Skin and Bone: A Psychological Thriller

by T. L. Keary

  “Mr. Knox,” the sheriff speaks up, loud and commanding. “Your brother will be under twenty-four-hour protection. You cannot force him to not return to his home. He will be safe.”

  Davis turns back around, his jaw clenched tight, the breath coming in and out of his nostrils hard. His right hand is curled into a fist.

  I don’t like it either. But I know that Ezra coming to Davis’ house, seeing me there, isn’t going to help him at all.

  “Davis, sit down,” I say.

  He takes three beats. He wants to fight. To demand. To control.

  But still, he sits.

  And we go back to this insane story. The two men in the room ask questions, write things down. Our attorney listens, writing notes, interjecting here and there.

  It feels like a lifetime later when we’re done.

  For one whole minute, Davis and I just sit silently, looking at the detective.

  “So, what are you going to do about her?” Davis asks. There’s cold expectation in his voice.

  The detective and the sheriff look at each other, their own silent communication passing between them.

  “We need to get a warrant to search her house here in Snohomish,” the detective says. “Since this bunker you’re talking about is on your property, Mr. Knox, we can go check that out with your permission.”

  “You have it,” Davis snaps.

  The detective presses his lips tightly together and nods. I can tell he’s having a hard time having patience with Davis. “We can run a background check on Charity Cooper. We can put out a wanted notice for her, but that means you might want to lay low for a few days so we don’t get calls on you. But we can’t do much without evidence, which we’re running, based on the blood the officers collected from your house. But as of right now, she’s just wanted for questioning.”

  We both blink at them. Once. Twice.

  Wanted for questioning.

  I hear Davis take in a breath, he leans forward. But my hand snaps out, wrapping around his wrist before he can explode, because I know he’s going to.

  “And when you find her, when you see what she’s done,” I say. My words are tight, I force them out from between my teeth. “Then you can lock her up, for the rest of her life.”

  “Ms. James, if what you say is true, this woman has done terrible things and deserves to face justice,” the sheriff says, folding his arms on the desk and leaning toward me. “But there is a process to this. Statements have to be confirmed. Evidence must be collected. And first and foremost, we have to confirm that this woman even exists.”

  I want to throw up.

  I don’t know that they even believe me.

  They very well may think I’m crazy.

  I feel all the tendons in Davis’ wrist tighten. But I don’t look at him.

  “We will be out in the morning to check the statements you’ve given us. For now, we will take you home. One armed officer will be placed outside the home, and another will be inside.”

  “Thank you for your time,” the attorney says, standing and shaking everyone’s hands. He gabs on, slipping into lawyer mode. I don’t hear a word he says.

  My heart is thundering in my ears. There’s a bad taste in the back of my throat. Terrible, vicious thoughts are racing through my mind.

  But all I can do is cling hard to Davis’ wrist.

  And numbly, I stand and walk through the station. Davis speaks to the attorney. I numbly answer something that must make sense. And then we’re introduced to two other officers, the ones that will be guarding us. We walk outside to a cruiser.

  It’s dark now. I have no idea what hour it is, but it must be incredibly late.

  We’re halfway back to Davis’ house before the thought even clicks.

  “I can go stay at a hotel,” I say, looking out the window. “You…we… I don’t want you to feel like you have to take care of me, Davis. They’re going to find Charity and then—”

  “You’re not going anywhere, Sawyer,” he says, his tone firm, certain. “You’re coming home with me. For as long as it takes to get this taken care of.”

  Logic creates an argument in my mind. But I don’t let it transfer down to my lips.

  I just close my mouth and watch the town pass by in darkness.

  When we get to Davis’ house, one officer goes in first, his gun held at the ready. We wait in the car with the other officer for a full seven minutes before the first steps back onto the front porch and nods the okay.

  We climb out as the officer comes to the car, walking next to us the whole way up to the door. We leave the other in the car to keep watch.

  “Keep all the blinds shut,” the officer says. “Leave the lights out as much as you can.”

  We both nod in agreement. The officer lets us know he’ll be out there in the living area.

