38. BlueEyedCupid

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Present Day—

"Ol? Are you okay?" I wave a hand in front of his face. "Do you need to go to a hospital? I can call an ambulance right—"

"What?" Dread widens his eyes, and he lets out a nervous laugh. "No, no, no. Why would I need an ambulance? I just remember something important, that's all."

"Well, what do you remember?" I cock my head to the side.

"Right after the Slushie incident, I received a letter from BlueEyedCupid too."

Every muscle I have in my body tenses in an instant. "How come you never told me about that?"

"I forgot about it," he replies with a nonchalant shrug.

I settle my hands on my hips, my mouth set in a hard line. "How come you forgot about something as insane and important as that?"

He scratches the back of his neck, an embarrassed smile crawling across his face. "Nina said I have this condition called—never mind. What I'm trying to say is—"

I gasp in horror and slap a hand over my mouth. Does he have one of those awful degenerative brain disorders? "You're not sick, are—"

"What I'm saying is, I thought one of those psychopathic girls who Slushied you must've been the one who sent me the letter, but . . ." He stares at the note in his hand for a moment, the lines between his eyebrows deepening. "Now I'm not so sure."

Keeping my annoyance in check, I focus on the more important matter. "Who gave you the letter?"

"Blake. He worked in the mailroom back then, remember?"

The Gossip King, huh? Could he be the person behind this?

Blake isn't the smartest person in the studio. Scratch that. He's even dumber than Ollie. That's why I find it hard to believe that he's planned such an elaborate scheme. Plus, he's not racist, or at least I think he isn't.

Nevertheless, after hearing the conversation he had with the three evil princesses last week, I'd be lying if I say I'm not the least bit suspicious.

"But there's something different about the letters you're getting and the one I got," Ollie says.

"What is it?"

"See this?" He points at the last word of the first line of the message. "Whoever sent this spells peasant correctly. The one who sent the note to me two years ago wrote pheasant—with an h."

I snort out a laugh. That sounds like something Blake would do.

"Yeah, I know." Ollie huffs a chuckle. "That was why I thought one of those girls wrote it. Also, at that time, they just mentioned an ugly pheasant, not an ugly yellow peasant."

"That's weird."

Something nags at my brain. Yet before I can figure out what is bothering me, Ollie points at the last line of the message. "And the signature. The person who mailed the letter to me also misspelled it. Wrote apostrophe-t-i-l."

As that nagging feeling grows more insistent, a possible—albeit rather unlikely—explanation appears in my mind. What if there are two BlueEyedCupids? That would explain all the spelling mistakes. But why does everything else seem so similar?

I rack my brain for a logical explanation. Yet no matter how hard I try, I can't find any. Just when I'm about to give up, my mind reminds me of what Jack said when I gave him the hate mail I received last week.

"The letter you got. Did it have any stamps on the envelope?"

Ollie scrunches his forehead in thought for a moment. "No, I don't think so. Why?"

"Hmm . . ."

As I try to narrow the suspects based on what Jack explained to me, pure confusion twists Ollie's face. The curiosity burning in his gaze tells me he's dying to ask me what I'm thinking, but a flicker of hesitancy sparks in the blue of his eyes.

He's afraid I'd think he's dumb, I know.

"Jack said whoever sent the letter I got last week didn't send it by mail because there isn't any stamp on the envelope. It's highly possible that BlueEyedCupid just put it in the mailroom cart, which means they must be working in this studio. Since they did the same two years ago, whoever they are must've been working here two years ago too," I explain.

"Oh." Ollie nods to himself, yet a shade of perplexity remains on his face. "Then why did Blake say the UPS guy brought the letter for me?"

Oh. My. God.

Although some pieces of the puzzle are still missing, there's only one simple answer to Ollie's question: the Gossip King is involved in this wicked scheme.

Sparks of anger flare up in my gut, threatening to fill my chest. As I struggle to keep myself from exploding into a fit of rage, a look of realization washes over Ollie's face.

