Cora pressed her back into the chair, recoiling from him. She shook her head fervently. “No, no. You can’t! Please! If you kill me, you won’t ever find out the code to the safe!” she cried in one last attempt to salvage her life. “Think about it—you would have more than enough to start over. You could leave this town and go anywhere, somewhere nice. Please…”
Damon paused.
Cora felt sweat dripping down her back, soaking her bra strap and trickling down to her pants.
Will he do it? Will he accept?
Much to her chagrin, he continued forward, and in one deft movement, the knife was pressed to her throat, cutting into her flesh slightly.
She had to act quickly.
Cora thrust up with her legs and struck him firmly in the groin with her knee, but the motion caused the chair to teeter backward. She hoped the wooden chair would shatter, just as it had in her stories, and she’d be free.
But instead, the chair hit the shelf behind her, knocking several items from it to the ground, before toppling over, and much to her disappointment, remaining fully intact. Her head roughly slammed against the wood floor.
Cora saw stars for a moment, and her vision blurred and then came back into focus just as Damon leaned down over her, his knife poised for her throat.
“Wait!” she croaked. “You don’t have to do this! I know this isn’t you.”
He hovered just above her, so close that the knife blade deflected the light into her eyes.
“You don’t know me. But I know what you’ve been doing, weaving together stories to tug on my heartstrings. You’re feeding me these salvation… hero stories that are… what… supposed to make me think twice about my life’s decisions? It’s a cheap trick. The first story was about siblings. You figured Marisa and I were close, that we loved each other.” He shrugged and gestured to her body on the floor. “Well, evidently that wasn’t the case. And then you tried to sell me on a story about two people in a bad marriage who end up saving it in the end. You took what I told you about my upbringing, the broken home, and you thought a happy mom and dad fairytale would appeal to me.” He pointed the knife at her accusatorily. “And finally—and maybe worst—you tell me a story about a guy stuck in a shithole town, and he ends up doing the ‘right thing’ to save a girl he meets. Come on, Cora! I get it; they’re all about me!”
Cora rolled her eyes. “If you think those stories were only about you, then your sister was right. You are an idiot.”
Damon backed away a few inches, seemingly confused. “What are you talking about?”
“The stories. They were made for you, yes. To appeal to you, yes. But they weren’t just about you.”
“Who then? You? Your life has been perfect.” His lip curled in disgust. “You’d say anything to not die.”
“Every time a writer creates a story, little pieces of themselves are infused in them.” She could see the turbulence in his eyes, the struggle between wondering what the hell she was going on about and knowing he could never let her live.
His curiosity won out, and he nodded at her to continue.
She lay there on the ground, her hands trapped beneath her, and stared up at the ceiling.
You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to go back there.
She took a steadying breath. “I have… had… a brother, a twin brother. We were always close, just like they say twins are. We could be in totally different places, but if something happened to him, I felt it, too.” She remembered her brother when he was little, skinny legs and big, trusting brown eyes and curly brown hair. The sweetest, cutest kid in the world. “When we were in the sixth grade… some kid was bullying him everyday at the bus stop, and one time he beat up my brother bad, really bad. I was playing soccer after school, but I remember this awful feeling washing over me, like a literal pain in my stomach. When my mom picked me up from practice and told me the news, I already knew something had happened to him.”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Do you remember him? Do you remember how he counted on you to protect him, to keep him safe?
Her brother’s innocent smile flashed in her memory.
“So what happened to him?” Damon asked. He still stood over her with that stupid, shiny knife, but just as he was when she told the stories, he was rapt with interest once more.
“We attended all the same schools, had all the same teachers… But while he decided college wasn’t for him and chose to stay in the town we grew up in, I wanted to go to a college far away from home. I wanted a sense of autonomy and independence, to figure out who I was as a person.” That familiar pang of guilt jabbed at her insides. “At first, it was terrible. I didn’t have my best friend. I felt lost. But then I started enjoying my freedom, got caught up in the parties, the late nights and endless weekends finishing papers and cramming for exams.”
How did you just forget your brother? How could you do something like that?
“Like most girls in college, I got a boyfriend, and I spent most of my time with him. I’d never had a boyfriend before; it was exciting. I thought I loved him. I don’t know why I chose my boyfriend over my brother, but however it happened, I stopped coming home to visit him.”
Cora felt the tears roll down the sides of her face, into her hair. “One day, I was at my job waiting tables at this Italian restaurant. I remember I was holding a big tray full of plates of hot food, and I was carrying it to one of my tables. Suddenly I felt this horrible pain in my head, and I lost my balance and fell to the ground. I don’t remember anything else except this huge red stain of spaghetti sauce on the carpet in front of me and all these broken plates everywhere.” And still, now, she could see that dark crimson stain of spilled spaghetti sauce, how it widened across the floor, its symbolism haunting her, a permanent reminder of what happened on that wretched day. “I found out that my brother was killed in a car accident, hit by a drunk driver. His body was completely ejected out of the vehicle, and he hit a tree head first.” She gasped suddenly. “They couldn’t even have an open casket.”
