The Initial Insult - Mindy McGinnis Page 0,59

panic I felt at the sight of the velvety paws has settled into a line of reasoning, each fact easing out the high peaks of adrenaline in my bloodstream.

“The cat isn’t hungry,” I say, “or he already would’ve grabbed someone.”

I pull the video back up, analyzing the few frames where he can be spotted.

“He’s not hunting, either,” I say, thinking aloud. “He’s too loose, just strolling. He’s . . .”

Felicity leans forward, chains jangling as she watches the video with me. “He’s prowling,” she says. It’s a good word for it. He’s moving cautious and slow, investigating while avoiding attention.

“Right,” I tell her. “But he’s curious, and cats don’t just hunt when they’re hungry. They’ll kill for sport.”

I make a decision, grab my backpack from the corner, and slip it over my shoulders.

“What are you doing?” Felicity asks, her voice high and tight again, no longer low and commiserating with mine.

“I’ve got to . . .” What? What have I got to do? Catch a wild animal with my bare hands?

“Don’t you leave me down here, Tress Montor,” Felicity orders, somehow maintaining an edge of authority even though she’s helpless.

“It’s okay. It’ll be okay,” I tell her. “I’ll lock the door.”

It’s a dumbass thing to say, and not only because I put the lock on the inside of the door. I don’t know why I’m comforting the person I’m specifically trying to keep on edge. But I am, and I keep doing it. “I’ll be back,” I call over my shoulder as I walk away, Felicity’s pleas following me.

I emerge into the kitchen to find Brynn crying and mixing water and beer into a Solo cup. I freeze, more alarmed at the sight of her than I would have been if the cat was waiting patiently for me, tail curled around its front paws.

“What the fuck?” Brynn says when she spots me, eyes going to the basement door as it clicks shut behind me. “I mean, what the actual fuck?”

“I—”

I’m trying to formulate an answer when I realize it’s a rhetorical question. Brynn isn’t asking me why I was in the basement. I don’t think she even cares. She cracks another beer and foam sprays onto the bright green leotard she’s wearing. I recognize it from the livestream; she’s the person feeding Ribbit his drinks.

“You’re watering it down,” I say, surveying the mess of empty cans and water bottles strewn across the counter.

“Yeah,” she says, wiping tears off her face. “He’ll die of alcohol poisoning if I don’t. And they’re just . . . they’re just . . . they’re letting it happen.” She starts crying again, full sobs wracking her body as she hangs over the porcelain sink, tears falling against mold that has crept up the sides.

“Not even just letting it happen,” she goes on. “They’re encouraging it. Did you see this?”

She pulls out her phone, showing me the comments under the livestream.

Ask him if he’s ever killed someone

Tell him to whip it out

Is he a virgin?

Fake news

Ask him if he’s ever killed someone

That last one from the same poster, insistent.

“Hugh sent me this screen cap from his phone.” She flips through some pics, smiling photos of her and Felicity; a group shot near a bonfire; Gretchen’s dog, posing in a Halloween costume as a skeleton.

“Look,” she says, pulling up a shot of a messages app with over two thousand unread notifications. “Somebody posted Hugh’s account info, and he’s getting questions from all over the world. It’s . . . it’s . . .”

She’s shaking, and I take her phone from her. Not all the comments are enthusiastic.

Somebody stop this

If you’re there please, someone help him. This is wrong.

Does anyone recognize where they are? Somebody needs to get out there.

Everybody chill. This is obviously all staged.

Those kids are not okay! Do you see the ones that are passed out?

They aren’t passed out—look at the puke, look at their skin. They’re sick.

Jesus Christ somebody call the cops

There’s concern but it’s all the same. Somebody—somebody else—should do something. Comments are coming fast and hard. I can’t keep up, and Brynn’s phone shakes in my hand when a screenshot pops up, the upper-right-hand corner circled in red with an arrow pointing to four dark paws, leaving the shot.

What the fuck is THAT? Did anybody else see that????

Yawn . . . Staged

I hand Brynn her phone back. “I’ve got to go.”

“Go where?” she snaps. “No, you’ve got to help me.”

“Help you?” I ask, truly flummoxed. She’s currently double-fisting watered-down beers to take