by Tess Oliver
"Yes, that is less due to my mood and more to excessive amounts of junk food. I sort of went a little nuts once food started looking delicious again. But I've started running, and I'm cutting myself off at one cupcake and one lunch sized bag of chips a day." The startling charge of adrenaline that was brought on by his unexpected visit is dwindling. The weariness of the day is catching up to me. The wine is only adding to it.
I turn and sit sideways to rest my head against the couch. "As to the first part of your suggestion that I don't look happy—It's been hard. Really hard."
"I tried to give you a dose of the antidote before they swarmed the complex. It would have made withdrawal easier. You refused."
"I thought you'd killed Maddox. I no longer trusted you." I pop my head off the couch with a startling revelation. "Why the heck didn't you tell me he was alive? I was in despair about it but you let me suffer."
He pulls his eyes from my face and stares out at the beach. There is little to see except darkness. He seems to be looking for a reason. He turns back to me. "Just as you discovered some hidden character traits while under the influence of nectar, I kept a lot tamped down too. I'm not sure if it was pride or hurt, a mix of both, I guess. But to see you agonize over losing Maddox made me understand just how deeply you loved him. I took some pleasure in seeing you suffer because I felt betrayed. And, so you see, there is plenty about me that fits the monster persona the police have made me out to be."
I don't argue as I try to work up the courage to tell him I know about his past. It's harder than I realize. I reach for another sip of wine, but this time it goes down rough. I swallow hard to fortify myself.
"Turner Vossnik," I say quietly.
I stupidly expect him to stand up quickly or show alarm in his face, but I forget Kane doesn't show shock. Anger, lust, even hate but shock, no.
His shoulders broaden with a deep breath. "I wondered how long that would take. Guess they really are spending time and money hoping to catch the elusive Kane Freestone."
19
Kane
Angie looks into my eyes, seemingly waiting for more reaction than I am willing to give. That part of me is so dead, so destroyed, I never react to it. It's a heavy weight I am shackled with for the rest of my life.
She reaches for another sip of wine. It seems the topic has her more on edge than me. "A friend of mine is working on cyber research into your business and past," she says between drinks. "He sent me some clues to let me find out on my own. His theory is that I needed to better understand you to come to grips with everything that happened."
"Nothing to understand really."
I get up from the couch. It's stuffy enough in the tiny house that I crack open the glass door to allow in the ocean scented breeze. I breathe in the briny fragrance for a few seconds and then turn back to her. She's stronger, healthier, clear eyed. She's that radiant, smart red head who gazed at me through the mirror. I walk back to the couch but decide not to sit down.
"I grew up in a house of horrors. Only no one knew it. The neighbors would walk past and wave hello to my dad as he smoked his cigarette on the front porch. I'd be at the table doing my homework listening to him making small talk with everyone as if he was an actual human. And during those times, when he was chatting amicably with friends and neighbors or walking through the grocery store asking me what I'd like for dinner, I almost believed he was human too."
I stop and find myself speechless as I look into her brown eyes. As a teenager I wanted badly for someone to listen with interest and empathy the way she's listening now, but it was always just clinically trained experts mostly wanting to pry grisly, provocative details out of me. They were more interested in the insane psyche of my serial killer dad than in making sure I came out of my nightmare a functioning adult. Or at least that was how it felt.
"I can't even try and imagine what it must have been like for you." Angie reaches up and takes hold of my hand. Her touch warms my entire arm. It's too much for me to bear knowing I'll never have her again. I gently pull my hand away.
She seems to understand why I withdraw it. "Those eight scars," she says. "You carved them into your arm. Tally marks. Eight women. Eight marks."
I pull a chair from the kitchen table and position it across from the couch. Sitting close to her is hard enough, especially when I'm talking about that dead part of me. "On the nights when he—" I shake my head and restart. "There was this tiny room at the back of the house that we used to store old stuff. He'd tell me I had to stay in the room until he came to get me. I was seven when he brought his first victim home. I can remember being scared and nervous because he wasn't himself for about a week before. If I'd been an average seven-year-old, I probably wouldn't have noticed the subtle differences. Skipping his morning newspaper. Not answering the phone when it rang. Agitated by every sound. But I wasn't an average seven-year-old. The school I attended was already trying to create an advanced curriculum to keep me from going out of my mind with boredom. That first time, I sat obediently in the room, covering my ears and closing my eyes to block out the unexplained sounds."
There are tears in Angie's eyes. She wipes them away. "Sorry. It's just so hard to think about a little boy sitting in a room while his dad slashes a woman to death."
"I sat there for hours. Peed my pants and everything. I remember being worried that I'd be in trouble for wetting myself. I finally dozed off sitting against a stack of old boxes. When sun poked through the window and woke me, I figured my dad forgot to come get me. I opened the door and peered out into the dimly lit house. The house was empty but I could hear noises in the backyard by the garage. I walked to the window. I had to stand on a box to see outside. My dad was holding something wrapped in the heavy plastic he'd used to paint the house the year before. I wasn't an average seven-year-old. I knew he was holding the woman. I knew I was watching my dad put a dead body in the trunk of his car. He drove away leaving me alone in the house for several hours."
