by Rachel Caine
I am busy. But not that busy. I could spare him a few minutes, at least. Grief twisted me into something bitterly wrong, and I’ve taken years to come back from that. A long, tough climb to get to a relatively stable place. The instructions from flight attendants keep running through my head: put your mask on first before you help others. I’m not sure my mask is completely on yet. Or that oxygen is flowing.
But at the same time, I can see this kid’s damage, even if I can’t feel his pain. Maybe because he doesn’t dare feel it himself.
So I say, “Let’s go get a coffee and talk about it. Okay?”
Tyler lets out a low, shaking breath and nods. “Thank you, Mr. Cade.”
“Sam,” I tell him. “Call me Sam. What was your sister’s name?”
“Clara,” he says. “I don’t—I really don’t want to talk about her so much. Just . . . just about how you handle it. Especially when you can’t get it out of your head. You can’t, can you?”
“Sometimes,” I say. “Sometimes for hours. A couple of times for a whole day. But you’re right. It doesn’t go away.”
We walk to the small coffee area set aside for the hangar, get cups, sit. Tyler seems uncomfortable still. He finally takes his sunglasses off, and behind them he looks very young. Vulnerable. His eyes look tired, and like they’ve seen far too much. “I get angry,” he says. “About what happened to her. Is that normal?”
God, it’s so normal.
And I take a deep breath and start explaining to him why that’s bad.
I’m not sure how well I do. He’s listening. His reactions are small, but I see the significance of the slight flinch, the way he looks at his hands. He doesn’t break down, though I can almost feel how much he’d like to do that. The mask stays in place.
When he gets too close to my own wounds, I turn the conversation another direction. And when my watch buzzes a reminder, I’m surprised to find that a whole hour has gone by. The coffee in front of me is still full, and cold; Tyler’s consumed all of his. I dump mine and tell him that I really do have to go.
Tyler thanks me for my time, and doesn’t offer to shake hands this time. But just like before, he hesitates, and has one last question.
“Do you think your sister would be upset?” he asks me. “If she knew about . . .” He doesn’t finish the question; maybe he realizes it’s crossing a line. Because it is, and I know I ought to be angry about it. But somehow I’m not.
“If my sister knew I was happy with Gwen?” I guess. He nods. “Honestly? I don’t know. I’d like to think she’d want me to be happy, because I wish she was. But I don’t know.”
He nods. “Thank you, Sam. I—I’ve never talked about it before. Not like this, with someone who understands.” He rocks back and forth on his heels, and for a second I see the real suffering he’s been concealing. Then he takes his sunglasses from his pocket and puts them on, and just like that, he’s armored again. “I know that wasn’t easy. Thanks for talking to me.”
He doesn’t wait for me to reply. He just turns and goes.
It feels strange, having let that conversation happen. And oddly good too. Maybe . . . maybe I’m actually starting to heal that part of myself. It’s been long enough.
But I find myself wondering if I really just helped someone, or hurt him. Because I don’t know.
I just don’t know.
It’s just about quitting time and I’m headed back home, having passed my simulations and breathing easier and feeling almost, almost back to normal. I’m halfway there when my cell rings. I don’t recognize the number and nearly let it go, but I finally hit the hands-free and answer. “Hello?”
“Hi, I’m looking for Sam Cade.”
“You’re talking to him.”
“Oh, thank you. I’m Emory Osgood from the Tennessean.” The woman on the other end sounds young and almost artificially subdued. I’m instantly on guard, but it doesn’t sound like one of those damn robocall spammers. “I’m calling to double-check the spelling of a name, if you don’t mind. Gwen Proctor. I normally wouldn’t call, but it’s spelled two different ways in the text I have.” Why the hell is she calling me? I consider asking, but I spell it out for her. Before I can ask what the story is that she’s writing, she hurries on. “Oh, thank you so much. It’s really important we get the announcement right, of course. And could you confirm the name of the funeral home?”