  Slowly, Davis and I head back toward the bedrooms. We pass Davis’ office, finding police tape over the entry. I stop at the door to the guest bedroom and Davis looks back when he gets to his bedroom.

  We look at each other for a long moment. And then without saying anything, we walk into our rooms.

  I stand there, just staring at the bed.

  I don’t know what to do now. It’s been the longest day ever. I’m exhausted. I know I need sleep.

  But my mind can’t stop. It’s like I’m stuck on fast-forward, watching the day play out, over and over at super speed.

  The door behind me pushes open and I realize I never closed it all the way.

  Davis stands there, his eyes dropping to the ground. “There’s police tape over the door to my bathroom. There’s fingerprint dust everywhere and blood still on the walls.”

  “It’s your house,” I say. My throat feels tight and my words come out hoarse. “Use mine.”

  He nods once but he doesn’t take a step toward it.

  Through the dim light, I see his eyes. Steady and confident and sure and determined.

  I see them shift. They fall down to my lips.

  Davis is always in control.

  But there in his eyes, I see it slip.

  It’s been the longest day, but with his presence, so real and so real here in the dark, everything in me is wide awake.

  I’m frozen in place. I’m holding my breath.

  Because I have to control myself.

  My instincts are telling me to do something I shouldn’t.

  But my insides are asking what’s stopping me?

  “Sawyer,” he says. There’s a slight tremor in his voice, and it sounds exactly the way I feel inside. “I know I shouldn’t be in here right now, but being more than five feet away from you is killing me right now.”

  The way he’s looking at my lips breaks that tiny shred of self-control I have.

  I grab the front of his shirt, pulling him into the room. With the other hand, I push the door closed, knowing the police officer is just across the house.

  Thank everything that is still right in this world, Davis doesn’t hesitate a second longer.

  One hand comes up to the side of my neck, pulling my lips to meet his own. His other hand wraps around my lower back, pulling my body in to his.

  Anticipation and suppressed thoughts make this kiss cosmic. My lips find relief at last as they mold to Davis’. Alertness and hot want slip from them, down my chest, wrapping around my organs. It runs down my thighs, slipping around my calves, filling me all the way to my toes.

  I grip the front of his shirt, pulling him tight to me, kissing him harder, faster.

  Davis’ breath grows frantic, a possessive sound slipping past his lips.

  He turns, pinning me against the wall. My hands slip down, gripping his belt, clinging to him like it’s my last lifeline.

  His teeth find my lower lip and I groan in approval.

  Greedy and wanted, his hand slides beneath the hem of my shirt, his palm caressing my side, waking my body with warm sparks of electricity.

  His tongue asks for permission and I let him into my mouth to mee
t my own. All the chemistry and sexual tension building between us has led to the best loss of control I could have ever anticipated.

  But something tugs at the back of my mind.

  Something in the pit of my stomach feels sick.

  Still, a moan slips from my mouth as Davis’ body connects with mine in all the right places.

  “This feels so wrong,” I breathe, hating every single word, because they’re absolutely untrue. This feels so right I feel giddy, I feel desperate, I feel godlike. But this guilt in my heart is eating me alive.

  “I hate myself right now,” Davis says, even as his lips move to my jaw, sliding down my neck.

  I don’t want him to stop.

  I relish in his hand wrapping around my back, his skin to mine. I need his thigh working its way between my legs, holding me harder and firmer against the wall.

  My hands can’t stay away from his chest, his shoulders.

  But in my mind, I keep seeing that look on Ezra’s face when he saw Davis take my hand at the table.

  I see the look of hatred when he looked back at Davis and I at the police station.

  I pull away and Davis leans back, bracing both his hands on the wall to either side of my head.

  “This is so messed up,” I breathe as my eyes return to his. Through the dark, they meet each other. And in him, I see everything I’m feeling inside reflected.

  “It’s all so twisted,” he says, his voice low, quiet. But I feel every syllable of intensity in his voice.

  I swear I can feel his pounding heart, filling every inch of this bedroom.

  I wonder if he can feel mine, pulsing against every bit of his body.

  I’m not even in control when I grip his shirt once more, pulling him toward me, giving him one gentle, heavy, tension filled kiss.

  “Can I stay tonight?” he asks as I lean back.

