Amid the Haze: Hazel and Maeve, #1

Table of Contents

A NineStar Press Publication

Amid the Haze

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About Jessica Cranberry

Connect with NineStar Press

"Set at the dawn of the internet age, In the Trap is a fast-paced campus mystery complete with one dead body, an anonymous chat room confession, and a burgeoning attraction between two appealing female sleuths, intent on navigating not only campus life but also solving a murder. I enjoyed the subtle indictment of the boys will be boys mentality as the university attempts to cover up a series of assault crimes and found myself hoping Jessica Cranberry is already hard at work on the sequel."

—Maggie Smith, author of Truth and Other Lies.

"A lonely introvert on an idyllic college campus finds her life upended, first by violence, then by a website where students reveal their darkest secrets, including abuse, assault, and murder. Jessica Cranberry’s In the Trap grabs readers at the start and doesn’t let go until the surprising, tense, and satisfying ending. A definite must read!"

—Merry Jones, award-winning author of Child’s Play and What You Don’t Know

In the Trap is a taut, satisfying campus thriller--a throwback to early aughts college days of online diaries, coffee and cigarettes, and me too whispers replied to with shouts of it could be worse or more commonly what was she wearing? Jessica Cranberry isn't afraid to dig deep into the dark aftereffects of trauma, and what happens when we come together to prevent it. Hazel is a compelling heroine whose strength lies in her vulnerability and resolve to do right, and I hope we haven't seen the last of her.

—Lauren Emily Whalen, author of Take Her Down and Two Winters

A NineStar Press Publication

www.ninestarpress.com

Amid the Haze

ISBN: 978-1-64890-670-1

© 2023 Jessica Cranberry

Cover Art © 2023 Jaycee DeLorenzo

Edited by Elizabetta McKay

Published in July, 2023 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at Contact@ninestarpress.com.

Also available in Print, ISBN: 978-1-64890-671-8

CONTENT WARNING:

Depictions of graphic violence via murder, college/sports hazing rituals, beatings, bullying, slurs; smoking/substance abuse, strong language; discussion of trauma: mental and sexual abuse, assault and non-consent, (past, off page), depression, misogyny/misandry, death of a family member (past, off page), suicidal ideation.

Amid the Haze

Hazel & Maeve: The Campus Mysteries, Book Two

Jessica Cranberry

Maybe there is a beast…maybe it’s only us.

—William Golding, Lord of the Flies

Prologue

Maeve

April 7, 2001

COOL BLASTS OF April air blew her hair around the car, swirling around her head, whipping against my cheek every now and then. It had grown longer, the weight of it suppressing some of her natural wave. We were headed to Indy—just the two of us. Behind us had been hours and hours of nothing but long, straight road, pumping music, those crispy, fried, onion-flavored chips, and countless cigarette butts streaming out the windows as I drove full throttle across I-70. Acres of farmland surrounded us, mounded rows extending beyond the horizon, prepped for corn or soybean seed, until a new city emerged with tall buildings cutting through a span of sky and a falling orange sun. As we navigated through downtown, through the maze of asphalt and concrete, the open fields fell away as if they ceased to exist.

Hazel flicked the radio off and lit another cigarette. She’d started smoking again, and I wasn’t going to complain about it. That probably made me a shitty friend, but I was glad to have a smoking buddy.

I brought you something. I reached into the backseat blindly, keeping my eyes on the road, and felt around in my bag until my fingers grazed the thin pages of the city newspaper. Check out page three.

Hazel unfolded the Ledger Dispatch and found our story, the one Gayle Jackson had interviewed us for, detailing last autumn’s campus murder of Ryan Newsome (asshole and sexual predator, although most media outlets left those bits out) and how we’d pieced it all together…not totally unscathed.

"Good for her. She said she wasn’t going back to the Echo after they canned her last year." Hazel carefully refolded the paper along the creases as if it contained nothing more than the crossword.

You’re not gonna read it?

I know how it ends.

