Pretty Perfect Deadly
Book 1 - Chapters 5 to 10
by Bobby J. Walters
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Bobby J. Walters @author_robert_walters
Star: Alexandra Davis @PrettyPerfectDeadly
Little Sister: Eliza Davis @eliza_davis_official

Chapter 5 - Second Life
By Monday, my sympathy tour is running on autopilot.
Hand on shoulder. Smile, just sad enough. A sigh. A nod. The occasional distant stare out a window.
People eat it up.
Sympathy is a currency. And I am rich.

Psych class lets out early, so I cut across the quad and head to the library. I like the psychology section. It's quiet, clinical. So full of books about how people break.
On the way, I pass a crying girl hunched over the stone fountain near the English building. Her mascara is smudged, and her breath comes in hiccups.
I almost keep walking. But then I hear it:
"I can't go back there. Not again."
A taller girl in a cheer hoodie is kneeling beside her. "Did he hit you again?"
I stop walking.
The girl nods through her sobs. "It's worse when he drinks. He gets in my face. Last night he punched the wall next to me."
I recognize the crying girl from class, Anna something. She always wears chunky sweaters and sits in the second to last row. She talks softly, like she's afraid of taking up space.
Her dad picks her up sometimes. I've seen him waiting outside the psych building in a truck that looks like it eats gas for breakfast. He always keeps the engine running. Always looks angry.
I walk past without saying anything, but my fingers are already twitching.

That night, I do my homework like a good girl. Clean my room. Light a vanilla candle. And then I open my laptop and start typing.
Target File: 002 - Anna's Dad
Name: Roger Fields
Works construction, local company
Arrest in 2008 (bar fight, dropped)
No social media except FB
Public FB tagged in Anna's graduation photos
Lives in a ranch style house on the edge of town
I cross reference the address with the county records. He rents. The backyard has a large toolshed. Two trash bins. No security system listed.
I find a local handyman group that offers free volunteer repairs for struggling families. They post sign up sheets through the community wellness center.
Guess who just signed up for next weekend?

At school, Detective Rachel Lopez visits campus to speak with the Dean about "community safety awareness." That's what the email says.
I catch a glimpse of her through the glass office door.
She's younger than I expected. Maybe early thirties. Hair pulled back into a neat bun. Coffee in one hand, file folder in the other. She's dressed like a woman who doesn't want to be underestimated.
She doesn't notice me. But I notice her.
She's not just here for Drew.
She's looking for a pattern.

Noah finds me that afternoon on the quad, holding two iced lattes. "I remembered you like caramel."
I raise a brow. "I never told you that."
He shrugs. "You seem like a caramel girl."
I almost tell him I seem like a lot of things.
Instead, I take the cup. "Thanks."
We talk. He's funny. He listens. He asks questions that aren't just setups for his own stories.
If I didn't know better, I'd say I liked him.
If he wasn't so perfect, I'd say he was doomed.

At dinner that night, Grandma says nothing.
She just watches me as I finish my mashed potatoes, then gently places a folded article next to my plate.
It's a clipping from a local paper. Man Dies in Fall While Cleaning Gutters.
The headline's from five years ago. It's circled in red.
I look at her.
She doesn't wink this time.
She just gets up and clears her plate, humming a little tune as she walks away.


Chapter 6 - Target Locked
Roger Fields lives in a one story house with peeling paint, two ceramic eagles by the mailbox, and a sagging tool shed out back. It's the kind of place that would smell like old coffee and anger inside.
I'm wearing a volunteer shirt, khaki shorts, and a ponytail. All smiles. All sunshine.
The program I signed up through is real. That's the beauty of it. Real names, real causes, real people trying to do good. I'm just adapting the mission slightly.
Roger answers the door with suspicion in his eyes and a beer already in hand. It's 10:48 a.m.
"Morning!" I chirp. "I'm Alex from Helping Hands. We're doing minor home repairs today and you were on the list for gutter work, tool shed maintenance, and a broken screen door?"
He squints at me. "You look twelve."
I laugh. "I get that a lot. We're just here to help."
He grunts, opens the door wider. "Whatever. Just don't touch the truck."
Noted.