"You don't think—"

"Oh, yes." I clench my fists into balls. "And I'm gonna kill that guy."

"Talk." Ollie pushes Blake's shoulders down, forcing him to sit on the wooden chair in the middle of the storage room. The bright light shining above them reflects the fear in Blake's green eyes as Ollie circles the chair to face him. "You're BlueEyedCupid, aren't you?"

"I . . . I'm . . ." Blake's limbs quiver as he turns his gaze to me, silently asking for help.

I cross my arms over my chest and raise an eyebrow at him. With enough venom lacing my voice, I threaten, "The man just asked you a question, Blake. You wouldn't want him to lose his temper now, would you?"

Ollie cracks his knuckles to prove my point, and Blake's face becomes as pale as a ghost.

"I-I'm not BlueEyedCupid." The thin man waves his hands in front of him in panic. "I'm not. I swear. I'm not."

"Oh, cut the bullshit, Blake," Ollie snarls. "You wrote the letter you gave me two years ago, didn't you?"

Blake gulps, his Adam's apple bouncing in his slender neck. "Y-yes and no."

"What do you mean yes and no?" A note of annoyance creeps into my voice.

"I was the one who printed the letter, and I edited the message a bit, but I wasn't the one who originally wrote it," Blake answers.

Ollie lets out a threatening growl from deep within his throat. "Stop lying, you son of a—"

"I swear to my Mimi's grave, I'm not lying!" Blake squeaks.

As much as I hate to admit it, Blake doesn't seem to be lying. He's involved in this wicked scheme, yes. But I have a feeling he isn't the evil mastermind we're hunting.

Still, my partner doesn't seem to think so.

As Ollie doubles up his fists, Blake hunches his shoulders and shudders convulsively. Fear contorts the Gossip King's narrow face to the point that he looks as if he's about to pee himself, causing pity to prick my conscience.

Deciding to play the role of the good cop, I put a hand on Ollie's shoulder. "Why don't we give him a chance to explain? I'm sure he has a perfectly good reason why he did what he did."

Ollie grinds his teeth and huffs, "Fine."

"Now, Blake?" I keep my tone calm and sweet. But the fact that he jumps in his seat means he sees the hint of threat in my eyes. "You said you edited the message?"

Shifting on the chair, Blake wipes the beads of sweat off his forehead and gives me a slow nod. "The original message was racist and filled with spelling mistakes. BlueEyedCupid was so stupid they couldn't even spell peasant right."

"And how exactly would you spell peasant?" Ollie asks, sarcasm reeking from every word.

"Easy. P-h-e-a—"

"Never mind that," I interrupt as Ollie rolls his eyes. "What about this?" I hold up the letter I received an hour ago. "And the letter BlueEyedCupid sent me last week. Did you put them in the mailroom cart?"

"I don't know anything about that." Blake points at the letter in my hand. "But . . ." He inhales a long, audible breath and exhales it with a whoosh. "BlueEyedCupid did ask me to print another letter and give it to you last week. I was about to do so when I got a phone call from my dad, saying my Mimi had a heart attack." The grief in his eyes tells me he's telling the truth. "So I flew back to Phoenix before noon that day and stayed there until Monday. I didn't have time to do what BlueEyedCupid asked me to. If you don't believe me, I can show you my plane tickets."

I guess that was why he didn't show up at the company's anniversary party last week, huh? And if he was in Phoenix on Sunday, then he couldn't have taken that photo of Ollie, Kiki, and me.

"I believe you," I say. "And I'm sorry about your Mimi."

"Thanks, V."

"So why did you do it?" Ollie asks. "Two years ago. Why did you agree to give me that letter?"

A spasm of guilt twists his mouth as he switches his gaze between Ollie and me. He bites his lower lip and drops his gaze to his lap, his skinny fingers tapping against his legs. "BlueEyedCupid offered me a free VIP ticket to Celia's concert."

"You're saying you did it for a free concert ticket?" I try to hold back my anger, but it's beginning to seep into my voice.

