Sick Twisted Minds by Candace Wondrak

Author:Candace Wondrak [Wondrak, Candace]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-07-18T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen - Stella

I was in the kitchen, putting away the dishes from the dishwasher. I just threw everything inside, even the big kitchen knives that said they needed to be hand washed. Who had time for that? I had articles and blog posts to write, and comments on my last post to reply to. I had a busy night ahead of me, while Callie was getting ready to go out and party it up like we were still in college.

Was I jealous of her? Maybe. She seemed to have a plethora of friends, always going out and having fun. She’d stopped inviting me a long time ago, mostly because she knew I’d always turn her down. Why waste the energy in asking me in the first place?

“You know,” Callie said, moving to lean on the counter opposite me, “you can’t live the rest of your life like this.” She wore a tight, form-fitting shirt that hugged her body, showing off her cleavage, which was much more impressive than mine. Sparkling necklaces hugged her throat, her legs clad in jeans she’d have to peel off in the morning, after she got through her hangover.

I could’ve said a lot of things to her, then. I could’ve told her that she couldn’t, either. That we weren’t in college anymore. We were twenty-five, adults. We shouldn’t go out partying every night like it was 1999 and the world was going to end.

But I didn’t. I just said, “Okay.” I didn’t really care what she said. She was my friend, but sometimes she was mean. I didn’t like her when she was mean; I’d learned it was best to agree with whatever she said until she went away.

People usually went away from me, anyway. I didn’t know why she’d stuck around for so long. I gave her nothing, and all she did was nag at me.

“You might be a journalist now,” Callie referenced my new-ish job at the Tribune, “but you won’t go anywhere in life working part-time at the local paper. Who the hell wants to read about serial killers every week, anyway? People want real news, not your subjective stuff.”

My stuff, as she called it, was not subjective. I got my facts from various studies and past serial killer cases. Still, when I heard her mention my writing, I froze above the dishwasher, my hand gripping one of the kitchen knives.

I hated it when my writing was insulted. I got enough of that from my parents, from my precious little sister. I didn’t need to hear it from Callie, too.

“Stella, don’t take this the wrong way, but—” Callie moved around the island, until she stood near me. “—you kind of freak me out with your weird obsession. Some days I worry you’ll turn into one of those serial killers you’re writing about. I mean, it’s just weird. I’ve talked to your mother about it, and—”

I turned to face her, my ears not hearing anything after the word mother. She’d talked to my

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