Suicide Blondes

by T. Blake Braddy

  I begin to type. It’s an accumulation of years of abuse—decades, really—rolled into a tight little ball, and I hurl it at myself.

  Can’t this bitch just fucking DIE already? It’s not like there has ever been a need for her to exist, beyond the target practice she provides for all of us. I hope her mother dies, just like her cocksucking father did. Better yet, I hope her mother lives and SHE dies, so we get what we want and her mother loses what the Coughlins never had—a child that lived.

  Ouch.

  16

  Detective Ciccotelli finds me at the hospital later in the day. He seems a little more relaxed than the last few times I’ve spoken with him, but then again, I can smell whiskey on him like cigarette smoke.

  “Get you a cup of coffee?” he asks.

  I don’t like this particular ambush. I’ve got the jitters from two nights of drinking, and the day is looking bleak, despite my mom’s slight uptick since her episode.

  “I thought you had your man,” I say. “Colton Ambrose is in custody, is he not?”

  The detective smiles ruefully and shakes his head.

  “If only I had more people like you on the force,” he says. “There just isn’t enough sarcasm in the world, is there?”

  “I was being honest, but sure, if you want to take it that way, how do you feel about him being behind bars?”

  “It’s a start,” he says. “We have some physical evidence, and uh, yeah, he’s going to stay right where he is for now.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “The wheels of justice turn quite slowly,” he says, “so I do my best to speed them up whenever and wherever I can.”

  “Is that why you’ve dropped by? To tell me I’m lounging somewhere under those wheels, that they’re turning right for me?”`

  His face falters to a microscopic degree, and I dread what comes next.

  “This doesn’t have to do...with the investigation,” he says, at last, and then my heart really is thumping along.

  “Well?”

  It’s hard to get the words over the lump in my throat.

  “Believe me, there is nothing easy about this next bit for me. It speaks to all the worst aspects of the business of police work, and I—”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Your old stalker—he’s been set free.”

  The detective goes on to give me details about the terms of Timothy Allred’s release, but I’m too freaked out to listen. Not that I need to hear about his role as the ideal prisoner or the work he did with the elderly and the physically disabled.

  None of it matters. I have the answers I need to why thing have gone completely fucko since arriving in Nashville. It’s like knocking over dominos.

  The guy trashing my rental—check.

  The person trailing me in the park—check.

  The death of Madeline St. Clair—check.

  After he’s finished telling me the procedural and bureaucratic reasons for this fuck-up, his expression grows more pained than I’ve seen it. He’s normally a fairly stone-faced individual, but he looks like he’s been poked with something long and sharp. “There’s one last thing.”

  “Oh yeah? Can it be worse than what you’ve just told me?”

  “Allred’s gone MIA.”

  Though I understand the words, I can’t quite process them in a way that makes any sense. So, in turn, the detective continues through his spiel.

  “His parole officer put pretty strict limits on his movement and communication, and when he didn’t show up for a scheduled visit, the PO got worried. He checked in with the halfway house where Allred was staying and found that he’d been gone for a couple days. Once he realized Allred had split, he checked his files and contacted the authorities who contacted us. So here we are. On a manhunt for this guy.”

  I manage to receive all of this new information without screaming.

  “Anything else I should know, officer?”

  I can’t bring myself to call him detective, and he doesn’t bother to correct me. He’s lucky I got the words out without calling him fucking incompetent.

  “No, that’s about it,” he says. “You just keep your head on a swivel, and your eyes and ears open. I’ll be in touch if anything else comes up.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about protective custody.”

  I shake my head. “If he wants to get at me, he’ll do it, whether or not you’ve got someone posted on me.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Is it? Do you think all of this is a coincidence?”

  “That’s why you should consider—”

  “I’ll consider no such thing,” I reply. “If he sees me being tailed by a police officer, that gives him yet another puzzle to solve. It will embolden him.”

  “He’s not a criminal mastermind, Ms. Hanneford. He’s a criminal with a screw loose.”

  “We’ll just wait and see about that, I guess. In the meantime, make sure you find him. If I do—or he finds me—things will get very bad very quickly.”

  When I leave the hospital, I head back to the rental. My hands are shaking, and I can’t quite escape the feeling like I’m being set-up.

  I kneel down in front of the couch and reach for Madeline’s journal. There’s so much I need to find out, to figure out. I can’t believe I’ve allowed myself to be distracted this long by other things. All the drinking and carousing with the other girls has left me rudderless, but it’s time to get back on that track and ignore all outside pressure.

  But even when I swipe deep under the furniture, my hand gets no purchase.

  It isn’t there.

  The journal is gone.

  I reach for it again, and again my hand manages to hit only dust and wood and air. There is no journal to speak of.

  I stand up and pause there, numbly.

  It’s been stolen. It’s been taken.

  He has been in the house.

  If it is not Timothy Allred doing this, it is the devil of Hell. It is the only possible solution, and the only one that gives me even a hint of comfort. In fact, I’d rather have the devil chasing me than that psychopath, at this point.