"I-it was awful, I know. But they gave me a meet-and-greet ticket too, Vanessa! And you know how much I love the Queen—" He slaps his hands over his mouth and shrinks away as I glare at him.

"And what about Kiki?" I snarl, rubbing my temples as rage pulses through my veins. "What did you get for chopping her leg off? Celia's used underwear?"

"Kiki?" Blake tilts his head to the side, his eyebrows knitted in confusion. "You mean your cat? What does she have to do with—"

"Stop . . . lying . . ." I ball my fists and grit my teeth. The last bit of control I retain snaps away with a click when I think of how my innocent cat almost died because of my #1 hater's cruel action. A red haze of rage fills my vision, and I stomp toward him. "Why'd you drag Kiki into this, you two-tongued piece of—"

"I-I really don't know anything about your cat, V." Blake recoils in terror, his hands flying up to protect his face from my wrath. "I swear, I don't!"

I'm about to give him hell when Ollie stops me with a gentle hand on my elbow. There's something soothing in his eyes that manages to bring my common sense back to life. Punching a coworker for the second time—or some might say, torturing the living hell out of a coworker—might get me in trouble.

Scratch that. It will definitely get me fired. And possibly incarcerated too.

A scene of me in a bright orange jumpsuit sitting in the middle of the Chow Hall flashes before my eyes. As the brawny women on my table eye my lunch, I drag my metal tray closer to me.

Nobody—and I mean nobody—steals my pork—

"Yo, yellow rabbit!" A six-foot-seven-tall, muscle-bound woman resembling She-Hulk walks toward me with a Miss Mochi doll in her hand, her heavy footsteps echoing in my head. Gesturing at the bowl of soup on my tray, she grins. "Gimme that pork dumpling now, or else."

Icy fingers of fear creep down my spine as she rips Miss Mochi's head off. Uh-oh. That's not—

"Ness?" Ollie's soft voice snaps me back to reality. A mixture of concern and confusion creases his forehead. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Clearing my throat, I set my fists on my hips and return my attention to Blake, who's peeking at me from behind his trembling hands.

Calm down, Vanessa. Maybe he's telling the truth. Maybe he didn't have anything to do with Kiki's missing leg. He's a two-faced idiot, but he doesn't seem to be heartless.

I don my most intimidating game face. "Do you know who BlueEyedCupid is? Did you two ever meet in person?"

Blake shakes his head no. "We've only chatted online."

Not one to believe the Gossip King easily, Ollie insists, "Are you sure you're not lying, Blake?"

The threat in Ollie's voice is as clear as daylight. But this time, our suspect looks us in the eye and insists, "I swear to my Mimi's grave. I'm telling the truth. I've never met BlueEyedCupid in person."

Disappointment floods through me. Now that we know Blake isn't my #1 hater, we're back to square one. At this point, Jack's inside-job theory is flawed too, considering the real BlueEyedCupid could've asked another one of Celia's fans to put the letter in the mailroom cart this time.

As Ollie mutters a frustrated curse under his breath, I concentrate on trying to see if I'm missing something. I start by re-reading the note I received today, word by word, before replaying everything that Blake has said earlier. And that's when it hits me.

"The tickets," I mutter to myself before taking a step closer toward Blake. "How did you receive the tickets?"

"A few days after I . . . did what I did," Blake answers, a glint of guilt flickering in his eyes, "they sent the tickets to my home."

"So you never find out who sent them to you?" I ask.

Blake shakes his head, his mouth pulled into an apologetic line. "Sorry."

Ollie and I stare at each other for a moment before we sigh in disappointment. There goes our best lead.

"But I still keep the tickets," Blake adds. "And the envelope too. If it helps."

A brand new hope and determination burn bright in my chest. I guess it's not a dead-end yet.


Author's Note:

So, Blake is only a pawn in BlueEyedCupid's cruel game. Did you see it coming?

What's your theory on BlueEyedCupid?

Thanks for reading! :)


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