by Iris RIvers
Anabelle walked over to him, pushing past a wooden chair and a few books lying on the floor. Charles tried to step away, but Lillian stood behind him, keeping him in place. “I think you should leave,” he said, startled. Elizabeth watched his fear with an intense, gut-wrenching satisfaction.
“I don’t think we should,” said Anabelle. “You hurt my friend.” She pointed to Elizabeth blindly, still facing Charles. “And I am sure you have hurt many others.”
“As I said,” he responded, nearly shaking, “I simply do not know what you are speaking of.”
“Try again,” said Lillian, still behind him. Her voice lifted the small hairs lining Charles’s neck.
“Even if I admitted it,” he said, finally relenting, “no one would believe you. You are women, after all.”
Anabelle bit out a dark laugh. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but that was not the correct answer.” She turned to Elizabeth, who then rose from the couch she’d sat on, slipping the cool blade from her pocket. She was absolutely petrified, yet some part of her, the part society had forced her to tuck away, was enlivened.
She spoke for the first time, her voice unwavering, “Hello, Charles.”
“What are you doing, Liz?” he asked, looking down at the glittering blade in her right hand. “I told you I was sorry. I couldn’t control myself.”
“And I told you I couldn’t believe you,” she said, moving to face him as Anabelle stepped aside. “Don’t you remember?”
“Elizabeth, you are mad. Is it that time of the month? I will help you—”
“Be quiet, Charles,” said Lillian. He shut his mouth obediently.
Slowly, Elizabeth raised her silver blade to Charles’s ready throat. “Your throat is open to me,” she whispered. “You must be asking for it.” And then, jarringly, she cut open his skin, watching as the crimson blood pooled from the open wound.
Anabelle spat on his body as he fell to the floor, losing breath. “That is for the women you have hurt,” she said. “And for the women you will never get to hurt.”
Lillian brushed her shaky fingers across his throat, coating them in his blood. She then stood and reached her hand out to the center of the three, above Charles’s corpse. Anabelle touched Lillian’s fingers first, lightly, then Elizabeth followed, covering the two’s hands with her own. They clenched around the beating blood, feeling his death, touching all he had lost, but also all he had taken.
And that was only the beginning.
November 2019
CLARKE SAT AT HIS GRANITE kitchen counter, eating a bowl of stale cereal.
He had not slept that night—not really. He’d spent the hours waking at irregular times, tossing and turning, unable to find a comfortable position on his cheap mattress. He had been diagnosed with insomnia as a teenager, and with the help of medicine and exercising, it had improved over the years, but after his father’s death, it was like he’d never known sleep—like he’d never know it again.
He grimaced as he shoved a spoonful of miserably bland Cheerios into his mouth. He was only then realizing that he hadn’t gone grocery shopping in weeks—not by choice, but simply because he didn’t have the time. Clarke was too absorbed in the aspects of his investigation—the investigation he had been working on for years but which had just begun to expand. He was plowed by his work—but the strangest thing was, he wasn’t affected by it. Others may be disturbed by reading murder cases before bed like a children’s book, but not him. He enjoyed the bloody pages. He wondered what that made him.
Clarke loved his work. The happiest moment of his life had—pathetically, maybe—been the day of his promotion. All the hours he’d put in, struggling to ignore the bore of surviving as a mere police officer, had been worth it. He knew with his whole heart that he would never get tired of his job—especially not when he was so close to finding the one thing that had altered his way of life. Destroyed his entire being.
Clarke pushed his bowl away, unable to eat any longer. Instead, he leaned over the counter and grabbed his cell phone, lazily scrolling through his piling emails. He wasn’t focused on the words though. He was stuck on Lowri—on her red hair, her tight clothes. The way she’d clutched her own cell as he’d loomed over her. He grinned to himself, feeling a surge of pride and satisfaction bloom inside his chest.
His phone rang in his palm—Clarke always had his ringer on, afraid he’d miss an important call or text if he kept it on silent. OLIVER flashed across his screen in big, bold letters. He brought the phone to his ear.
