The friendly but stern set of pupils burning into yours trapped you into standing still, unable to look away.
There was something so calming in them. You didn't know why, but Jed's gaze felt as if it were hypnotizing you with the serenity in it while simultaneously making you feel like a bug under a microscope.
"And then I ran inside... I really should've called the police," you muttered in a concluding tone. Finally, you were able to avert your vision while nervously fidgeting with the frays of your jeans.
Jed nodded, looking at you with interest through the fur of his brown jacket clinging to his tinted cheek and nose. It was early enough in the morning for it to be cold and crisp, and so both of you were dressed up to keep the low temperatures at bay.
"If it was the Ghost Face then there is nothing the police could have done," he explained calmly. His statement sounded as though it was just a mechanical response that he followed daily, which wasn't all that surprising considering the subject of the masked killer was all Jed ever covered, you figured from the little you had gathered about him. A lot of people probably asked him about it on a daily base, and you assumed that being asked the same questions over and over was bound to become tiring after a while.
"How are you sure it was him? It could have been anyone."
A miniscule part of you was still clinging on to the hope that it had been nothing more than just another prank call, but that was quickly smothered by oserving the neutral look displayed on Jed's face.
His lips upturned into a most confident smile, and you did not miss the faintest hint of ridiculing that crept in at the end of his sentence, doing nothing to still the anxiousness flowing in your veins.
"It could have been, yes," he agreed, "but it wasn't."
"But how do you know?" You argued back. "You can never be one hundred percent sure."
Something flashed by in those irises of his. You couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was, but had no time to question it when you barely sensed a hand being placed on the small of your back, gently pushing you forward. Your legs moved before your thoughts did as you allowed Jed to guide you into the direction of a nearby coffee shop.
"Come with me," he said. "You and I have much to discuss."
The close proximity between you and him did not go lost on you as you felt his hand never quite leave the middle of your back, yet an invisible wall blocked any words of protest from rolling over your tongue.
You bit your inner cheek in order to focus on something other than the fuzzyness spreading through your stomach. Damn it, you were overthinking again! All the reporter was doing was being nice to you.
Unfortunately, said reporter had already noticed your strange behavior and glanced at you for a second, before halting and pushing the glass door to a shop open, the door bells chiming as he let you in first in a gentleman-like manner.
Jed had his long arm stretched out to usher you inside, one foot on the ground and the other set on the single stone step. "Go on–choose a place to sit and we'll get started."
You did just that, taking the opportunity to put a sense of distance between you both without needing to think about it. As soon as you stepped inside, you let your gaze wander over the layout of the shop. There weren't too many people as of yet, and the very few that were were spread out sitting at different tables, studying, reading the newspaper or taking advantage of the free internet.
Before you could even think of a place to sit, a cheerful feminine voice disrupted the nice, calm vibe as it boomed throughout the eating area.
"Oh hi there, Mister Olsen! The same order as usual for you and your lady friend?"
You ripped your attention away from the spot by the windows in the very corner to instead locate the source of the voice. It came from over the counter and belonged to one of the waitresses, clipboard clutched in astoundingly long-nailed fingers. Her question was meant for you both, but the woman's attention quite obviously was only aimed at the journalist who she was making bedroom eyes at.
At least, that's what you thought at first, until her big doe eyes with flawlessly done eyeshadow flicked over to you, and then slitted like you were a target.
The honey blonde-haired woman looked like a plastic doll with her stylish messy bun. Her apron that had the coffee shop's logo on the center reached over her square-patterned skirt, short enough to be teasing, but ugly enough to be a boner killer. You were shocked that her breasts hadn't popped out from underneath the apron yet.
You felt a tad bit uneasy by the way she was glaring at you and elected not to say anything, letting Jed take the wheel by doing the talking instead as you shifted from one foot to the other.
Jed's expression revealed little as he looked at the woman through the square lenses of his glasses before looking down at you, pausing to see if you were going to order. You didn't. And oh, you sensed that he was holding back a chuckle, having long dissected your reaction in his head.
A hint of amusement spiked in Jed's voice as he turned to the waitress, whose name—according to the name tag pinned above her left breast—was Mariette.
"Please, call me Jed."
"Mariette," she replied flirtily.
"Beautiful name. Two capuccinos and we'll be on our way, thank you."
"Two capuccinos, comin' right up handsome!"
Your eyebrows rose at the exchange. You shook your head to get rid of the image of the wink she sent after him, what did it matter to you?
Brushing off the flirting, you headed through the maze of tables, settling for the one in the far back even though the handful of people present were too immersed in what they were doing to even spare you a glance as you passed them.
You undid the knots of your jacket, depositing it on the empty spot next to you before sliding into the booth, watching Jed shed himself of his coat and shoulder bag before sitting down in front of you with a flawlessly straight posture.
...
Unlike before, there was an unspoken tension brewing in the air. Not the bad kind, but the kind where neither of you broke the silence. You were looking everywhere but directly at your companion, and you were sure he was already aware. Jed was observant like that.
Maybe if you played with the salt and pepper shakers long enough the awkwardness would fade-
"Did the barista trouble you?"