I do the screen door first. Easy fix, tighten the hinges, clean out the tracks. Let him see I'm useful. Non threatening. Normal.
I wave at the neighbor across the yard. She's watering roses and waves back. Good. Witnesses are good. They validate the story.
By the time I ask to check out the tool shed, Roger's already cracked open beer #3 and gone back inside to yell at a football game.
The tool shed is every bit as junky as I hoped. Loose nails, cracked floorboards, two ladders leaning at odd angles, and a massive, top heavy shelf crammed with paint cans, tools, and God knows what.
Perfect.
I test the shelf's balance. One good nudge, and this thing will fall faster than Drew. I unscrew the bottom brackets. Just enough.
Then I wedge a rubber wedge under one side, almost invisible, and set an old wrench on the top shelf where it barely hangs over.
Later, when Roger climbs up to grab something, physics will handle the rest.

I log my notes on my phone in the bathroom.
002 - Staging complete.
Estimated failure time: 1 to 3 days.
No prints. No cameras. Zero trace.
I wash my hands twice, like a real girl scout.
When I head out, Roger gives me a half hearted nod and a "yeah, thanks" grunt without looking up.
He has no idea that by the time this football game plays again next week, he'll be buried six feet under his own damn tools.

That night, I go for ice cream with Noah.
We sit on the hood of his car, passing a pint back and forth. He picks cookie dough. I pretend not to judge.
He's telling a story about a time he got locked in the band room overnight when he says, "I'm glad you're doing okay. After everything with Drew."
I take a slow bite and smile. "You think I'm doing okay?"
He looks at me with this softness I don't understand. "I think you're kind of incredible."
Dangerous word.

Back home, my phone buzzes just after midnight. It's a news alert.
Man Crushed in Backyard Shed Accident
Roger Fields, 48, was pronounced dead at the scene after a shelf collapsed while he was retrieving equipment in his tool shed. Authorities report no foul play is suspected.
I don't smile.
I exhale.
It's like slipping into warm water. Weightless. Calm.
From down the hall, my dad calls, "Everything good, Alex?"
I swallow the rush. Force my voice light.
"Yes, Daddy!"

Chapter 7 - The Tool Shed Accident
The town barely blinks.
One obituary. Two days of hushed gossip. A half hearted GoFundMe for a funeral with zero donations from coworkers.
Roger Fields dies like he lived: alone, unloved, and inconvenient.
I read the news aloud at breakfast.
"Another freak accident," I say, scooping yogurt into a bowl. "So sad."
Dad grunts. "Must've been careless."
"People like that always are," Grandma mutters into her coffee.
I glance at her. She doesn't look up. Just takes a slow sip.

In psychology class, Dr. Ellison is talking about moral disengagement.
"How do people justify doing terrible things?" he asks. "How do they silence guilt?"
He lists terms like "cognitive restructuring" and "victim blaming." But I'm barely listening.
Because I already know the answer.
You don't silence the guilt.
You never feel it in the first place.

Anna Fields shows up to class the next week with a clean face and a new haircut.
She smiles more. She speaks up when Dr. Ellison asks questions. She laughs once, an actual, from the gut laugh when someone mispronounces "Freudian."
No one else notices.
But I do.
She's free.
And I gave that to her.

I make another entry in my notebook:
002 - SUCCESS.
Target: Roger Fields
Method: Crushed by shelf (shed)
Motive: Domestic violence
Cover: Volunteer program
Public reaction: minimal
Emotional effect: relief, satisfaction, no guilt

Noah takes me out again. We see a movie and split fries. He walks me to my door and pauses.
"I don't want to move too fast," he says. "But I really like you."
I smile. "Then don't move too fast."
He leans in, soft and sweet. I let him kiss me.
For a moment, I wonder what he'd look like at the bottom of a cliff.
Then I wonder why that thought made me smile.