“Good morning, Oliver,” he said.
Oliver did not greet him back. “Detective,” he said, his voice nearly breathless. “There’s been a murder.”
Clarke stood from his seat, already grabbing his keys and coat. “Details, now.”
“A man, barely in his twenties. Most likely a college student. His only wound was a slit to the throat—and boy was it a clean cut.”
“Location?” Clarke asked, messily slipping on a pair of old boots.
“St. Patrick’s Cathedral, on Fifth Avenue.”
Clarke froze. “What psychopath would kill someone in a church?”
Oliver sighed through the phone. “I don’t know, Detective, but it looks real bad. It looks like—like, you know. The stuff you told me about. Your investigation.”
Clarke’s eyes widened in excitement—in joy, feeling more awake than he had just a few moments before.
“Stay there, Oliver. I’m on my way.”
HE MADE IT TO THE CATHEDRAL in record time, speeding through New York City’s streets in an anxious rush. Clarke was incredibly excited to see the body, to confirm his suspicions.
This can’t be a coincidence, he thought to himself. Not right after seeing Lowri, open and vulnerable. This is their next move—just for me. Clarke was flattered.
“Hey, Detective,” said Oliver, standing on the cathedral’s steps. It was raining, just barely. Clarke felt the drops wet his cropped hair.
“Can I see it?” he asked.
Oliver laughed. “Calm down, man.”
“You know how big this is for me,” he said, walking into the building with Oliver at his side. “I’ve been waiting for something like this for God knows how long. We finally have a body.”
“I know, I know,” Oliver said, slowing to look over at Clarke. “Alright, come with me.” Clarke grinned.
They neared the front of the church, pushing through countless officers and investigators. Clarke could see a white tarp atop the first pew, covering the corpse.
“His body was found here,” Oliver said, pointing, “on the pew. He most likely wasn’t moved either. Jason took pictures of his lividity. His throat was cut too—but I already told you that.”
“Anything left behind?”
“Nothing,” he answered. “Not even prints.”
“Damn,” said Clarke, kneeling to the ground. He gingerly pulled the tarp off the body, first seeing a blue face, then a yellow hoodie and dark slacks. Blood coated the boy’s throat and torso.
Clarke was then taken back to the day he’d first seen the photograph of his father’s dead body. His throat had been slit, just like this boy’s, and there’d been no evidence—nothing left behind. It was all too familiar. He stood abruptly, suddenly hot. “I appreciate you letting me see him, Oliver.”
“No problem,” he said. “Have you seen everything you wanted to see?”
“Yes,” said Clarke. “You’ll send me the photos?”
“Of course.”
Clarke shook Oliver’s meaty hand. “Thanks again.”
He drove home with the memory of his own father’s wounded throat dancing beneath his eyelids.
FOR THE VERY FIRST time, it was Kai who had dragged Baker to a bar, wanting to get drunk. Kai didn’t drink, not usually, but his mind was plagued by thoughts he couldn’t avoid while sober.
“Two shots of vodka please,” he said as he sat at the grimy bar, legs bouncing.
“Remind me why we’re here again?”
asked Baker.
“I needed to get out,” Kai replied, thanking the bartender as he took the shot and threw it down his throat. He winced against the burn. “You want it?” he asked, pointing to the second shot.
Baker watched in confusion. “It’s all yours.”
The shot was gone a second later.
“You pulled me out of a painting session for this? You couldn’t have called anyone else?”
“I have no one else,” Kai said, turning his head to Baker. “Besides, you’re my best friend. I want to hang out with you.”
“You have never said that to me. Not once in the months we’ve known each other,” Baker said, shaking their head. “Are you okay?” They reached for Kai’s forehead, checking for a fever. “Are you sick?” Kai pushed their hand away, laughing.
“I’m fine,” he answered. “Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?” He flagged a hand out to catch the bartender’s eye.
“Yes, Kai, I’m sure.”
Kai shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
A few seconds later, the bartender slid another shot over to Kai, and then another. Kai downed both quickly, now immune to the burn.