...Or not.
Darn it.
With your hopes of avoiding the topic now squashed, you slowly put the salt shaker down, pushing it back to its original spot with your index, inch by inch as you not so subtly stalled time; anything not to meet that damning inquiring gaze.
You were, however, very quick to deny the question with a short and solid, "No."
"Hmm." He paused for a moment in false consideration, sounding like he did not believe your bullshit for even a second. The manner in which he leaned back and folded his arms and legs seemed to reflect that. "So I am to understand that you glaring daggers at the girl like she stole your favourite lipstick must be a figment of my imagination, then?"
You opened and closed your mouth like a fish gulping for air, not knowing if you should feel offended or not. "I was not– I didn't–" You sighed in exasperation, searching for a way to defend yourself. "She was the one staring at me."
"Of course she was."
You weren't sure if you detected sarcasm there, but somehow, his tone threw you into a spiral of self-consciousness. If it wasn't for your shyness, you would at least replied to his discourtesy in equal measure.
Thankfully it didn't come to that when Jed dropped the subject and reached over to zip open his shoulder bag, presenting a notepad, pen, piece of newspaper and a personal computer that he placed on the table between you two with great care. The action reminded you at once why you'd come here in the first place.
Minutes passed, and soon you found yourself in the middle of an interview. Though the journalist made sure to make you feel like it wasn't anything formal like that by bringing you to a peaceful and quiet location, hoping it to help you feel more at ease now that there was no alcohol to loosen you up like there was last time you sat together with him.
And it did. Jed inquired about your life and experiences in Woodsboro, which had you delve into your past.
"Where do I even begin..." When there had been so many frightening events going on in that wretched town, it was hard to find a beginning. You were once again forced to face your buried memories head-on, which overwhelmed you at first.
Jed reassured you, saying that you could take all the time you needed.
"As with all things, try to begin from the start," he suggested, accepting the capuccinos that Mariette came to bring. She'd beelined straight for your table, smile bright and fake and it made you inwardly cringe.
Anyway, back to the interview, which was far more important. You steeled yourself, gulping a hard breath, hoping the bundle of nerves lodging in the depths of your throat would disentangle, but the result was futile.
"It was my last year of high school..."
And so the story began. You weren't exactly sure what he needed to hear and which details were irrelevant, but the more you spoke and the more Jed scribbled down on his notepad feverishly, the easier it got for you to spill everything, and it became more like a therapeutic experience than an actual interview.
Every once in a while, the man made sure to hum, showing you that he was still present.
And oh, he was.
After some time of mostly one-sided conversation, you felt your heart ache once you were nearing the crescendo of the story.
"And so it was one of my best friends who was behind it all." Behind closed eyelids flashed a knife held up against your shoulder, a small trickle of blood making its way southward.
You hated, hated having to say the name and hated having to replay the scenes even moreso, but it was facts Jed was after so facts were what you were giving him.
"It was my fault. I should've seen it, really." You were blaming yourself. A psychopathic, serial killing freak succeeded in murdering your friends and family, and almost succeeded in murdering you.
By now, the place was filling up with light music playing above your heads and over other's conversations, making the atmosphere a cozy one, though that wasn't how you were feeling when you pictured the teen's face in your head, all smiles and blabbering about movies and slandering suspects like he always used to do at school when hanging out at the fountains, or even when sitting next to him in Chemistry class.
"How was it your fault? From what I've gathered, you were the victim." Questioned Jed.
You shrugged, unclasping your hands that were on the table to run your fingers through your hair. "I don't know," you tucked a strand of it behind your ear. "It just is." It was a lame response to a question that was no part of the interview, and felt a lot more personal because of it. You felt it—that unspoken "go on", and for the first time, gave it a serious thought.
"There were so many signs it was Randy. He was obsessed with anything horror related. And he had the brains for it too," you turned your downcast eyes to your drink as if trying to recall your past with the boy. "Maybe I could have stopped him if I'd seen it earlier. I could have done something."
Jed consulted the thin sheaf of papers in his hands, eyes scanning across lines of overly-detailed notes by a meticulous hand. Lifting up his cup, he took a particularly long sip after finishing jotting everything down.
The journalist kept silent for a while, his face turning into something you couldn't read as he absorbed each and every one of your words, flipping and turning them over in his head over and over.
He took another sip, and you mimicked him, your fingers wrapping around the cup of steaming coffee as your swallows pushed the warmth down your throat.
"Correct me if I'm wrong," Jed tilted his head to the side. "So this Randy person was a youngster who drew inspiration from his obsessions. But I must ask," there was a light frown as Jed's eyes whizzed back and forth over the countless sentences he had written down, before they scaled your body to seek out your own. "How do you know it was him when you are suffering from amnesia?"
You lapsed into silence, keeping the plastic lid of the cup pressed against your lips. You didn't know because you couldn't remember.
"I've been told," you murmured against the lid.
"You've been told?" He repeated in a way that almost made you feel ashamed of the response you had given him. "That is your source?" He leaned closer, eyes still on yours. Now that you were looking into them for a longer period of time, you came to realize that the man had nice eyes; expressive, the look in them telling the story of a thousand words; journalism was truly Olsen's passion.
