Hidden Bodies (You, #2)

by Caroline Kepnes

She points at the violets. “You’re a good boy.” I am. I thank her and keep walking.

Beck and her horrible friends ruined so much for

I thought I’d never listen to Elton John again because his music was playing when I killed Peach.

God, she is good. But no matter how good it gets, it is always there, the truth: I forgot to take the mug. That fucking mug haunts me.

She is the anti-Beck; she cares about me.

What did I do? I murdered my ex-girlfriend Guinevere Beck. I buried her body in upstate New York and then pinned it on her therapist, Dr. Nicky Angevine. Before that, I strangled her friend Peach Salinger. I killed her less than five fucking miles from here, on a beach by her family’s house, and made it look like a suicide. I also did away with a drug-addled soda jerk named Benji Keyes. His cremated body is in his storage unit, but his family thinks he died on a bender.

Oh, also. The first girl I ever loved, Candace. I put her out to sea. Nobody knows I did any of these things so it’s like that if-a-tree-falls-in-the-woods question.

“It’s just a minor traffic violation.” But Amy doesn’t know that I killed four people.

And that’s how you know you’re in love. You put on slacks and feign excitement over oysters and live light rock and you grab the keys and leave.

We’re the same, she said. Fuck me. Fuck her.

The bitch came here to trick me, to rob me, and I made her fucking keys.

I print her search history and there is nothing more terrifying than realizing that the one who knows you best loves you least, pities you even.

She’ll die thinking that.

Next up: Amy, hog-tied, sinking to the bottom of a swimming pool. California.

There is a pool—I could hold Amy under the water—and there is a hot tub—I could boil the bitch—and there is a game room—I can choke her with a pool stick—and it’s within walking distance of everything I could ever want. Including, of course, Amy.

A girl like Amy, a brand-new sociopath

YOU don’t go to a party empty-handed and my reusable Pantry bag is stuffed with rope, my Rachael Ray knife, rubber gloves, plastic bags, duct tape, and Percocets from Dez.

well, Henderson is gonna learn the hard way that you can’t go around making fun of people you’ve never met before.

and I get it now. I’m too good for her. Way too good for her.

Henderson howls, red and enraged. He wants out of his shackles. Five seconds ago he was talking to me about getting paid and you really can’t trust anyone here.

And before you know it, I’m fucking Don’t Fuck Delilah. Why not make things as bad as they can possibly be? Why not bang the stalker upstairs?

I take a shit. I don’t flush. I leave. An hour later, she texts me: I love that my bathroom still smells like you.

I can’t believe Love owns the Pantry, my special place, my haven. Ray and Dottie have been trying to send me their love since the day I got here.

Love is kind, love is patient but also, mainly, above all—yes—Love is perverted.

Yes, the girl who fills a tub with champagne is gonna teach me about conservation.

Everything I did was worth it because it led me straight into Love’s arms.

She’s wearing lip gloss. Lots of it. She brushed her hair. She sprayed perfume. She got dressed up for me. I broke into her home and found her in bed and she got dressed up for me.

Amy picked this address randomly. And because of that bitch, I came here, got beaten, tied up, and forced to drink bitter coffee out of a cracked LOVE mug. I tell Nanny Rachel I have to go.

Love is more distant with every eighth of a mile. No wonder the divorce rate in this industry is so high.

I want to throw her over my shoulder but she doesn’t want that anymore. She doesn’t want me anymore.

She picked me up so quick, so smooth. Now she’ll drop me, so quick, so smooth.

We need to talk. No, we don’t, Love. You want to ice me out and make me sit on the other fucking side of the room while you look in Milo’s phone and let him put his hand on your thigh? Fine. Have it your way.

It’s always the same with these fucking people, bad people when they’re caught.

My body count in LA: one star and one star fucker.

“The truth is . . .” My hands are shaking. She presses. “Milo and I hooked up at Chateau that morning, that day that you and I met.”

“Joe?” It’s Love, my girlfriend, the one whose twin brother fucked me. He fucked me. I clutch the phone.

Forty fucking with Love, Love forgiving him, no matter what. My job is to end it.

What I do know: If he stays around, he will destroy everything between me and Love. His family is right. He is self-destructive. But he is also outwardly destructive.

To love is to risk everything.

Love lifts us up but it also makes us roam around Little Compton like we didn’t murder the girl in the news.

Love is alive and she feels more connected to me than she does to her brother.