Hazel hadn’t gone back to school after Newsome’s murderer attacked us. She needed time to heal—physically and emotionally. We all did. But I couldn’t escape the feeling something else was keeping her away, distant. Before today, I hadn’t seen Hazel since October, the morning I’d followed her into the police station to give a statement. We’d been emailing back and forth, but neither of us ever mentioned what had happened all those nights ago—what it had been like seeing her blood soak through her clothes, fear as thick as fog, a death so close you could taste it on the air like the salt and sand of a new shore. No, we’d skirted around all of that.

It didn’t stop me from wondering how she felt or what she thought about it. Hazel could be a bit of a mystery to me. Most folks I could see right through, not her. She kept everything wrapped up so tight inside herself, I didn’t think I’d ever break through. And maybe that was okay. Maybe even better than okay.

I haven’t been in a real city for months. I forgot how pretty they can be, she said. All the bustling around. Life, I mean, you can see it happening. Her cigarette bounced with the motion of her lips. She tucked it between her fingers and blew out a long, lingering exhale as though she’d been born knowing how to do that.

Have you been here before? I asked.

As a kid, we hit up the children’s museum.

Really?

Yeah, when my parents… We used to live right on the border of Illinois and Indiana.

I still couldn’t believe it took her so long to tell me what she’d lived through. But knowing the ways people have been hurt changed relationships—sometimes for the better, sometimes not. So I got it; she didn’t want pity anywhere near us.

You’re a regular child of the corn, then, huh? And this seemed to be how we handled the big traumatic things, poking fun around what caused the most pain. Joking. Deflecting. Sidestepping anything that hurt.

I told you my middle name, didn’t I? It’s Malachi.

I laughed and pressed the cigarette lighter. Hazel instinctively reached for the pack in the cup holders and got one out for me. I rolled down my window just as the lighter popped back up, its coils burning orange and hot.

Do you know where we’re headed? she asked.

Not really. I printed out a MapQuest for it though. It’s in the glovebox.

She took out the directions and spread the folded papers over her lap. What street are we on?

Ohio.

We’re close. If you can find a place to park, do it.

Brake lights glowed red in front of us. I slowed down and watched the last of the sunset, streaking pink and purple behind the high-rise buildings of the Midwestern city. The air smelled of exhaust. I followed the inching traffic into a parking garage.

You think all these people are going to the same place we are? Hazel asked.

Maybe? She has a following.

By the time I parked, night had fallen. Streetlights clicked on and cast the sidewalks in a tangerine glow. Hazel folded the directions and tucked them in her hoodie pocket.

We ended up not needing the map. A decent-sized crowd of mostly women seemed to all be going in the same direction. We just fit in and followed. As we got closer, a line had already formed, and we waited, stuck behind a rowdy group of college-aged kids with dark lipstick and short flowery dresses. They were probably the same age as Hazel and me. They seemed so much younger, though, with all the laughing and the squealing.

Hazel surveyed them; her right eyebrow cocked the way it always did when she tried to puzzle out someone’s behavior. I handed her the silver flask I’d slipped in my jacket pocket. Elbowing her, I told her to relax.

I’m relaxed, she said and took a swig of the peppermint schnapps.

Spring flowers and just…joy scented the air. Yeah, that was it. Joy. After such a dark year, I barely recognized the feeling. The line shuffled forward. Ani DiFranco’s name, in black block lettering, stood against the marquee’s glow.

I can’t believe you scored tickets, Hazel said.

I told you we should go.

Hazel’s expression lightened whenever I pressed Play on Living in Clip, and in the middle of all the shit that had gone down at school last fall, there’d been a notice in the paper about this tour. I figured right then and there I’d pay whatever price to get Hazel to this show if we made it out of that mess.

I didn’t really think it would happen. Especially, in the middle of…everything.

So, how’ve you been dealing with all of that? Asking was a risk, but I wanted to take it. While I gave her a pass on talking about her family, I needed to know about this because the nightmares hadn’t stopped for me. I still woke up in a sweaty panic, Shirlee’s glowing glasses disappearing and reappearing like pieces of the Cheshire cat.

