Pretty Perfect Deadly
Book 1 - Chapters 1 to 10

by Bobby J. Walters

Chapter 1 - The Cliff | Alex

If there’s one thing people will say about me at the vigil, it’s that I’m kind.
Kind. Sweet. Selfless.
Like pushing a guy off a cliff was just another one of my good deeds.
“Want another beer?” I ask Drew, flashing the dimple he always liked.
He’s sitting cross-legged on the blanket, grinning like a dumb golden retriever.
Tipsy. Happy. Faithful as ever, if you only saw him from this angle.
“Yeah, babe. One more and I’m yours all night.”
He winks, like I’m lucky. Like I didn’t see him with her.
Her name’s Taryn. She’s got legs for days and a nervous laugh. She left her necklace in his truck on Tuesday, then texted him “thanks for last night”
He showed me the message by accident. Swore it was nothing.
Swore he loved me.
I believed him, for about four seconds.
“Catch.” I toss him the last beer. It lands with a satisfying thunk against his chest.
He opens it, foam bubbling over the rim.
Below us, the lake glitters like glass under the full moon. It’s quiet out here. Just wind, water, and the low hum of cicadas.
Drew leans back on his elbows. “This place is insane. Can’t believe we haven’t come here before.”
“I know.” I scoot a little closer, tucking my legs beneath me. “It’s kind of, peaceful.”
He smiles. I smile.
And then I push him.
It’s not violent. There’s no scream. Just a gasp, a flail of limbs, and then,
silence.
Then a crunch. Like a watermelon dropped from the roof.
I sit back on the blanket and sip my beer.
It’s strange how calm I feel. Like unclenching a fist I didn’t know I’d been holding for three years.
I let out a long, slow breath.
Ten minutes later, I’m running.
I tear through the trees, down the gravel trail, and into the strip of shops below the cliffs. I pass a closed bakery, an all night convenience store, a vape shop still lit up.
I press my back against the cold brick wall and dial 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My, my boyfriend” I gasp, panting. “He was drinking, we were up on the cliffs, he got too close, he slipped, oh my God, he fell, I think he’s dead, please, please”
Tears come easy. I’ve been practicing in the mirror since Wednesday.

Chapter 2 | Candlelight and Compliments

They held the first vigil on the lawn outside the dorms.
String lights. Tealight candles. Pictures of Drew taped to sticks and posters. Someone even printed out his lacrosse jersey number in vinyl letters and stuck it to the tree he used to lean against before practice. They brought sunflowers, too. He never liked sunflowers. He said they looked "aggressively happy."
Ironic.
I'm sitting cross-legged on a blanket, flanked by friends I barely remember meeting, wrapped in someone's extra hoodie because it's "what Drew would've wanted." Someone is singing. A guy with an acoustic guitar and too much sincerity.  I nod along and press a tissue to my nose. The corners of my eyes sting.
It's not guilt. It's the wind.
"She's so strong," someone whispers behind me.
"She was there, you know?" another girl adds. "She saw it happen. I don't know how she's even functioning."
I smile softly. Because of course I'm functioning.
I have always functioned.

At home, my little sister Eliza has taped a picture of Drew and me on the fridge. She was always obsessed with us. Said we were her "favorite couple." Now she keeps bringing me hot chocolate with too many marshmallows and whispering, "He's in heaven now."
My mom won't stop cooking. My dad won't stop saying he's proud of how I'm holding up. My little brother asked if Drew's ghost would visit. I said maybe. Then I gave him a longer hug than usual.
Only Grandma doesn't fuss. She watches.
Quietly. Constantly.
Her room is across the hall from mine, and every time I leave, I feel her eyes follow me like an old clock that knows something about time you don't.
"Everything good, Alex?" she asked this morning as I poured my cereal.
I looked at her over the spoon and said, "Yes, Grandma."
She just smiled and said nothing.

By the following week, Drew's name is painted across sidewalks in chalk. There's a scholarship fund. A candlelight memorial in the gym. A banner in the student center that reads "FLY HIGH #12."
People hug me in the hallways. Professors extend deadlines. A local news anchor cries on camera about "love, youth, and tragedy." My face is everywhere. The angel left behind.
I know the exact moment it shifts.
It's when a girl in my Psych 101 class looks at me after a lecture on emotional trauma and whispers, "I don't know how you're still so, nice."
That's when it hits me.
They don't just forgive me.
They worship me.

I volunteer at the nursery the following Sunday. Same as always. Toddlers with chalky fingers. Soil under my nails. Parents whispering, "That's the girl who" and offering me gift cards, hugs, pity.
When a little girl hands me a flower and says, "This is for your heart," I nearly laugh.
Instead, I press it to my chest, tear up, and say thank you.

That night, lying in bed with the lights off, I replay the sound of Drew's body hitting the rocks.
It wasn't a scream. It wasn't even a cry for help. It was the sound of gravity and bone. Final. Sharp.
I've never heard anything more satisfying.
And the part that haunts me isn't that I killed him.
It's how much I want to do it again.

