Make Me (The Fox Family Crime Syndicate, #1)

by Summer O'Toole

In case no one’s told you: you’re so pretty when you cry.

Slain

Harlow

“June Harbor Slayer strikes again, slain local dancer makes victim #4”

“Anything else you want to tell us?” I ignore the detective’s question the same way the newspaper ignored the fact that Beth wasn’t just a dancer. She was a friend, a sister, a daughter. She didn’t just dance at night, she also got iced coffee every morning—no matter the weather—from her favorite cafe where the baristas knew the exact milk-to-coffee ratio she liked. The police predict a serial killer, but Beth had liked to predict when a red light would turn green, and any time her countdown was right, she squealed and slammed on the accelerator while saying, “It’s my time to shine!”

The unis hesitate but release their hold, and I step away from the wall to face Detective Something-or-other. “Stop talking like I don’t want to help you. Like I don’t care that my best friend was gutted like a fish. Stop treating me like I’m withholding information. Stop. Just stop—“ I can’t hold myself up any longer and collapse onto the floor, drawing my knees to my chest.

She started working at Peaches almost five years ago. I know she loves dancing and most of her regular customers, but there’s always a handful of creeps that can sour an entire evening.

“I like my independence more.” Beth and I have been friends since kindergarten, and in that time she’s had various security-type people following her around. I remember thinking she was a princess when I was young because all she would say about her bodyguards was “My grandpa is an important person in Russia.” I assumed that was code for king. I met him when I was ten years old, and he definitely didn’t seem like a king. He was just like any old grandpa. My current theory is that he is a nuclear scientist and knows all of Russia’s military secrets.

Her family gave her an ultimatum when she started dancing. They weren’t going to keep paying for her security detail or her luxury condo if she insisted on putting herself in seedy situations. She obviously chose dancing. And a small, shitty apartment with me.

“Okay. At what point did you come to?” A shiver runs down my spine as I remember the grisly sight. “He was crouching over her and…and stabbing her…repeatedly.”

A fox’s face catches my eye, a snake caught in its jaws. It’s like something out of a fairy tale. Suddenly, it all makes sense: The paralysis, the soundless screams. I’m dreaming.

“What’s your name?” I ask while we wait. He laughs. “Wow. I really made a good first impression, huh? Detective Saxon.” I don’t know why, but it hurts that he only told me his title. “Or just Leo.” Leo.

All By Myself

Harlow

1 It’s been two weeks since Beth’s death and my subconscious still hasn’t broken the habit.

I hardly remember her funeral. There were purple flowers, I remember that. She would have liked them. But not much else. I guess my traumatized brain decided to black out or suppress that memory, but not the one that haunts me every night in my dreams.

Beth’s family told me to take my time going through her belongings. They didn’t want to “disrupt my grieving by rushing the process.” “Whenever I was ready,” they said. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? It’s hard to believe I will ever be “ready” to face the fact that my best friend since fucking kindergarten is dead. Not just dead. Murdered.

I wish they would care a little less about my grieving process and a little more about the fact that the cops are dragging their fucking feet. I don’t understand how they can just accept that the police have hit a dead end instead of rioting at the station every damn day. Because that’s what I want to do.

That’s how I find myself getting out of the cab in front of a pub-style restaurant while the driver is still rattling on about that damn blue-cheese dressing. The Fox’s Den.

I’m about to leave when a man with fair skin and dirty blond hair dressed in an all-black suit walks up to the hostess. He leans in to whisper something in her ear and, while doing so, places a hand on her bicep. As soon as I see it, it’s like being hit by a bus. I am so unsettled and shell-shocked that I stumble back a few steps, as if taking a physical blow. I am transfixed on the black-and-white fox tattoo staring back at me, the snake still dead as ever dangling from its mouth. I beg my feet to move, but I feel just as paralyzed as I did the first time I saw that exact tattoo. Frozen. Immobilized. The hostess laughs at something he—Beth’s killer—says, and it breaks me out of my trance. With every nerve in my body pounding with adrenaline, I walk out briskly. I try to keep my cool until I make it around the corner of the block, but I fail instantly. I sprint down the sidewalk. Rounding the corner, I throw my back against the nearest building. Panting, I look up at the blue sky while my lungs work to restore my breathing.

I fucking found him. It’s him. I know it is. That tattoo is seared into my memory, haunts me every night, and it belongs to the man in the black suit. His height and build fit too. And apparently his penchant for all black.

“So…? Are you going to arrest him or what?” I break the silence. He braces his forearms on the table and leans forward. He uses the same tone he used last time when he spoke to me like a trapped rabbit. “Here’s the thing, Harlow. The man you saw is Cash Fox. He owns Peaches and The Fox’s Den and various other establishments in the city.” That makes my skin scrawl. Knowing that a serial killer is living his life out in public without any shame, running businesses. He was Beth’s boss for Christ’s sake.