Hazel shoved her hands into the pockets of her hoodie and stared at her feet. Honestly, I don’t know that I am. Her eyes met mine. I just ignore it mostly.

Me too. Time heals all wounds. Unless it didn’t.

She fiddled with her hair, braiding the ends absentmindedly. We moved forward a few more steps. At the double doors, security guards shined flashlights in purses and patted down coat pockets.

Hazel pushed her hair back from her face. I feel kinda frozen in place, ya know?

I do.

Aunt Liddy says not to rush anything. That everything will settle back to normal in time. But what if it doesn’t?

Maybe this is the new normal.

Exactly.

They haven’t filled your space in our dorm yet. You could always come back.

No. I withdrew.

You did?

She laughed in that self-mocking way she had sometimes. You know I’m not meant to be anybody’s teacher.

The thought of her surrounded by little kids made me laugh too. There are other programs.

She shook her head. I don’t belong there. I knew it on day one. The only good thing that happened was meeting you and Doug.

You guys still talk?

Yeah, through email mostly. Like with you.

That’s cool. But my heart said, Oh.

At the front of the line, an elderly security guard asked me to turn out my pockets. After she felt sure I wasn’t carrying a weapon, I stepped into the theater lobby.

Gilded: that was the best way to describe the old lobby. Thick and lush maroon carpeting added an honest-to-god spring to my steps. Its floral pattern led to three partitioned sets of stairs. I stood under the chandelier, waiting for Hazel. She came through security smiling her real smile, the one I hadn’t seen since we’d sat on the banks of the Skullkey and gotten high.

This is amazing, she said.

I know, right?

Ticket masters stood at the top of each stairwell. We climbed up the center, and I handed our tickets over. The lady tore off an edge and gave me back the stubs, tossing out a set of quick directions I could barely hear.

We followed the crowd past the main theater toward another room. Here, there were no seats, standing room only—the more to dance in. I grabbed Hazel’s hand and led her closer to the stage. This was going to be an experience, damn it. I looked back to catch her expression as she tucked her hair behind her ears and examined our surroundings. She was probably busy making snap judgements about the people around us and locating the exits.

Are we going all the way to the front? she yelled over the din of the crowd.

You know it, I answered.

I got us as close as possible. I found a spot nearly center stage, next to the girls who’d been in front of us in line. They were still very bouncy and squeaky, but when the lights dimmed, an excited hush ran through everyone. For a second, I’d forgotten I was still holding Hazel’s hand, but she squeezed it when the stage lights came on. Faces glowed in the light that remained, but hers most of all.

She let go of my hand to clap as some of the band members came onstage and lifted their instruments into their arms. A stray beat from the bass drum filled the room. The musicians jammed for a few minutes, playing a rhythmic string of notes that weren’t quite a song yet, until Ani jogged onto the stage.

Her voice evoked something in me. Something feral and wild. Something that came before the constraints of this world. One of my favorite songs floated through the speakers. The whole crowd cheered, then danced. My body, her body, their bodies: we all moved together and apart, like a living, breathing organism. And it went on and on, song after heart-thumping song. Until the band slowed things down, playing a quieter melody.

The audience swayed and sang along. The words of Untouchable Face haunted the room.

Hazel’s eyes glistened, her cheeks flushed, strands of her hair stuck to the sweaty sheen covering her skin, but she smiled. I touched her arm. And she looked at me, wiping her cheeks.

Thanks for this, she said, coming in close so I could hear.

You’re welcome. I wanted to suggest something, but I didn’t know how she might react. Who am I? I never worried about that kind of thing. Most of the time, I relished any reaction. But with her, I hesitated. Worried. I motioned toward the back, where only a few fans loitered along the walls. A crease formed between her eyebrows, but she followed me.

Standing there, with the music still filling up every inch of the room, I brought her closer. The heat radiating off her met the heat radiating off me. I could’ve kissed her, but I had something else in mind—stupidly.

The song ended, and the band rested for a few beats, riffing with one another through Ani’s introductions of each member.