"I don't advice you to blindly trust someone's words over concrete evidence. Have you ever done any proper research on the subject? Words hold no reliable credibility."
No. You hadn't. You'd been going off Billy's and Stu's words, taking them for truth, as stupid as it was. Why would they lie to you about it? They protected you in school and back then did everything in their power to cheer you up when you hit rock bottom and were the most vulnerable.
"You don't... Think it was him?" Your voice cracked a bit, and you clutched the cup between your fingers as if it could somehow shield you from your emotions. Judging by the lingering frown, the ceasing of the methodical clicking of the pen, and the subtle shake of the head, you could tell that he didn't.
Still, you needed to hear it. You needed to hear his thoughts. "Jed? What's your opinion on this?"
Jed uncrossed his legs. No response, although his eyes did flick away from the paper and back to your own (E/C) ones. His expression remained completely even. Still as ice. Still as a statue, his face didn't so much as twitch as he regarded you.
You may have grown to be a woman, but physical appearances aside, you were such a moronic girl in Danny's eyes, and couldn't imagine just who you had struck up conversation with. It would be so, so easy for him to reveal everything to you right here, right now. He had already gathered every single bit of information about the Woodsboro murders since he first learned about them. Nothing you told him was new.
But where would be the fun in making it so piss easy? Why not make it a bit interesting by having you figure it out for yourself and give them what they deserved? All Danny had to do was play the part as the charming and helping hand Jed Olsen to nudge you into the right direction, and oh, play the part he did. Masterfully so. In another life, perhaps he should become an actor.
Danny's fingers twitched around the pen as if it were a knife, his mind going to darker places until you called out his alias' name a second time.
"Jed?"
Your voice was so sickenly saccharine it almost have him diabetes. It certainly didn't help that the girl who was constantly fawning over him lacked the brains to regulate the heating in the shop, sweat beading on his forehead that he dabbed discreetly in a way only Jed would do. The only reason he even visited this spot as a regular costumer was because this was where he caught the most gossips whispered among the townsfolk of Roseville.
The rubbing of his thumbnail over his jaw ceased, Jed apologizing in the clumsy manner Danny had mastered to perfection. "My sincerest apologies! I get distracted quite easily," the lie slipped over his tongue without any hesitation.
You bought it, though, if your lighthearted giggle told him anything. "Trust me, I have the same problem." Your attention drifted towards the Roseville Gazette laying neatly on the table seperating you. Your eyes rooted with the item, unable to look away. "Why do you enjoy writing about him so much?"
You were genuinely curious because every single article that contained Ghostface had been written by the geeky Jed Olsen. You hoped that the change of subject didn't bother him too much but to your surprise, it did quite the opposite.
He almost beamed.
"Out of interest." The clean-cut cheery façade he wore so well slipped just a fraction of an inch, a thoughtful and little too invested sparkle in his iris lingering. "It's like... A rush, trying to figure out who the bad guy is and why they do what they do. Let me ask you this; have you ever given it a thought? About what goes on inside a person's head to resolve to something as primal as murder?"
"No." You replied resolutely, stuck on what else to say. Jed certainly had an intriguing perspective on the matter, but not one you could relate to. You weren't a detective, a cop or journalist.
You were just plain old (Y/N) (L/N)—someone who has been in one too many unfortunate events. Nothing more, nothing less. Why any sane person would be interested in knowing what crazy shit went on inside a criminal's mind eluded you.
Could you even consider scum like that to be actual people? Wouldn't it be easier to label them as pure evil, just as all of society did?
You were so sucked up in your whirlpool of thoughts to see Jed drinking every inch of you in, as if every moment in your presence existed only to teach him something new about you.
"You've got an interesting way of thinking," you jabbed in a dry tone.
"And you have an interesting way of dodging questions," he threw back easily. "Don't take this the wrong way, I'm merely trying to help you."
Sadness came over you in waves. Jed couldn't possibly know how many times you've heard that same sentence being spoken to you.
Your gut twisted as one question plagued your mind.
Why did people kill?
There was no right answer that could ever justify it. You could only assume it had to do something with having power and control over others—what more was there to control than a person's very existence?
Knowing right from wrong seperated the sane from the insane. The normal from the abnormal.
But what category did Roseville's Ghostface fall under? Organized? Hedonistic? Sadistic? All three? Or did he just do it because he fucking felt like it, for sport? Though slaughtering people like a game at a fair hardly sounded like a sport to you.
There were plenty of people who mimicked history's most famous serial killers for fame, too. Perhaps such was the case with this Ghostface.
"Are you feeling well? I didn't mean to upset you. We could always continue this at another time if you desire it," Jed's smile that had previously been there fell ever so slightly, noticing the colour draining from your complexion.
You shook your head, fighting back the illness that constricted your insides.
"I just don't wanna go through this again..." You tried to say it calmly, but the freight train that had highjacked your pulse was starting to run off track.
And now I'm alone, was what you wanted to add to that last part, but you stopped yourself from doing so because saying it out loud made it feel all the more real.
Without Billy and Stu, I'm alone.