The truth of it was like a scorching pain, a vise-like grip that seared and squeezed her heart.
“The shittiest part of it wasn’t that I never got the chance to say good-bye. It was that I never got to make it right with him, to apologize for not prioritizing him over the boyfriend who was an ex by the time senior year finished. The way we left our relationship, the way I left it, without salvaging it, without trying to restore it to how it was when we were kids… I have to live with that for the rest of my life.”
“So those kids were supposed to be you and your brother.”
“What I wish we could have been. But it’s too late now, and no matter how deep I bury it, my past always finds a way to haunt me in my stories.”
Chapter 8
“A t least you had a sibling who loved you.” Damon glanced at Marisa’s body. When he looked back at Cora, his expression had changed, softened.
He went to her, and she cringed, shutting her eyes, knowing her time had finally run out.
But then he moved behind her, grabbing the chair and placing it upright so that she was no longer laying on the floor.
“What about the next one, with the couple on the brink of divorce?”
Cora winced, another painful remembrance forced to the forefront of her memory. “I was married once. To an incredible, loving, loyal man. And somehow I managed to screw that up, too. Instead of being a wife to him, a partner, all I did was write, day in and day out. When I hit The New York Times bestsellers list, it went to my head. I admit it, it totally did. And eventually, I started to think I was better than him, that I could get better. He was just a run-of-the-mill high school teacher after all, and here I was, this hot-shot writer.”
Damon sat down across from her.
Cora’s breath caught in her throat as she tried to hold back a sob. “I met someone. At a writers’ convention. He was a publicist. It was instant chemistry. That night, I had one too many drink
s at the hotel bar where we were both staying. My husband was home. He couldn’t attend the convention with me because his students were in finals. I was bitter about it, stupidly so. I wanted him to drop everything to support my ambitions. This guy and I started taking shots, and the next thing I remember was waking up naked beside him in his room.” Her chin drooped to her chest. “I swore it wouldn’t happen again, but I wanted more, and I was ruthlessly ambitious. The publicist could get me more exposure, better deals. So the affair continued. It didn’t take long for my husband to put two and two together. He knew something was wrong. I was cold and distant. I barely touched him. Eventually, he found the texts, went through the call history. He confronted me, and when I admitted the affair, the next day he went out and filed for divorce.”
Snot dribbled from her nose. “I remember as a kid how much I wanted a happy marriage, how much I dreamed about it. Like your mother. I was one of those little girls who loved dressing up in her mom’s old wedding gown.” She managed to smile sadly at the memory. Little Cora. Pure as the freshly fallen snow outside and still untainted by greed and selfishness. “I remember the look on my husband’s face when I confessed, the utter betrayal in his eyes. It was like he wanted me to prove him wrong, that those texts and calls were just in his imagination. I know I broke him. I know I took his heart and stomped on it, and maybe I’ve ruined his ability to ever really love someone wholly again.”
She wondered how he was, if he had forgiven her. But in his shoes, Cora wouldn’t have forgiven her crimes. “It didn’t take me long to realize I’d made a terrible mistake. I found out the publicist was screwing around with lots of women, not just me. I tried to reconcile with my husband, but it was too late. When I showed up at his friend’s house where he’d been staying until everything was finalized with the divorce, I begged him for another shot. But there was nothing I could do at that point. He hated me. I’d lost my chance forever.”
Damon seemed oddly satisfied with her explanations. “I guess you’re not such a perfect angel after all.”
Almost more than being restrained, more than knowing her life would surely end at any moment, it hurt the most to dig up all of the painful memories she had suppressed for so long in her heart, the ones she wished would vanish… the mistakes, the sins...
He stared at her long and hard. “Why did you think I was Mitch?”
“What?” She blinked rapidly, bewildered.
“What did you mean by it? That I’d sacrifice myself somehow to save you?”
Cora shook her head. “Mitch… he’s not you.”
“But everything about him had me written all over it.”
“No.”
“Mitch wants something bigger, better.”
She felt anger building up inside of her.
He’s toying with you. He never intended to let you go. You’re tied up like some kind of roast pig, emptying your closet full of skeletons to him for his amusement.
It’s pathetic how you trusted him, a complete stranger, how you put it all out there, those stories about yourself. It’s always been the two of us. He’s going to kill you. You’ll never get out of this. You’ve failed your brother, your husband… and now you’ve failed yourself.
“Shut up already!” Cora shouted.
Damon looked around the room, then tilted his head at her. “Ummm… I didn’t say anything.” A peculiar look was on his face.
The voice in her head silenced. “People say talking about your past gives you closure,” she continued. “It doesn’t. It only makes you realize you can never go back and change it for the better.” Cora couldn’t handle anymore. If he didn’t kill her, she might just do it for him. “My point is, you’re not the only one with baggage. No more stories, Damon. If you’re going to kill me, just do it already. I’m done,” she whispered firmly.
Damon was silent for several minutes. “You’re going to give me the code to the safe. And…”
Cora didn’t look up at him. She couldn’t.