I think we should fill out those applications Detective Patterson gave us, I said.

That’s what you wanted to tell me? She scoffed, then trained her eyes back on the stage. You want to switch schools?

The program looks promising, and they have a police academy built in, I explained as if she hadn’t read the brochure.

Do it. There’s nothing stopping you from switching programs, Maeve.

She didn’t get it. What I knew for sure, after everything we’d been through together, was that the feeling of us working together, fitting the puzzle pieces of a campus murder together, was something I wanted to hold on to.

"I want us to go together, Hazel. I don’t know how to…process what happened last fall, but I loved working with you. I felt alive for, like, the first time."

She bit her upper lip, exposing the top edges of her bottom teeth. She wasn’t making eye contact, which was purposeful. Everything was purposeful when it came to Hazel. You know how I feel about all of this.

Actually, I don’t because we never talk about it. I felt a little trapped, panicky. I’d gotten myself into this conversation, and now I had to go right through the middle of it, whatever the outcome. Hazel saw through the moments when I manipulated people; she must’ve seen that was not what I was doing now. I wanted this, and I needed her. We might be able to do good, help people, set things right. Didn’t you enjoy working through the mystery of it? I fucking did.

I did too. She glanced back at me. It’s funny you’re bringing this up.

I don’t think it’s funny. This is what I want, and I want to do it with you.

Good. Hazel reached for her back pocket and brought an envelope folded over many times. Because I got my acceptance letter last week.

Shut up! I shoved her playfully.

She stepped back with the momentum, laughing. I have to pass a physical, then start next fall. If you’re going to join me, you better get that application in quick.

Why didn’t you tell me? You said you didn’t know what you were gonna do.

"I still go back and forth about whether I’m actually going to go. Not totally convinced police work is for me. Plus, I want you to do your own thing, follow your own path—whatever that is. But if you’re into this, I think…so am I."

The band picked up the set’s pace, starting up another fast song. With the music blaring, we had to keep coming in close to talk, practically screaming in each other’s ears.

I don’t want to talk you into anything you don’t want to do! Hazel yelled.

I moved in, near her ear again. Her brown waves, glowing pink in the changing stage lights, brushed my cheek. So, we’re doing this? I asked. Together?

Yep, together. Her eyes met mine.

What did I see there? Her seriousness, her willingness to just be who she was without really caring what others thought, her sense of humor that no one else knew about. A future.

September 7, 2001

4:22 a.m.

There’s a dead body in our basement.

Chapter One

June 20, 2001

I SHIFTED THE car into Park and turned off the engine. Jennifer Lopez’s Love Don’t Cost a Thing stopped mid-chorus. The quiet neighborhood bordered the north side of Oakley University. Trees lined the sidewalk, their leaves swishing in the warm breeze.

Which one is it? I asked.

That one. Hazel indicated a set of row houses across the street. The end unit on the corner had a bright red For Rent sign posted in the front window.

Looks cute.

It just has to be livable, she said.

Well, right. But cute doesn’t hurt either.

We’d already been to five different apartments, looking for a place we could move into as soon as possible. Nothing had been perfect, and Hazel provided a detailed list of every flaw as soon as we’d gotten back into the car. Sometimes it seemed that was all she saw—all the ways in which something might not work out. Most of the time, I found it endearing and liked how it put me in the role of disproving her, but not today.

Coordinating apartment hunting had been difficult. With her still living in Lima and me forty minutes outside of the city, we had little way of knowing what was available—most rentals only advertised in the Echo’s classified section, and the one’s showing up online were way outside our price range. But Hazel had worked it out with Doug. She crashed at his new place—an apartment complex called University Village where a lot of second-years ended up because of its proximity and shuttle service to campus—until we checked finding shelter off our to-do list.

Hazel tucked the newspaper into the passenger door side pocket. The click-clack of our seatbelts sounded as we unbuckled and got out of the car. We walked toward the brick row house, and I checked out the front porch, picturing a set of matching lawn chairs, lengthy late-night conversations, cigarettes, and cheap wine coolers being doled out between the two of us on that stoop.