  I’m not safe in the house, so I grab my laptop, my Seahawks hat, and my sunglasses, and I duck out of the Airbnb before I can drive myself crazy.

  I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t be here.

  Detective Ciccotelli finds me at the hospital later in the day. He seems a little more relaxed than the last few times I’ve spoken with him, but then again, I can smell whiskey on him like cigarette smoke.

  “Get you a cup of coffee?” he asks.

  I don’t like this particular ambush. I’ve got the jitters from two nights of drinking, and the day is looking bleak, despite my mom’s slight uptick since her episode.

  “I thought you had your man,” I say. “Colton Ambrose is in custody, is he not?”

  The detective smiles ruefully and shakes his head.

  “If only I had more people like you on the force,” he says. “There just isn’t enough sarcasm in the world, is there?”

  “I was being honest, but sure, if you want to take it that way, how do you feel about him being behind bars?”

  “It’s a start,” he says. “We have some physical evidence, and uh, yeah, he’s going to stay right where he is for now.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “The wheels of justice turn quite slowly,” he says, “so I do my best to speed them up whenever and wherever I can.”

  “Is that why you’ve dropped by? To tell me I’m lounging somewhere under those wheels, that they’re turning right for me?”`

  His face falters to a microscopic degree, and I dread what comes next.

  “This doesn’t have to do...with the investigation,” he says, at last, and then my heart really is thumping along.

  “Well?”

  It’s hard to get the words over the lump in
my throat.

  “Believe me, there is nothing easy about this next bit for me. It speaks to all the worst aspects of the business of police work, and I—”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Your old stalker—he’s been set free.”

  The detective goes on to give me details about the terms of Timothy Allred’s release, but I’m too freaked out to listen. Not that I need to hear about his role as the ideal prisoner or the work he did with the elderly and the physically disabled.

  None of it matters. I have the answers I need to why thing have gone completely fucko since arriving in Nashville. It’s like knocking over dominos.

  The guy trashing my rental—check.

  The person trailing me in the park—check.

  The death of Madeline St. Clair—check.

  After he’s finished telling me the procedural and bureaucratic reasons for this fuck-up, his expression grows more pained than I’ve seen it. He’s normally a fairly stone-faced individual, but he looks like he’s been poked with something long and sharp. “There’s one last thing.”

  “Oh yeah? Can it be worse than what you’ve just told me?”

  “Allred’s gone MIA.”

  Though I understand the words, I can’t quite process them in a way that makes any sense. So, in turn, the detective continues through his spiel.

  “His parole officer put pretty strict limits on his movement and communication, and when he didn’t show up for a scheduled visit, the PO got worried. He checked in with the halfway house where Allred was staying and found that he’d been gone for a couple days. Once he realized Allred had split, he checked his files and contacted the authorities who contacted us. So here we are. On a manhunt for this guy.”

  I manage to receive all of this new information without screaming.

  “Anything else I should know, officer?”

  I can’t bring myself to call him detective, and he doesn’t bother to correct me. He’s lucky I got the words out without calling him fucking incompetent.

  “No, that’s about it,” he says. “You just keep your head on a swivel, and your eyes and ears open. I’ll be in touch if anything else comes up.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about protective custody.”

  I shake my head. “If he wants to get at me, he’ll do it, whether or not you’ve got someone posted on me.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Is it? Do you think all of this is a coincidence?”

  “That’s why you should consider—”

  “I’ll consider no such thing,” I reply. “If he sees me being tailed by a police officer, that gives him yet another puzzle to solve. It will embolden him.”

  “He’s not a criminal mastermind, Ms. Hanneford. He’s a criminal with a screw loose.”

  “We’ll just wait and see about that, I guess. In the meantime, make sure you find him. If I do—or he finds me—things will get very bad very quickly.”

  When I leave the hospital, I head back to the rental. My hands are shaking, and I can’t quite escape the feeling like I’m being set-up.

  I kneel down in front of the couch and reach for Madeline’s journal. There’s so much I need to find out, to figure out. I can’t believe I’ve allowed myself to be distracted this long by other things. All the drinking and carousing with the other girls has left me rudderless, but it’s time to get back on that track and ignore all outside pressure.

  But even when I swipe deep under the furniture, my hand gets no purchase.

  It isn’t there.

  The journal is gone.

  I reach for it again, and again my hand manages to hit only dust and wood and air. There is no journal to speak of.

  I stand up and pause there, numbly.

  It’s been stolen. It’s been taken.

  He has been in the house.

  If it is not Timothy Allred doing this, it is the devil of Hell. It is the only possible solution, and the only one that gives me even a hint of comfort. In fact, I’d rather have the devil chasing me than that psychopath, at this point.

  I’m not safe in the house, so I grab my laptop, my Seahawks hat, and my sunglasses, and I duck out of the Airbnb before I can drive myself crazy.

  I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t be here.

