Three Deaths for a Hundred Dollars / Chapter 3: Death Follows
Three Deaths for a Hundred Dollars

Three Deaths for a Hundred Dollars

Author: Grace Davis


Chapter 3: Death Follows

I led ChaseLive onward, finally stopping at a small stall selling sunflower seeds and snacks. The table was decorated with a garland of plastic sunflowers, a hand-painted sign reading "BEST SEEDS IN TOWN." The air smelled like roasted nuts and gasoline. The owners, an elderly couple, greeted me warmly.

I took out the remaining ninety bucks and placed it in the bin of sunflower seeds. "Give me ninety dollars’ worth of pumpkin seeds."

The woman looked troubled. "Pumpkin seeds don’t sell well, so we didn’t stock much. Someone just bought some recently, so we don’t have ninety dollars’ worth. How about I bike home and get more? My house is close by, you’ll only need to wait a little over ten minutes."

When I agreed, she told her husband to watch the stall, grabbed the money, and pedaled off, pink streamers fluttering from her handlebars. I watched her go, heart heavy. The man went back to bobbing his head to music on his earbuds, scrolling his phone.

ChaseLive, bored, started chatting. "Ma’am, why are you buying so many pumpkin seeds?"

"My daughter likes them."

"But isn’t your daughter…"

"She loved them when she was alive."

My words echoed, and ChaseLive flinched, realizing he’d said too much. He turned to talk to the man, who grinned and pointed at ChaseLive. "I know you, you’re doing that hundred-dollar event. I took part before, bought a bunch of stuff. She’s really extravagant, spending it all on pumpkin seeds."

He took a shaky sip from a mug covered in faded stickers from old state fairs and radio stations, then set it down with a clatter. As he looked at me, his face twisted with horror. His pupils dilated, hands clutching his chest, and he collapsed onto the stall.

ChaseLive froze. The livestream chat exploded:

"Streamer, this guy’s face is gray—heart attack!"

"Quick, find his medicine and put it under his tongue!"

ChaseLive patted the man’s pockets—tissues, some change, a crumpled shopping list. He overturned the stall, finding nothing. The man gasped, "Wife… wife…"

ChaseLive slapped his thigh. "Oh no, the medicine is with his wife!"

He tried to hold the man’s phone up for facial recognition, but it just beeped and flashed, refusing to open. The man’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the table. A vendor called the wife, but the call never went through. ChaseLive tried to reassure the viewers, "She said she’d be back soon."

But a nearby vendor stomped. "She lied because she was afraid you wouldn’t wait. It’s at least an hour round trip!"

Time dragged. The man writhed, but nobody stepped forward—everyone afraid of lawsuits or getting involved. A teenager filmed the whole thing, her face blank. The man’s movements grew weaker, until finally he stopped moving.

At last, the woman and the ambulance arrived together. The EMT zipped the body bag slowly, glancing at the sobbing woman. She knelt by the body, wailing. "The doctor said his condition was stable. How could this happen so suddenly? If I’d known, I wouldn’t have tried to earn this money."

The livestream was chaos:

"Two people dead in one stream!"

"This is like real-life Final Destination."

"This lady is terrifying—wherever she goes, someone dies."

The viewer count soared. But ChaseLive couldn’t smile anymore, looking at me with fear. I picked up the bag of pumpkin seeds, waved to him, and turned to leave. "The money’s spent, so I should go. Oh, and good luck to you."

I returned to my home—an abandoned house. The walls were yellowed, but the old oak table still stood, a relic of better days. On it sat a memorial photo—a girl beaming, dimples in her cheeks. I took out a clean cloth and gently wiped the glass. I set the seeds down gently, like an offering. My daughter’s smile stared back at me, frozen in time.

After all this, I sat in the chair and quietly closed my eyes. I don’t know how much time passed before police sirens sounded outside. Blue and red lights flashed through the boarded windows, car doors slammed, boots crunched on gravel.

Footsteps approached. Several police officers burst in. "Ms. Carter, you are now suspected of involvement in two murder cases. Please cooperate with our investigation."

I stood up, smiling as I held out my hands. The cuffs clicked shut, cold and final, but I kept my head high. Some things, after all, are worth facing with your eyes open.

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