I like the little porch, she said.

What? I nearly stopped in my tracks. You like something about this place?

Shut up.

No, I do too. I linked my elbow around hers. This could be the one!

She gave me a smile and a sideways glance. I let go of her arm, and we climbed the cement steps. I knocked on the screen door, and a woman with an antique beehive hairstyle answered the door.

Hi, we called about the apartment. Hazel and Maeve. I gestured between the two of us.

Come in, come in, the woman croaked, and even I could smell the after-smoke clinging to her hair and clothes. You saw the ad—two-bedroom, one bath, four-fifty a month. Have a look around. I’ll wait outside.

Dark hardwood planks lined the floors. Tall windows let in tons of light. The front living room led seamlessly into a back dining room—open-concept style, although historically, it had probably been separated by a set of interior French doors. A closet-like galley kitchen sat off to the side of the dining room. A plain metal sink and yellow Formica countertops ran the length of one wall. Through the window in the back door, I spotted a gravel path, an alleyway stretching behind the row houses, and then another house directly behind us but facing a side street, and another and another, all lined up in a row. Hazel stepped toward an avocado-green refrigerator; next to it was a second cutout, another doorway. A dankness lingered at the threshold.

Smells like a basement, she said. Follow me. I don’t want to go down there alone.

We carefully plodded down a set of planked stairs, running our hands along the scratchy brick as we progressed. The temperature dropped considerably. A single bulb hung from the ceiling. Hazel pulled the string, and the light didn’t do much to alleviate the creepy, damp space. Chipped and peeling white paint covered the walls. Dried-up rivulets marked the floor where water had leaked through in rainier months. Mold pocked one corner.

But there were not only washer/dryer hookups but also an actual set. On-site laundry that didn’t require hoarding every single quarter that came our way? A real bonus, an impossible find.

We left the basement and tracked back through the main floor. In the front living room, another set of stairs led to a second level with two bedrooms and a full bath.

I leaned toward Hazel and murmured, This is practically perfect.

I know, she said, inspecting a window seat overlooking the street. Can I have this room?

Fine with me. How should we handle this? I’d never rented anything before.

We tell her we’re interested and get a copy of the rental agreement. Aunt Liddy said we’d have to put down a deposit.

Do you want to think about it? Sleep on it?

No. This is it. I can feel it.

Same.

It was a great place listed at a fair price; anyone could nab it. We weren’t the only two people apartment hunting for fall quarter.

We walked downstairs and found the landlady on the front porch.

So? What do you think? she asked, smoke billowing out of her mouth.

We want it, I said.

What’s the next step? Hazel asked.

Here’s the lease application and a copy of the lease. Look ‘em over. Fill it out and return it to the address listed. If you’re approved, I’ll call you and set up a move-in day. You’ll get the keys then. First and last month’s rent due upfront.

That’s it? I looked over the paperwork. It seemed to be written in a different language.

That’s it, sweetheart. You two students? The woman turned away from us and locked up the place.

Uh, yeah. But not at Oakley. We’re going to the community college—the police academy.

She eyed us carefully. Stay safe, girlies. Then she tossed her cigarette on the sidewalk, ground it out under her sandal, and walked away. And no smoking! she yelled before disappearing into a giant green Cadillac.

Well, I said, watching Hazel survey the neighborhood. What do you think?

Let’s do it.

Cool. Then let’s find a place to fill all this out. I handed her the lease application to check over.

We hopped in the car and after a short drive, pulled into the parking lot of a nearby fast-food restaurant. Inside, young people, summer-school students, by the looks of their heavy backpacks, had formed a line. At our turn, we ordered two small chocolate soft serves and french fries, then found a table to fill out the paperwork. Snippets of nearby conversations filled the dining room. I dipped a fry into my ice cream while Hazel scrounged in her purse for a pen.

This is exciting. After skimming over the legalese, I filled in all the little boxes and signed my name on the line next to Hazel’s. Then, I noticed her