Chapter 3 | The Star on the Field

The fall sun is hot, even in October.
We're twenty minutes into our field hockey game against Penn Valley, and my pulse is steady. The field smells like sweat and freshly mowed grass. My stick is taped perfectly. My socks are folded just right. My braid hasn't moved an inch.
To anyone watching from the bleachers, I look like the picture of control.
Because I am.

"Alex, left side! Let's go, Davis!"
Coach's voice slices through the air as I sprint down the sideline, eyes locked on the ball. Their defense is slow today. We've got the edge.
I pass cleanly to Brittany, who smacks it into the goal like she's angry at it. The crowd erupts.
We're up 3-1.

My teammates swarm me, shouting, laughing. Someone slaps my back hard enough to sting. I force a grin. I fist bump. I throw my arms around them.
But inside?
Nothing.
It's not that I don't love the game. I do. I love the strategy, the speed, the way it drowns out everything else.
But right now, it feels like noise.
Just noise.

After the game, we stretch under the bleachers while Coach recaps what went well. Brittany's talking about post game pizza. Danielle is scrolling through photos of us she took on the sideline.
"Alex, you looked so hot when you blocked that second goal," she says. "Like assassin level hot."
I laugh. Too hard. "What kind of assassin wears a mouthguard and shin guards?"
She shrugs. "A really fit one."
The other girls join in with teasing, harmless flirting, inside jokes.
And still, there's this space inside me.
Like I'm watching it all happen from somewhere three feet behind my eyes.

Later, I shower, towel off, change into jeans and a hoodie with our school logo. Everyone else is still buzzing, talking about parties or classes or boys.
I check my phone.
No new messages from Noah, a new guy I met casually at the coffee shop on campus.
 
Walking home, I pause by the field.
Empty now. Quiet.
I walk to the goal box, kneel, and press my hand into the turf.
It's warm. Real.
I close my eyes.
For one second, I try to remember what it felt like before.
Before Drew.
Before the push.
Before I started confusing satisfaction with peace.
But I can't.
So I get up.
And walk away.

Chapter 4 | Mirrors and Masks

Dr. Ellison teaches Psychology 101 like he's auditioning for a TED Talk.
Big voice. Big questions. A whiteboard full of messy brilliance.
And today's lecture?
"Let's talk about psychopaths."
The word lands like a pebble in a still pond. Students sit up straighter. Pens scratch faster. A girl in the second row nervously laughs.
I keep my face blank. Interested. Curious. Normal.
Dr. Ellison clicks to the next slide. "Now, most of us hear that word and think ‘serial killer.' But the truth is, not all psychopaths are murderers. And not all murderers are psychopaths."
I make a thoughtful sound and jot it down.
Murder ≠ psychopath.
Good to know.
"Some psychopaths function at a very high level in society. They're charming. Smart. High achieving. They know exactly what people want to see and they show it to them."
I feel a smile tug at the corners of my mouth. It's involuntary. Or maybe not.
"But what they lack," he continues, "is empathy. They mimic it well. But there's a difference between saying ‘I'm sorry' and feeling sorry. And they know the difference."
Around me, heads nod.
Inside me, something purrs.

After class, I run into Madison, Drew's cousin. She's still red eyed, holding a pumpkin spice latte like it's a lifeline. She gives me a shaky hug.
"We're all still just in shock," she says. "It doesn't feel real. He was such a good guy."
"Yeah," I say softly. "He really was."
Lies taste like sugar when you're this good at it.

Later that day, I Facetime with Eliza during my break. She's painting her nails with glitter polish and talking about an 8th grade boy who tried to cheat off her math quiz. She told the teacher. He cried.
"You're ruthless," I tease.
She grins. "Like you."
The word sticks. I don't flinch.

At work on Sunday, I help a kid plant a tiny succulent in a plastic cup. His mom tells me I have a "therapeutic aura." I almost choke on my own breath.
It's weird. The closer I get to people, the less real they feel. Like props. Like I'm living inside a play I wrote myself.
Sometimes I imagine ripping off the mask, mid scene. What would they say if I told the truth?
Hi, I'm Alexandra Davis. I volunteer on weekends, say grace at dinner, and killed my boyfriend because he cheated with a girl named Taryn.
Oh, and I liked it.

At dinner that night, we're all seated around the long oak table.
Mom made roast chicken. Eliza talks about her science project.
My dad raises his glass: "To Alex. For being the strongest girl I know."
They all toast. I pretend to blush.
Grandma watches me over her water glass. Eyes sharp.
She hasn't said much all day.
But when everyone else is laughing at a joke my brother made, she leans in slightly and says, just loud enough for me to hear:
"Strong girls know when to hold back, honey. But they also know when to strike."
I look at her. Her lips curve. That almost smile again.
And for the first time in days, my heart beats faster.
She knows.
She knows.

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