My mouth goes dry. I don’t think; I just pull my truck off the road and into a grocery store parking lot and the first empty spot I see. My hand is shaking as I put the engine in park. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m calling about the death notice,” she says. “For Ms. Proctor?” She sounds taken aback now. Uncertain. My heart’s pounding and I feel clammy. Sick.
“What happened to her?” I ask. I can’t even recognize my voice—it sounds like a stranger’s. “When?”
“Oh, sir, I am so sorry, I thought—wait, didn’t you submit the notice yourself? This isn’t supposed to happen, I just—I don’t know what to say. I apologize for doing this to you, are you okay?” She sounds utterly horrified.
“Am I—” I bite back the sudden fury I feel. My eyes are burning. Whole body shaking. “What the fuck happened?”
“I—” I hear her take a deep breath. “Sir, I really don’t have all that information. I have a computer submission via email that has the death notice request and lists you as the party to contact. That’s why I called. I don’t understand what’s going on—”
I hang up on her. It takes me three tries to stab the number in to dial Gwen’s cell. I struggle for breath while I listen to the distant, empty rings. It feels like the whole world is falling away from me down a dark well.
And then she answers. “Sam? Hey, how was your day?”
Like nothing’s wrong. Like nothing’s happened.
Because nothing has happened.
Thank God.
I can’t even speak for the relief filling my throat until I clear it and say, “Fine, honey. Everything’s fine. I’m—I’m on my way home. You there?”
“Yes,” she says. “About to start dinner. What do you think about—”
“Whatever you want,” I say, and I mean it. I can’t tell her what just happened. I don’t want to ruin her mood. “Got to go, I’ll be home soon, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, and I can hear the slight shift in her tone. She can tell something’s off. I hang up before she asks anything else.
Then I redial the number for Ms. Emory Osgood, and get transferred to her from the main number of the Tennessean, our local newspaper. “Emory, this is Sam Cade,” I say. She starts another flood of apologies, and I cut her off without listening. “Somebody sent in the death notice. How?”
“Well . . . it’s a form online. You fill it in, and then we double-check it—that’s what I was doing when I called you because her name wasn’t spelled the same way in one place as it was in the other, and the funeral home number isn’t working. The order’s got your name and phone number attached to it. Sir, what exactly happened—”
“Gwen Proctor isn’t dead,” I tell her. “And I didn’t send that in.”
“Oh my God, Mr. Cade, I am so sorry—I—why would anyone do something like that?”
“Cruelty,” I tell her. “Just delete it. And don’t accept any other death notices for me, Ms. Proctor, or her children, Lanny and Connor, unless you verify it with me or the police first. Treat everything like it’s a vicious prank, because it probably is. Okay?”
“O . . . okay. Wow. I’ve just never heard of such a thing happening. Again, I’m so sorry . . .”
“It’s okay.” It isn’t, but I don’t want her to agonize about it. She didn’t do anything wrong. I rub the back of my stiff, aching neck. “Somebody’s learned a neat new trick, I guess. Something to think about for the future. For both of us.”
“Yes sir,” she says. “I’m glad everybody’s okay.”
“Me too, Emory. Me too.”
Now that
the shock has passed, reality sets in, and it’s grim as hell. I’d been hoping nobody was going to start up shit against Gwen again, but I was wrong.
Dead wrong.
7
GWEN
When my phone rings at around eleven a.m., I’m half-asleep in my office chair, and the buzz jerks me wide awake. I’d nearly dozed off going over a background check, but then again, it’s been a long damn night. I scramble for the phone and see Kezia’s name.
“Kez?” I answer instantly. “Everything okay?”
The silence that follows is far too long, and feels heavy. “Not really,” she says. “Autopsy on the two little girls just finished. I got their names from the birth records. Mira and Beth.” There’s more to it, but I don’t push. Kez will tell me if she wants me to know.
“How are you?” I ask her. “Really?”