“I’m going to dance. Wanna dance? Let’s dance.” Kai didn’t give Baker a chance to reply, simply pulled on their arm and dragged them over to the makeshift dance floor. A few other people danced, but not enough to hide Kai and Baker. The sober part of Kai was already feeling insecure, but he’d drunk that part of him away four shots ago.
“You are being insanely weird right now,” Baker yelled over the loud pop music that no one listened to save for long rides in cars with no aux.
“What?” Kai asked, moving his arms to the beat of the song. “I can’t hear you!”
“Kai,” Baker said, exasperated. “Seriously, what’s going on?”
Kai stopped, his lips pouting. “You’re not dancing.”
“I—”
“Is it the music?” Kai said suddenly. “I’ll go tell the DJ to change the song. You’re right, it sucks.” He left before Baker could say another word, their yells muted by the music. He strode to the DJ’s table at the back, surrounded by a few filled tables.
“Hey,” Kai yelled, waving his hands to get the guy’s attention. “Can you change the song? My friend said it sucks, and frankly, I agree.”
The DJ slid his headphones from his head. “Then tell your friend to leave if he doesn’t like it, dude.”
“It’s they,” Kai corrected, “and screw you!” he yelled. The DJ shrugged, slipping his headphones back on and ignoring Kai’s irritated stare.
He was going to turn, going to tell Baker that they should leave, but someone caught his eye.
No, not someone—Lara. He thought drunkenly that he was dreaming, that he was back at that party, where he’d also seen Lara. It had to have been a dream, because Lara wasn’t sitting alone—two girls sat with her at a small table. One with blonde hair and pale skin, the other with dark hair and light brown skin. He recognized the blonde one—she was in his ballet class—but the other he’d never seen.
Kai, his mind everywhere but in reality, walked over to the table, unaware of what he was doing.
“Lara,” he said, hands on his hips. She looked up at him immediately, his voice loud in her ear.
“Are you following me?” she said, narrowing her eyes. The girls beside Lara looked to her in perplexity.
“Yes,” Kai said dryly, “you caught me.”
“Is that it, or...?” Lara said impatiently.
Kai was about to say Yes, that’s all. Also, go fuck yourself but instead, he blurted, “Can I speak to you? In private?”
Lara shook her head slowly, not believing his words. “Are you serious?” she asked. Kai nodded, watching as the blonde girl before Lara mouthed Go to her. Lara reluctantly stood up. “You have five minutes.”
“I won’t need five,” Kai said, leading her away from the table. He found himself walking toward the bathrooms, away from the tipsy people and spilled drinks.
“Are you going to murder me?” Lara asked.
“Yes,” Kai replied, leaning against the wall across from the girl’s bathroom door.
“With what? I don’t see a weapon on you.”
“With my bare hands,” he answered, unsure if he was lying.
I am, he thought, aren’t I?
“Do it,” Lara said. “Go ahead. I give you my permission.”
Kai stood there, back against the wall, trying to discern the sarcasm in her voice. He took a step away from the wall, closing the space between himself and Lara, and looked down into her eyes. He could see his reflection in them. “You’re really fucked up, aren’t you?”
She smiled. “Not as fucked up as you.”
Kai craned his head, leaning forward to graze his lips against her ear, the same way she had done to him, and whispered, “Are you scared?”
Lara leaned into his touch. “I fear nothing,” she replied, her breath hot against his cheek. He remembered the way it felt when she’d slapped him, remembered the sting that had remained for hours after. He felt it then—that same feeling, the same burning sensation that never seemed to dissipate when he was around her. He looked forward to it sometimes—the fire. The ice. All of it. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted more—more of her. More of her anger and passion, fury and violence.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked. When Kai didn’t reply, his eyes buried in the darkness of her own, unable to pull them away, she reached for his hand and pulled it up, onto her pulsing neck. “I’ll help you.”