Well, fuck. Looks like I’m going to be hunting down a serial killer all by myself.

1. The End—Kings of Leon | SummerOtoole.com/Playlists

Don't Cry Over Spilled Coffee

Harlow

Screw the police. Screw Detective Saxon. Screw fake alibis and sleazy lawyers. And screw Cash Fox. Because I’m going to burn his world down and dance in the ashes.

Well, this is off to a promising start. When I searched online for Cash Fox, a bunch of loan websites and Fox News business pages showed up. So, I checked the image results and apparently there is a singing band of dogs in the movie The Fox and the Hound led by the stoner dog, Cash.

But at Peaches, she said she always felt safe. There were panic buttons in every private room and girls could even request jewelry with buttons built in if they wanted. Drugs were an occasional occurrence, but security would only let longtime, trouble-free clients get away with it. Any new guy who brought drugs in was kicked out and blacklisted. If dancers wanted to take things further with their clients, they were given extra security. One time, they even paid for a lawyer to get a girl out of a prostitution charge when a john was ratted out by his vindictive wife.

But that was Beth being amazing, not Cash Fox, and I was growing real tired of reading article after article singing his praises. Frustrated and spiteful, I hammered on my keyboard: Cash Fox Murderer. The page loads painfully slow, and I’m about to slam my laptop closed when a headline makes me gasp: Fox, 54, sentenced to life without parole for governor assassination.

The mob?! I mean, it does make sense. Leo seemed to already be aware of Cash. And if he’s more than just a businessman, if he’s making even more money through illegal channels, it would explain him being able to afford “the best” lawyers and why he’s untouchable.

Despite that thought, a ripple of something dangerously close to excitement runs through me. This is an absolutely terrible idea. And I’m absolutely going to do it.

I have a coffee in one hand and the biggest sunglasses I own in the other. I am ready. Stepping out of the June Bug Café across the street from The Fox’s Den, I slip on my shades and snag an outside table with a view to the restaurant. I pretend to scroll on my phone while really tracking every person that comes and goes. It’s just before they open for lunch, so I assume most of these people are workers. I notice a lot of the women have dark hair. I don’t know if this is important or just a coincidence, but I write it down anyway.

I’ve watched enough crime shows to know that you never know what small detail will break the case, and with God as my...

What if, while I’m here stalking him, he’s out there stalking his next victim? Nausea overwhelms me. There’s going to be another victim. Another Beth.

The apartment door opens, catching my attention. A man steps out, and my heart stops until I realize it’s not him. He looks similar, same facial structure and dirty-blonde hair, though this man’s is longer and falling into his eyes. The man leans against the wall beside the door and kicks up a foot to rest on the wall. He taps a pack of cigarettes, but doesn’t open it. A realization slams into my chest. He uses doppelgangers.

There he is. He starts talking to the other man and I can see they share similarities, but they are far from identical. Now that I see the two next to each other, I throw out my short-lived doppelganger theory.

He offers Cash a cigarette, and my eyes zero in on his lips wrapping softly around it and blowing out the smoke. I tell myself the zing I feel deep in my core is excitement for potential DNA evidence and not because his profile, when he tilts his head back, looks like a dark prince waiting to be crowned.

Cash’s eyes lock on mine, and I can’t breathe. Can’t move.

I spend the rest of that night on the floor of my bedroom with a chef’s knife in one hand and a hammer in the other. Waiting. Anticipating. Staring at my locked door. He never comes.

When he finally does appear, I feel as if every nerve in my body jumps to attention. He’s talking on the phone, but I can’t hear him. I pack up my things, slip on a baseball cap, and remove the sweatshirt I’d been wearing, stuffing that in my bag as well.

Did he recognize me? Does he remember the way my body jolted and spasmed before I fell to the ground? Did he see enough of my face as I fought for consciousness, cheek squished to the pavement? Did he pay me any mind as he slaughtered Beth?

1. like that—Bea Miller | SummerOtoole.com/Playlists

Villain Origin Story

Cash

30 hours ...

1The stairwell has that musty, wet-cement smell that old industrial buildings get when it rains. I’m tempted to run the rest of the way, hoping that he hasn’t died yet. But I need to keep my heart rate down if I’m going to go about this methodically. You can’t rush excellence. And I only accept excellence, especially when it comes to inflicting pain.

This is the culmination of a ten-year hunt.

This is as much their vengeance as it is mine.

With a sigh and prayer, I lift the lid and like a gift from God, Mark Schneider’s weaselly face is staring back at me, alive and well—okay, not well, but alive.