Angie draws her knees up and curls her arms around them. It triggers a heart thumping memory for me, walking into her room and seeing her sitting anxiously waiting for me to come. Those days were gone forever but I planned to relive them for the rest of my life. Sometimes, replacing horrific, bone-chilling memories with ones that left you breathless and delirious with happiness was the only way to survive. Especially if the bad ones were pounded like metal stakes into your soul.
"Did you carve the first scar that night?" she asks, resting her chin on her knees. It's the middle of the night. Her lashes grow heavy with drowsiness.
"You're tired, Sweet Sin. I'll go and let you sleep."
She sits up straighter and drops her arms. "No, please. Nothing I read online is going to give me a true picture of what you endured. I need to hear the story from you. Unless it's too much," she adds.
"Nothing is too much if it means spending a little more time with you." I stand up and pace the small room. "I was young. I brushed off the incident and even managed to convince myself the woman had done something terrible and that dad had to kill her to save us. He was my only family. His parents were both dead and my mom died when I was four. I had no one but my dad. And kids my age were so behind me intellectually that I couldn't stand them. And they absolutely couldn't stand me." I hold out my arm and stare down at the eight scars. "I didn't start cutting my arm until victim number two. She had short, dark hair and she kept calling me sugar. I think he picked her up at a local bar, a prostitute just looking to make a little cash. When dad sent me to the back room, I knew it was happening again. It all followed the same pattern. He acted strange and told me not to leave the room until he came to get me. At dawn he packed the plastic draped body into the trunk of his car. When I heard our car roll out of the driveway, I walked into the kitchen and pulled out a butter knife. I carved one for the first woman, and a second one for the woman who was being dropped into the river as I stood in the kitchen."
"Surely your dad noticed that you were carving gash
es in your skin. Or your teachers?"
"I hid it from teachers but I made sure he saw. I hoped it would let him know that I knew. He ignored it. It was as if during those normal times, when he was chatting with the neighbors or fixing macaroni and cheese on the stove, he didn't know he was a serial killer. He kept such a straight face about it all, I almost had a hard time believing it myself. But after number eight, when I was running out of room on my arm. I decided to follow him. It was just three days before my tenth birthday. It was cold and foggy that morning as I pedaled my bike along the road, following the glow of his tail lights. I saw him stop on the bridge, look around like a true monstrous serial killer and heave the body into the river. I knew then my life was going to change forever. I was going to lose my only family. The police didn't seem to be making much headway, so I moved things along with a letter. They took him away. I was stripped of my identity and given a whole new existence."
Angie is clutching a plaid throw blanket in front of her. She's holding back a torrent of tears.
A breath catches in my throat as she tosses the blanket aside and walks over to me. She presses herself against me. Every cell in my body reacts but I tamp down the rush of heat she's sent through me. I lightly wrap my arms around her. It's all I allow myself, a brief hug.
It feels as if someone has ripped her from my arms but she merely steps back. "It seems as if life failed you at every turn back then," she says. "The parties for the homeless women, that was your way of erasing some of the pain?"
"Yes, but as you no doubt discovered, there was just enough wrong in what I was doing in Lace Underground to tip the scales toward wicked."
"The women I met on the streets likened getting into your world as winning the golden ticket."
"Compared to what life had to offer them in the real world, it's easy to see why."
She shivers from the chill in the room. How often I felt her tremble in my arms but for entirely different reasons than the cold.
"I'll close that glass door." My voice is heavier, strained with the memories of having her naked in my arms. I walk to the door and stand there for a few seconds, allowing the cool night air in, using it like a cold shower. But it's hardly enough. An ice bath wouldn't do enough to chill my endless desire for her.
Angie returns to the couch and to her blanket. She pulls it around her shoulders. I sit on the opposite end. The story of my childhood is behind us. It's something that I can talk about in short spurts. Then I have to tuck it back into the dead spot where it will lay dormant until something brings it out again.
"How long will you be here? Are you going back to your job soon?" I ask.
"Like I said, I'm at the mercy of the experts. And yes, I'm being totally sarcastic by using that term. I have to get through this grueling debriefing, then some therapy to see if I'm stable enough to get back to work."
"I'm sorry, Angie." It's time to drop the nickname, I decide suddenly. It only adds to the ache in my chest knowing she'll never be my Sweet Sin again. "Tell them I held you prisoner. Tell them I drugged you mercilessly and forced myself upon you."
"Except none of that is true. Well maybe the drug part. I don't really give a shit what they think of me, but I have to deal with that reality internally. I knew the drug was addictive and had narcotic qualities the first time I drank it in the champagne. I spent the last three years of my career fighting the drug crisis, but I fell instantly for the nectar's charms. And yours. Although charm might be too fairy tale of a word for it. Dark charms. That's a better way to describe it."
She yawns and curls tighter into her blanket. "Can you ever forgive me for what happened?" Her eyes drift shut.
"Already have, my sweet angel," I say quietly. I tuck the blanket tightly around her. Her nose twitches but she's already sound asleep.