Back at home, Grandma's watching one of those old black and white detective shows. The kind where the killer is always the butler or the jealous lover.
I walk past the TV and stop.
"Anything good?" I ask.
She doesn't look at me. "The woman did it. Poisoned his coffee."
"How do you know?"
"She blinked too slowly when he said ‘cream and sugar.'"
I laugh. "That's not real."
She turns toward me, eyes glinting. "No, sweetie. It's very real. You just don't notice it yet."
I start to say something, some flirty sarcastic comeback, but she turns the volume up before I can.

Later that night, I lie in bed scrolling through articles about suspicious deaths. Ones labeled accidents. Ones with holes in the story.
Turns out, the world is full of terrible people and no one watching closely enough.
I don't feel like a murderer.
I feel like a filter.
And I'm just getting started.


Chapter 8 - The Death Count Rises
I never thought of myself as someone who would keep a kill journal.
But here we are.
It's a plain black Moleskine with no label. The kind college girls use for poetry or budgeting. Mine is organized by victim.
So far, there are two entries. Drew. Roger.
But the pages ahead? They're blank. Waiting. Excited.
I'm not a monster. I don't kill for fun. I kill for justice.
And I'm getting better at it.

Rule #1: No innocents. Ever.
If you steal snacks or cut in line or ghost someone, you're safe.
But if you lay your hands on someone, break them, ruin them, make them feel small?
I will ruin you right back.
Rule #2: It has to look like an accident.
No knives. No guns. No blood. Just gravity, wires, water, and timing.
Rule #3: No patterns. No ties. No mistakes.

Detective Rachel Lopez is on campus again.
She's not here for a talk this time. She's meeting with campus security, asking questions. Discrete ones.
I watch her from a second floor balcony as she walks through the quad with a clipboard and coffee.
She walks like someone who doesn't trust the ground beneath her feet.
When she stops to look at the loose safety rail near the science building, right where Drew and I used to meet, I feel something tighten in my chest.
She's not just curious. She feels something. She's hunting. 

Noah texts me a meme about Freud and a peach emoji. I almost laugh.
Then he texts again: Dinner Thursday? I'll cook. Promise not to burn anything.
I say yes.
Because I like him.
And because people don't suspect girls who are in love.

On Thursday night, I eat white cheddar mac & cheese off paper plates in Noah's apartment while he plays a lo fi playlist and tells me about his family. He has a mom who collects owl figurines and a sister who once shaved her eyebrows to "feel something."
He laughs when he tells the story. I pretend it's the first time I've heard a weird family story.
He doesn't ask about mine. But if he did, I'd probably say something like:
My grandma knows I murder people. Pass the parmesan.

When I get home, there's a manila envelope on my bed.
No name. No return address.
Inside is a photo. Black and white. Newspaper clipping style.
A woman in her forties, smiling.
Underneath her picture, a sticky note.
"CEO. Known abuser. Ask around at the nursery. She fired a pregnant worker last month. She's next."
No signature.
Just that.
I freeze. Then flip the envelope inside out. Nothing.
My heart thuds once. Twice.
And then, quietly, I smile.
Grandma's playing matchmaker.

Chapter 9 - Dating Noah
Noah invites me over for another dinner over the weekend. This is becoming a pattern. His kitchen smells like garlic, red sauce, and mild panic.
He's standing over the stove with a wooden spoon and a face full of regret.
"I swear this looked better on TikTok."
The pan is hissing. The noodles are clumping. A single basil leaf wilts in defeat on the counter.
I lean against the doorway with my arms crossed. "Is this how you woo all your dates?"
He looks over his shoulder and grins. "Only the ones I want to impress."
Dangerous word, want.

Dinner is chaos and charm. We end up eating on the floor of his tiny apartment, drinking from mismatched glasses while some old sitcom plays in the background.
He tells me about his childhood hamster named Beyoncé and the time he almost got arrested for stealing a garden gnome "as a political statement."
I laugh more than I mean to.
He watches me the way people look at sunrises, like he doesn't want to blink and miss it.
And for a second, I wonder if this could be real.
If I could have this, a normal boy, a soft night, a story that doesn't end in sirens.
But then he says, "You have this,  lightness. Like nothing gets to you."
And I remember.
People believe what you show them.
I smile and take another sip. "Guess I'm just built differently."