“And I’m going to cut you free. No more stories. You’ve kept up your end of the deal, and now I’ll keep mine.”
Her head jerked up in surprise. “You’re setting me free?”
He stood, the knife open in his hand.
Instead of slicing her open the same way he did Marisa, Damon knelt down behind her.
“What’s the code?”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth? That you won’t just kill me as soon as I give it to you?”
“You don’t,” he said softly. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”
Cora swallowed hard, like she was trying to digest a wad of cotton, and somehow it had lodged itself in her throat.
Damon sighed, feigning impatience, but Cora could see the anticipation glittering in his eyes, the eagerness of discovering the unknown treasure waiting for him in the safe, something even better than the bars of gold.
“Five-four-one-two,” she stammered.
As promised, he started cutting the ropes that held her captive. As soon as they gave way, she got up and retreated slowly, massaging her wrists where they’d been rubbed raw from her restraints.
Damon observed her intently, but folded his knife and tucked it into his pocket. “First you’re going to show me where the safe is, then you can scram.”
“It’s in the bedroom, behind the painting on the wall.”
Damon rose and looked at the bedroom, then back at her, trying to assess if she was telling the truth. But his eyes were no longer brooding and angry. They held an understanding, a familiarity, a kindred state of spirits.
“I’m sorry it happened this way.” Then he turned and walked into the bedroom.
Cora’s gaze shifted back and forth between the bedroom and the door leading to the garage.
The corner of her laptop poked out from Marisa’s duffel bag, a reminder of what was still undone.
Do it.
***
The painting above Cora’s dresser was now sitting at an angle on the floor. Damon cursed under his breath as he tried repeatedly to correctly turn the dial on the safe. He couldn’t remember… was it three rotations to the right, then one to the left, then one to the right again? The last time he’d fumbled around with a dial similar to this had been in high school with his locker.
Finally, he heard the safe click, and with a tentative, curious hand, he opened the door.
His eyes narrowed in confusion.
This wasn’t what he expected.
It was an assortment of random objects.
A letter opener.
A hammer.
A serving fork.
Things that had no business being in a safe.
He didn’t notice them though; what he saw was something shiny peeking through the worthless, puzzling items, and he sifted around, wondering what prize would be obscured beneath them.
It was another bar of gold.
At least his efforts hadn’t been for nothing.
But then he saw something on the gold, something that dulled its brilliance.
On one corner of the bar was dried blood.
Clumps of tattered old hair.
“What…?” he murmured as he removed the brown strands from the gold.
That was when he focused his attention on the other objects. His hands now trembling, he examined each one, seeing shriveled chunks of an unknown substance and more blood… on the end of the hammer, along the prongs of the fork, coating the entirety of the letter opener.
But before he could say anything else, before he could turn around, something punctured his neck, easily tearing apart sinewy muscle like butter. He stumbled back until he was face to face with Cora, in her hand the antique pen that had once decorated her beloved bookshelf.
Chapter 9
“I didn’t just want to be a writer.”
Cora lifted the pen to her nose, inhaling the coppery scent of blood with pleasure.
“Like Mitch, I wanted something bigger and better. I wanted everyon
e to know my name. I wanted to make every bestseller list. I wanted to be the best.”
You are the best, Cora.
Her eyes were cold, unfeeling. “But I guess at the end of the day, I wasn’t actually anything like Mitch. I don’t care what I have to do to get inspiration, whatever I need to do to take my book from meh to can’t-put-it-down.”
Cora’s phone rang unexpectedly from the kitchen, its chirping, cheerful ringtone starkly out of place amidst the carnage. She pulled away from Damon. It was the ringtone for her agent.
She looked at the bloody pen in her hand and then methodically placed it inside the safe beside the hammer, the fork, the bar of gold, and the letter opener.
After closing the door to the safe, Cora rehung the painting and sauntered into the kitchen. She took a napkin and wiped away some of the still-wet blood from her hand. Taking the cell phone from the counter, she slid her finger across the screen and turned on the speaker while she stared at Marisa’s body on the floor.
“Was this you?”
There was a long pause. “What do you think?” a male voice answered.
Cora scoffed. “You idiot! You could have killed me.”
The man chuckled. “You’re like a cockroach. Even the apocalypse won’t kill you. And besides, you were struggling to find motivation. I just wrapped it up nice and neat and placed it on your doorstep.”
“What do you mean?”
“Word travels fast in these parts. I just had to whisper in the right ears that a rich writer lived on this mountain. Those two losers were practically salivating when I told them what was at stake.”
“I could have been killed. He almost slit my throat.”
“I knew you’d be fine. You’re not exactly a shrinking violet when it comes to this shit.”
Cora was livid. “How did you know they wouldn’t kill me?”
“I didn’t. But I know you, and I know what you’re capable of.”
“‘What I’m capable of?’”
Again, he chuckled. “It wouldn’t be the first time you needed macabre inspiration.”
And Soon Comes the Darkness Page 16