I catch the shake in the breath she takes in, and it hurts me. “Okay,” she says, and I hear the lie loud and clear. “The TBI is taking the case, I just got word.”
“And you’re just going to step off?” I ask. I know better. Her silence confirms it. “Kez—”
“Can’t just walk away from this, Gwen. Those little girls . . .”
It is about the little girls . . . but it’s more than that, and we both know it. The child she’s now carrying was a joy, and it’s become a reminder that life is so terribly fragile, and tragedy so unspeakably final.
I understand why she’s obsessing; I’d probably do the same. But it’s risky. Kez has done plenty of things on her personal time that a larger police force than Norton’s might find questionable; pursuing her own investigation will be something massive enough to put her job in danger if she doesn’t get buy-in from her chief, and we both know that. The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation won’t welcome her poking around, either . . . any more than it will welcome Gwen Proctor, the ex-wife of a serial killer, PI license or not. But I wasn’t planning to ask their permission, and I’m guessing Kez isn’t going to either.
“So what’s your plan?” I ask.
“Thought I’d head up that road in both directions,” she says. “There have got to be a few places out there. Maybe somebody saw something.”
“And maybe you should let the TBI do that?”
“They’re doing a grid search of the woods around that pond today,” Kez says. “Just talked to Prester, and he’s going on out there. I tried to talk him out of it. Best I could get him to agree to was to split the hours, so I’ll take over as soon as I finish doing this check.”
“You want company?” I ask her. “Kez. You need it. Especially if you’re knocking on doors out there all by yourself.”
“I’d love some. But you have to hang back. House rules.”
“I’ll meet you at your office,” I tell her. “Give me forty-five minutes.”
“Okay,” she says. “Drive safe and text me from the parking lot because you know the looks I’d get if you came inside.”
“Oh, I know. I’ll be careful. Mind if I give you some unasked-for advice?” I say.
“Go ahead.”
“Take some deep breaths. Clear your head. Then get your boss on board. I know you want to dive right into this thing, but fact is, it looks to me like it’ll be a long, tough haul. Conserve your passion. You’re going to need it.”
“Oh,” she says, “I got enough passion. Believe that.”
I do. There’s a hardness in her voice I’ve never heard before. This has got its claws deep.
She hangs up with a quick goodbye, and I give up on the sleep-inducing background check and get my things together for the drive. I’m actually grabbing a bottle of water out of the fridge to take on the road when the doorbell rings. I go to the security camera feed to see who it is.
The feed shows a delivery driver holding a handheld device, looking impatient. Behind him on the street looms a dark-colored van, no logo. I stare at him for a moment. No emblem on his shirt, but he’s got some kind of ID badge clipped on. I liked the old days, when the only delivery people came in clearly marked vans, with recognizable uniforms. It’s too easy for someone to gain access these days; all they need is a clipboard and a box.
I ask the delivery person, through the doorbell microphone, to hold up the ID to the camera. It does look legit. So I go to the front, turn off the alarm, and open the door. Situational awareness, as always; I’ve automatically identified how far it is to the nearest weapon, and I brace myself in case of attack. That’s what PTSD does to you; it makes you constantly evaluate your chances of survival against the normal as well as the unexpected. It’s exhausting. In my case, it’s also been pretty necessary.
The driver just shoves the device to me and says, “Sign here, please.” I take it and scrawl something with my finger that doesn’t remotely resemble a signature, but he doesn’t even glance at it, just hits a button and hands me a slender, folder-size cardboard envelope. He’s halfway back to the van before I can turn it over and see that it’s not addressed to me . . . or, not to Gwen Proctor.
It’s addressed to Gina Royal, my old name. No return address visible.
I feel a hot and cold wave splash through me. It leaves me furious. My first impulse is to yell at him to come back and refuse delivery, but then I get control of that instinctive flinch. Better to know than not, I tell myself, and grab a picture of his license plate before I shut the door. I engage the alarm and settle on the couch. I turn the envelope over and rip the easy-open tab straight across, then carefully, with the envelope facing away from me, open it wide and shake out the contents.