Later, he walks me to my car. We stand in the glow of the overhead lights, and the air feels full of something sweet and dangerous.
"Can I see you again?" he asks.
I lean in, brushing my lips against his, slow and deliberate. "You already are."
His smile flickers, half startled, half captivated.
I almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.

At home, the lights are off and everyone's in bed.
But Grandma's door is cracked open.
I peek inside. She's sitting at her desk, writing something in a small blue notebook.
When she sees me, she closes it calmly. "Nice night?"
"Yeah," I say. "It was."
She nods once. "Good. You deserve a little sweetness, between storms."
I don't ask what that means.
Because part of me already knows.

I fall asleep with my laptop open to a browser tab titled:
"CEO Sued for Wrongful Termination and Employees Speak Out"
Her name is Veronica Mayes.
The woman in the photo Grandma gave me.
Powerful. Careless. Cruel.
A new project.
And maybe, a new rule:
#4 - When the world whispers, listen.

Chapter 10 - The Mean Girl
Every campus has one.
That girl.
Too pretty to hate, too cruel to ignore. The one who turns insecurity into an art form and pain into performance. She doesn't just break hearts, she collects them. Cracks them open like glow sticks at parties and laughs while they burn.
Ours is named Caitlyn Rhodes.
And she's about to learn what happens when her little games go too far.

I first hear about Caitlyn while doing laundry.
Two guys are talking at the folding table, voices hushed.
"Did you hear about Jeremy?"
"Yeah. Jesus. I didn't think he'd actually do it."
They're talking about the kid from the honors dorm. Quiet. Top of his class. Dead now.
Jumped off the parking garage last night. No note. Just a phone full of deleted messages and a half written poem in his drafts folder titled "To Her, Who Was Never Mine."
And one very persistent rumor.
Caitlyn had been texting him for weeks. Sending selfies. Flirting in class. Pretending.
It was all a joke. A dare. Her and her friends call it "nerd fishing."
She picked him, made him believe she cared, made him confess he loved her in front of her whole table at the dining hall.  She just laughed at him.
The next morning, he was gone.

I go home and look her up.
Caitlyn is a cheer captain, influencer lite, 22K followers on Instagram and a smile like a sugar coated blade. Her captions drip with platitudes "Good vibes only!", "Be kind!", "I don't chase, I attract" and her comments are full of thirsty frat guys and insecure freshmen begging for validation.
She volunteers, of course. Animal shelter. Probably for the pictures.
I recognize the type. I used to be the type.
But there's a difference between playing perfect and preying on the broken.

I follow her online for three days.
She's posting selfies at juice bars. Hanging out at rooftop pools. Using the same pose in every shot, head tilted, eyes innocent, lips almost parted.
By Thursday, I've liked three of her photos and messaged her.
me: hey gorgeous. saw you at the quad. obsessed with your style.
She replies in eight minutes flat.
caitlyn: aww ty babe!! come out w us friday?? rooftop at my place 
Hook. Line. Clueless.

Friday night, I wear a crop top, high ponytail, lip gloss. Just enough glam to fit in. Just enough edge to stay sharp.
The rooftop is full of her girlfriends. A true ladies night. 
"Alex, right? You're even hotter in person."
She links arms with me like we're old friends.
It's almost impressive how fast she fakes it.
We talk for an hour. She compliments my shoes, my hair, and my "glow." She doesn't know I've killed two people. Doesn't see the monster in the mirror.
Or maybe she does, and thinks it's just good contour.

By midnight, Caitlyn's drunk and bragging.
"I mean, yeah, Jeremy was like, nice? But like c'mon. It's not my fault he was obsessed. He knew it was a joke."
She laughs.
And something inside me snaps.

I leave the rooftop at 1:04 a.m.
But not before slipping into her bathroom and tucking a tiny piece of metal into the bottom of her inhaler. Just enough to jam it next time she uses it.
Just enough to buy me the moment I need.
Because I've already seen the invite for her next pool party Saturday early evening.
And I know how easily panic drowns in the deep end.

That night, I dream of ripples and silence.
And when I wake up, I feel weightless.

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