hey, subject change,” Mara said after a lull. “You remember me telling you about that cook at work? Tommy?”
“Kinda intense guy?”
“Intense is one word for it. I had the weirdest interaction with him today.”
“He yell at you because a customer asked for ketchup or something?”
“No, we weren’t even working the same shift. I saw him and that new guy, Diego, outside when I was walking in. Said hi, went inside. Then a few minutes later, I had to go downstairs to get towels, and Tommy, like, followed me to the basement.”
“Followed you? When he was off the clock?”
“Yeah. Said he forgot his Ventra card in his locker, but if he even opened his locker, I didn’t see it. He just kinda stood there, staring at me, sometimes talking. Then I left, and then he left. Maybe that doesn’t sound like a lot, but I got such a weird vibe from the whole thing.”
“Yikes. What a creep. At least you didn’t have to work a full shift with him.”
“What’re you two doing back here, making out?” Melissa called from the sidewalk. She’d pulled out all the stops tonight: dark eyeshadow and purple lipstick, black lace sleeves under a black tank top and matching fishnets under a purple skirt.
“If I was a vampire or a witch, I’d totally be hitting on you tonight,” Mara said.
Melissa gave a little twirl. “Thank you.”
“Yo, tell Melissa what you told me,” Parth said.
“What, you have to work with Ted Bundy tonight?”
Parth playfully stared Mara down and pointed at Melissa. “She calls him Ted Bundy.”
Mara laughed and told the two of them to stop talking so loud. She started to repeat her story. Then, out of the corner of her eye, Mara saw a short figure who tickled some vague memory. Thick, black hair with proud streaks of gray, gold hoop earrings with red fringe, a black leather biker jacket with black fringe, tight black jeans with a tear in the left thigh, and, sitting just above their knees, a pair of high-heeled boots that seemed good for kicking someone out of the pit with.
Someone had not been kidding about a punk rock past.
“Amparo!” Mara shouted. “Look at you!”
“I told you, chica,” Amparo said. “I told you I used to be out here.”
Mara did the introductions. Of course, Melissa immediately pressed for Mara to continue her story about Tommy.
“Look, nothing big happened,” Mara said. “No one get excited. But it was creepy.”
By the end of the story—in which Mara was sure to emphasize how much Tommy was sweating, staring, and not talking—there was no question that it had been a weird way to start a shift. Everyone prefaced what they said with “not trying to say Tommy’s murderer or anything, but.” Mara caught herself wishing Parth had more weed.
“You know what it felt like,” Mara said, after she thought she’d said all she’d had to say. “Like he was trying to block me from getting into the basement. Except, once I was in the basement? Then he wanted to block me from getting out of the basement.”
“Listen, chica,” Amparo said. “We’re all on your side, here. That pendejo tries anything, we all got your back, right?”
“I know, I know,” Mara said. “I’m not really worried. Just—weird. Whatever. Should we go inside?”
Inside was crowded, even by Alewives’ standards. Amparo was telling Melissa about how little Alewives had changed, except she remembered when the pay phone still worked. She pointed to a couple framed old fliers, giggle-bragging about being at this or that show. Parth wandered over to check in with Nick at the merch table.
Sitting at the bar, almost glowing in out-of-placeness, was Martín. He wore a faded Black Sabbath shirt that looked like he hid it from his wife, along with jeans that seemed bright and crisp enough that they were probably his designated going out jeans. He was nursing a Paloma.
“Black Sabbath, wow,” Mara said, walking over to him.
Martín laughed. “Do I look like I belong here?”
“You’re here, so you belong. Come meet my friend Melissa. Amparo’s here, too.”
The four of them found a place close to the front of the stage and stood in a circle, hollering over the house music.
For no reason she could articulate, Mara looked over her shoulder. Just a gesture. She might as well have been clearing her throat. No reason to glance sideways. The door hadn’t opened and closed. No one had called her name. Still, for no reason she could articulate, Mara looked over her shoulder.
Tommy was at the window.
He waved with his right hand. Smiled.
In his left hand, he had his knife bag.
Mara didn’t scream. She didn’t startle. She felt herself steel, felt her jaw set, felt her shoulders square. Come on, then, she felt in her muscles.
But when she looked back, Tommy was gone. No. Tommy was never there. Tommy was never there at all. She was imagining things.
Not hallucinating. Imagining things. She felt the resolve in her body. She felt like she could fight anyone.
Parth reappeared, tapped Mara on the arm. “Hey, I gotta get up there,” he said. They kissed, and he was gone.
“You two are so cute. I can’t over it,” Melissa said. “Hey, I’m gonna get some rum and pineapple before the show starts. You want anything?”
“I’m good, thank you,” Mara said. “And hey? Thanks for being my ride or die.”
“Hey, I got you,” Melissa said. Then she was gone.
The crowd was blurred out faces, a mess of plaid shirts and torn tanks and crop tops on any gender that happened to be represented. Mara spotted a guy she recognized from Summer Fest, she’d almost bought a print of a skateboarding ghost from him. She saw a guy who ran an Instagram account of city pictures taken from the train. She saw what’s-their-name, lead singer of Killing Captain Streeter, this doom metal duo Parth loved, and their girlfriend/drummer—Greta, maybe? She saw Ether, who owned a comics store/TTRPG meetup spot in Andersonville. Would Ether remember Mara? They’d probably remember her face, but not her name.
Mara stopped herself. She didn’t want to be taking stock of which of her neighbors might protect her if Tommy came running in here with a knife. She didn’t want to do that because Tommy wasn’t outside, he wasn’t lurking in the shadows, and he didn’t have—well, he did carry his own knife bag. But he wasn’t here.
She watched Melissa at the bar, tapping her card against her nails, hoop earrings glinting in the dim light, then sipping her rum and pineapple delicately through the straw, so that none would spill on her way back back to the crowd. Mara felt so lucky to have Melissa and so lost otherwise. There was a chunk of a guitar plugging in and the clack of drumsticks. Amp feedback. The crowd’s voices got louder. Someone called something unintelligible from the sound guy’s station.
Then everything paused, a moment of silence, the whole of the universe unplugged in a terrifying absence.
Mara felt aware that her eyes were taking in light, but she wasn’t seeing anything. She felt, deep in her bones, with every blood vessel sprinting through her veins, that her coworker was not just a killer, but multi-time killer. A serial killer, even. The universe was silent while she held this fact in her blanked-out mind.
Then, as quickly as the moment happened, the band began all at once, cymbals and guitar crashing and bass thundering and Parth’s voice ringing high and clear over the crowd’s heads.
Mara let the music avalanche over her.