Kai felt his fingers brush her cold skin, breathing out at the contact. His eyes looked to where his skin met hers, and then, impulsively, he clenched his hand around her neck. Not hard enough to be painful but hard enough to shock Lara—hard enough to make her feel the same needy hunger he felt.
“Harder,” she breathed.
Kai met her eyes and they stared at each other, Kai’s hand around her throat, her life in his hands, Lara’s face covered in a painful desire. Kai agreed to her request not because she wanted him to, but because he wanted to.
Lara gasped—unsure if it was out of pain or pleasure. His other hand circled her waist, pulling her closer to him—leaving no space between the two. Nothing but beating hearts and sweaty skin, ragged breaths and quiet whimpers. Yes, he thought to himself. This is what I want. This is enough.
Kai loosened his grip but still kept his hand on her throat, feeling his skin wrap around her own. Lara shut her eyes, unable to bear his stare.
“Is that what you wanted?” Kai asked, their faces an inch apart.
“Yes,” Lara gritted out. “Yes.”
Then, quickly, a noise came from beside them, shocking them both from their closeness. Kai moved away from her, his grip leaving Lara’s throat in a flashing hurry. It was footsteps, and they belonged to Lara’s dark-haired friend. “Lara!” she yelled, angry. “We need to go. Now.”
Lara pushed away from the wall, turning her back to Kai. “Why?” she asked, breathless.
“I said we need to go. Come on.”
Lara looked back to Kai, lips parted. She stepped away from him without a word, following her friend back into the liveliness of the bar. Kai watched her leave, his hands itching to grab her, to wrap around her thin neck.
He didn’t though; he just stood there, staring at her moving back, fear overwhelming him.
What is happening to me?
ANA WAS DRAGGING LARA into the bell tower, Evelyn trudging by their side. The entire ride there, Ana hadn’t said a word to Lara, only sighed relentlessly and pinched the bridge of her nose in irritation. Evelyn hadn’t said anything either, though she looked more worried than angry.
Ana finally spoke when they reached the top of the tower, on the bell’s floor. The other girls were already there. Lara realized that, for the first time, none were seated. “What the hell, Lara!” she yelled. “You’re seriously going to get us killed.”
“What?” Lara asked, entir
ely confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh God,” Sana groaned, tugging at the end of her braid. “She doesn’t even realize what she’s done.”
“What did I do?” Lara said, turning to Sana, who was shaking her head.
Violet began laughing, the sound merciless and in disbelief. “Didn’t I say she was an idiot? I swear I did.”
“Guys,” Evelyn spoke up, “stop it. We’ll figure this out.”
“Figure what out?” Lara yelled, exasperated. The girls continued talking over one another, ignoring Lara’s questions.
“I think I’d do pretty well in jail,” Irene said. “It could be fun.”
“Maybe we’ll be bunkmates,” Mia joked.
“This isn’t funny!” Lowri whined. “We’re going to die. We’re going to be killed! I can’t survive jail.”
“Oh, shut up, Lowri. You can’t survive jail? You’re a skinny white girl,” Orion scoffed. “You probably won’t even get to jail. I’m sure the judge will pity you—red hair and all.”
Lowri let out a quiet whimper.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Lilah said, running a hand through her twisted hair. “Not once has this happened. I’m going to faint from humiliation.” She looked to Ana, who stood in the corner, head bowed in extreme thought.
“This is serious,” Renee said. Lara stared at her, waiting for an explanation. “I mean—it’s huge. You got us into so much trouble, Lara.”
“Can someone please tell me what I did?”
“You left the body!” Ana yelled. The room went utterly silent; not even the faintest of sounds could be heard. It was as if they’d all sucked in a breath, afraid to breathe. Lara felt the sweat that lined her forehead and anxiously wiped it away. She couldn’t believe she’d been so foolish. “You left it there, goddamnit, and the police found it. I hope you wore gloves.”
“She did,” Evelyn said, jumping to Lara’s side. “I gave her mine.”
“Please tell me you still have them. You didn’t just leave them there, did you?” Lilah asked, her tone derisive.