  17

  NOW

  I end up at my childhood house, which looms over my memory like the home on Elm Street from the old Freddy Krueger movies. It is a shadowy and malevolent place, full of bad memories from my adolescence. It is where my father died, where I lived when the Everett Coughlin situation played out, and it is where my mother began her charade of death.

  I still have a key, and when I unlock the door, I am reminded of why I decided against staying here for an extended period of time. Or at all. It is not the Radley home, or the place from that Shirley Jackson book, but it nevertheless feels as haunted as any evil location I’ve ever seen. The fact that it only applies to me—and perhaps my mother—doesn’t matter. It’s a bad, terrible, awful place, and only desperation brings me to darken its doorstep.

  Oh, it’s just a house, something built in the sixties and remodeled throughout the years. It is not covered in cobwebs or teeming with mice and bats, but there is something wholly terrifying about being in its presence.

  And yet, I persevere.

  My whole body trembles as I make my way first to the kitchen, where I spent most nights studying and doing homework as my mom cooked dinner—or, after dad died, threw something together after work. Nothing, not a single thing, is out of place, which makes me think of a museum. Or a movie or TV set. The walls are all cardboard. The doors lead absolutely nowhere. Yank on the wrong string, and the whole thing comes crashing down.

  I pour a glass of water and drink it silently at the island, waiting for something—anything—to happen. I have no expectations, and I hope I’m alone, but I cannot say for sure why my attention keeps getting pulled in other directions.

  The rooms around me are still and bare, and I can practically see the indentation on the one chair where my mother sits, where she whiles away the time as it slips through her arthritic fingers. Her life is a one-person meal, a single serving that leaves you hungry minutes later. It is only notable in the absent spaces. Where she could be but is not.

  Seeing this—all of this—makes me feel as though the entirety of my soul has been scooped out and tossed aside. When I see the sad life my mother lives, devoid of friends and acquaintances, my whole body aches with a sadness I can’t quite describe.

  I resolve that this will not be my end, and I will do everything in my power to prevent it for my mother, too. Once this is all over, once Timothy Allred is back in jail and my mother’s condition improves, I’m going to take a much more direct role in her life. Stop running from the past and making excuses to avoid engaging with her.

  I make my way through the den to the main hallway. Mom’s house is a ranch-style dwelling from a different time and place in Nashville. Now it’s all prefab houses that look more at home in San Francisco than a southern town.

  Mom’s bedroom lies at the end of the hall, and mine is the first on the left. After I went away—her euphemism, not mine—she cleaned it up and left it alone. Since I never really came back home after my time in juvie—I moved to Atlanta for a brief stretch before sneaking away to the Pacific Northwest—my room is a time capsule to a very specific period in history, a paean to boy bands and long-forgotten trinkets. This place is a testament to the fleeting nature of childhood, the power that the past can have over a person. This is post-Lewinsky, pre-9/11 America, and if my mother has her druthers, it will always be that way. Over by the closet, there’s even the—

  Wait.

  Something is out of place. My eyes are drawn to the thin black sliver between the door and the jamb in the closet. It’s just enough to pull my attention from the ‘N Sync poster tacked to the wall, but in that space is an i
nfinite terror.

  That door has been closed for two decades. Mother never comes in here, let alone to open a door that houses only a few old blankets and some discarded toys. It’s little more than a time capsule to a younger and more hopeful time, and it is almost physically painful to look inside.

  But I do.

  He’s been here, I think. I can tell. I know. I can smell it on the air, can feel it in my clothes, like smoke that has drifted up from a distant fire and attached itself to the fibers of a beloved sweater.

  The worst part is, he might still be here.

  Suddenly, I experience the terror of silence more so than before, feel its...absoluteness. As I step from room-to-room, I quiet my mind, try to quiet my own movements, but I can’t escape the feeling that someone is standing behind me.

  I can still see the blood pooling beneath him, the red liquid filling the pores in the monitor vents and seeping into the cracks between wood slats in my floor.

  My imagination is strong with this one, and I have to actively fight it off, because I know this time—there will be a ‘this time’—he will not turn his anger on himself. He is bound to turn the blade (or whatever he ends up using) on me.

  The air shifts around me, and I turn and scream, thinking I’ll find a bloody, ax-wielding maniac standing there.

  But all I see is the room. There’s something...off about it, though. Like in the movies, where the audience can see the ghost but the main character cannot. I expect a scare of some kind—maybe a well-timed cat jump—but receive nothing but the eerie silence. That hnnnnh hum of electricity (or whatever it is) fills my ears, and to fight it, I close the door.

  Or I almost do.

  One of the out-of-place things catches my glance, and before I know it, I’m no my knees next to a box of old belongings. I don’t know how or why I’m rifling through my things, but once I get my hand on it, the rest of the world dissolves into darkness.

  I pull the VHS from its protective plastic sleeve and sit cross-legged on the rug, inspecting the outer label. There is no writing on it, and though I’ve got a few other videos in the closet, they’re mostly Disney movies and rom-coms from that era. They’re all stockpiled in their own container in the back corner, far away from this lonely VHS.