I stare at her for a few more minutes, taking in the sight of her, even though my photographic memory is already filled with permanent images. If I'd been born into a real family and a normal childhood, things would be different. I might even have found a happily ever after with the woman who captured a soul I was sure I'd lost back in that ugly, cramped storage room.
20
Angie
I'm shaken awake but it takes me a second to clear away the wooziness.
"Ten, hey, it's me. I've been texting all morning." Maddox is standing over the couch looking more angry than worried.
I push away my blanket cocoon and crack my neck. "I must have fallen asleep out here. What time is it?"
"Nine. I've been texting you like a fucking madman. I was worried something happened to you." His voice is agitated and I can't figure out what the hell I've done.
"Shit, lose the attitude. I left my phone in the bedroom so I didn't hear the text. I'm sure you've done the same."
The tender ache in my head floats the night gently back to me. But the sight of a wine bottle and two glasses jars me wide awake. "Fuck." I mutter as I drop back and curl myself into my blanket.
"Yeah fuck." Maddox rakes his hair back. His shoulders are stretched as tight as I've ever seen as he walks to the glass door. He stares out at the beach.
"It was Silvana," I say quickly. "He came by to—'
He puts up his hand to stop me without looking back.
"Silvana had a date with Sheila last night."
"Crap," I mutter.
He swings around and lumbers back in long, angry strides. "Besides, Silvana is more of a generic beer type of guy." He picks up the wine bottle and spins it to look at the label. "Looks like the good stuff." He places the bottle down hard enough to shake the two juice glasses. "I'm trying to think of just how many people you know who might be rich enough to polish off really expensive wine just for kicks on a Monday night. And only one comes to mind. Where is he? So help me if you're hiding him, Ten—"
I toss away the blanket and stand up to face him. Unfortunately, eye to eye is not possible because he's a head taller, but I stretch up really tall to give it my best shot. "And what if I am? Just what the hell are you going to do about it? Arrest me?"
"Maybe that's just what you fucking need."
"Well, you can cool your jets, big shot. He's not here."
"Why would you even let him in? Unless maybe you—"
I shove him hard in the chest and am aggravated at how little he budges. "Unless maybe what? That I'm still fucking him? Is that what your fragile male ego is wondering?"
"Well, there's wine on the table. Which you're not supposed to be drinking, by the way."
"Fuck you. Who are you, my babysitter? And if we're going to get all goody-two-shoes and follow the orders of our bosses, then you're not supposed to be here. Besides, I didn't let him in. That glass door isn't exactly a grand security system. He walked right inside."
I slip past him to get aspirin from the kitchen. He moves so quietly I don't hear him until I feel the heat of him behind me. He moves close enough to sandwich me between his rigid body and the refrigerator. I rest against the cold steel door and peer up at him. If even one tear falls, I will never forgive myself.
I flinch when his arms come up and slap the refrigerator on each side of my head. His eyes are dark green with rage. "Did he touch you?" he asks quietly, but it's not a good, calming quiet.
"The police are looking for this guy, who is supposedly some twisted genius. A theory you've bought into as well. Shouldn't your question be did he hurt you? Or are you only interested in knowing if he touched something that you've decided belongs to you?"
Maddox pushes away from the refrigerator and stomps out of the kitchen. "Maybe I'm just fighting a losing battle here." He walks out the glass door and onto the sand. I follow him. The early summer haze is just clearing, leaving behind a sticky heat. I stand next to him and watch a small white sailboat ride the wave crests out of the cove.
"The battle for supreme maleness is only in your head," I say, both of us still watching the boat. "And no, he didn't touch me. Unless you count one hug that I started because I'd just fin
ished hearing about his horrific childhood."
"Yeah, there's a lot of crummy childhood stories behind twisted people. Why should his be any different?"
"Oh, but it is. It's extremely different. Silvana hasn't told you, has he?"
"It seems Clark told Silvana to stay clear of me too. Apparently, I've got some sort of plague." Maddox sits on the railroad ties that border his uncle's little yard. I sit next to him.
"Kane's real name is Turner Vossnik. Does the last name ring any bells?"
He shakes his head. Just like Kane, Maddox and I were both little kids when the murders took place. But unlike Kane, who grew up in what he called a house of horrors, Maddox and I were miles away living a regular life, playing with toys and siblings and totally oblivious to the notion of death or murder.
"Turner's father was the River Bend Slasher."
He turns to me with a questioning squint, apparently trying to decide if I'm joking.
"He was only seven when his father murdered his first victim. Those scars on Kane's arm? Kane carved one into his flesh with a butter knife each time his dad killed someone. Kane was ten when his dad killed number eight. He wrote a letter to the police to help them solve a case that had them baffled for three years. He had no other family."
"Jesus." Maddox plucks a smooth stone from the sand and throws it. "Still doesn't make me feel better that he dropped in on you. And instead of being on defense, you fucking sat down to a bottle of wine with the guy." He gets up and blocks out the sun with his big build as he stares down at me. "He's wanted. You could lose your badge, Ten."