What falls out is a smaller white paper envelope. It lands facedown. I check the package, and there’s nothing else in it. I set it aside, take a breath, and flip the envelope over.
I know this handwriting. It makes me go feral inside, rolls in my stomach like a ball of razor wire. He’s dead. Melvin Royal is dead. I tell myself that, but it’s like a whisper into utter darkness. Swallowed up and gone.
I keep staring at the envelope as if that will make it go away, make it not happen, but here it is and here it will remain. I should burn it, I think. Or shred it unopened. It’s thin enough I could do that in the office without trouble. And there’s a certain freedom in the idea that’s seductive.
Melvin has nothing to say that’s meaningful to my life now.
And yet, my hands reach for it. I’m almost observing it, not directing, as I rip open the top and slide out the letter. Unfold it.
The cramped, precise writing that stains the page makes me flinch so badly that the paper makes a faint, protesting flutter. Without willing it, without wanting it, my eyes focus on the first line.
Dear Gina,
It’s always Gina.
I know this will come as a shock to you, but I’m not angry anymore.
That’s a lie; he was always angry, a beast waiting to pounce, even when he hid it behind smiles and calm words and charm. He was angry the night I killed him.
I forgive you for all the harm you did me.
I make a sound in the back of my throat, half a laugh and half a gag. Harm I did him, a monster who claimed an appalling number of lives. Manipulation and control, gaslighting, Melvin’s stock in trade. I can feel him on the other end of this letter, calculating effect.
If you’re reading this, I’ve died. Maybe that was just karmic justice; maybe it was something else. I’ve always thought that if I die it’ll be because of you. Was it?
Yes, you asshole. Yes, it was. I shot you in the face.
Doesn’t matter, dead is dead. But you know I can’t let go that easily, don’t you? I loved you once, Gina. Not that you were ever worthy of that love. But I can’t help it. We were meant for each other. Made for each other.
The poisoned honey in those words. I’d wanted to believe in him for the longest time, craved the affection he showed me, and I’d swallowed the bait every time. I’d believed I wasn’t worth much, that no one could ever love me but Melvin, that my only happiness lay with him. And here it i
s again: control.
He’s dead, and he’s still trying. You can’t say he isn’t dedicated.
I made arrangements in case this happened, obviously. Letters, so you don’t forget me and what we were together. Enjoy what you think is freedom, because it’s just a long leash I’ve let you run on. Soon you’ll get to the end and that will be a short, hard stop. And in that moment, you’ll know that I’ve never really let you go. Never.
I’m breathing faster now. My fingers are crushing the paper, nearly tearing it. But I keep reading.
Till death do us part, that’s what we said in our vows. I’m going to hold you to it.
Bye for now, my beloved wife. Kiss our children for me.
His signature sprawls at the bottom, taking up space with spiked arrogance. I stare at it for a moment, then ball up the letter and drop it to the table, where it sits like a paper grenade.
I have a choice. I can give this more time, or I can think about it later. Kez is waiting.
And Melvin’s still going to be dead.
I take the letter to my office and put it in my desk drawer, and I feel a half a ton lighter when I leave Melvin’s shadow behind, locked in the dark.
I text Kez from the NPD parking lot, as promised, and I keep a low profile to avoid being spotted by any of the uniformed cops. I have something of a local reputation in Norton. It’s not exactly favorable.
Kez walks confidently across to me and slips into the passenger seat. “Best be on our way,” she says. “Shift change is about to start.”
I drive us out onto the Norton main drag, which is just a two-lane state road; being back in town makes me feel unsettled, a little strange. Although maybe that really has more to do with Melvin Royal’s ghost darkening my door again. It isn’t unusual; he’s got acolytes all over the country who got packages full of letters he prewrote to me before his prison break, and they all enjoy sending me his twisted form of love.
Kez is giving me a cool, assessing look. “What?” I ask.