  And something in me knows what he means. He’s not asking for sex. He’s not expecting anything.

  Because I know he feels it as much as I do. This sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. That no matter how perfect and natural and right this feels between he and I, we cannot cross the line. We can’t do this to Ezra. Not when everything has gone and gotten so demented.

  I nod my head.

  He still kisses me one more time, before he backs away, holding my eyes. I know I’m blushing when he walks into the bathroom, the light off, and starts the shower.

  I take advantage of the opportunity while I can. I change into my pajamas, cotton shorts and a tank top. I slide into the bed and keep my back turned to the door so that I can control myself.

  A few minutes later, I hear the water shut off. Another minute or two goes by. And then the door opens.

  Davis pulls back the covers and climbs into the bed.

  He doesn’t hesitate when he spoons up behind me, wrapping one arm around my waist.

  He’s not wearing a shirt.

  I’d really like to see that view.

  But I can’t trust myself if I do.

  So, I relish the moment. I can already feel my heart breaking, because nothing has ever felt so electric and so natural.

  I’m pretty sure I could do this every night, for the rest of forever.

  But there’s that guilt in the back of my brain, telling me I’m a bad person.

  I push it away, burrowing back into Davis’ embrace.

  “Goodnight, Sawyer,” he says quietly.

  “Goodnight, Davis,” I say in return.

  Maybe it’s because this is the most interesting thing to happen since Faith Cooper allegedly tried to burn those cheerleaders alive, maybe it’s because Ezra is cooperating with them, maybe it’s just because I’m telling the truth. But the very next day, DNA tests are run and the police let me know that they’re now investigating this as an identity theft case.

  When they investigate Davis’ wrecked truck and get back their tests from the bathtub where she tried to drown me, it’s also an attempted homicide case.

  Three days after we both nearly died, our personal investigator turns over proof of eight different surgeries performed on Charity Cooper.

  They’re still looking for evidence of where Charity was living before she took over my identity.

  They’re requesting all of her mental health history, so they know what level of crazy they’re dealing with.

  But they get the warrant to search her house here in Snohomish.

  Davis and I wait in a police car outside the house while they go inside. Silently, we wait the thirty minutes while they search for any signs of threat or any evidence they can immediately use.

  Finally, an officer comes out and says I can come in.

  “We’ve taken fingerprints,” the detective says. “But still, don’t touch anything more than you have to. But we need you to identify what is yours.”

  I nod, and Davis and I both step out of the vehicle.

  It’s disturbing that everything about this apartment looks familiar when I walk in. I’ve never, ever stepped foot inside. But I know the kitchen is to the right, as is the dining room with the table and chairs Charity and Ezra put together. I know the living room is to the left. Straight back is the bedroom, on the right side is the spare bedroom and bathroom.

  There are half a dozen officers and detectives inside, all working. There is black fingerprint dust all over the place.

  I walk in, see it, and shove my hands into my pockets, determined that I’m not going to put my fingerprints on a thing in this place.

  “If you can identify your things, Ms. James,” the detective says.

  I nod. “That’s my couch, my TV stand and TV.” I say, looking around the living room. “My rug. Those are all pictures of me, not her,” I say of the pictures on the shelf and hung on the walls. “All that kitchen stuff is mine,” I say, nodding to everything sitting on the kitchen counter. “If the dishes are all glass or all blue and white, they’re mine.”

  The detective opens the cupboards to reveal the sets that are indeed the ones I bought two years ago.

  “The table isn’t mine,” I say, nodding to it. “I think she sold mine. She used it as an opportunity to get Ezra alone with her. She asked him to come over and help her put it together. You won’t find any of my finger prints on it, but there should be plenty of Ezra’s.”

  Davis makes a sound of disgust, shaking his head.

  I walk down the hall, to the bedroom. “That’s my bed and those are my nightstands,” I identify. In the closet, I identify about half of the clothes as mine. The detectives pull DNA samples from the different clothes I say are mine and the ones I say are hers.

  In the bathroom, half of the stuff is mine, half is hers. The detectives pull more DNA samples.

  They open the cupboard and start pulling things out. An extra box of toothpaste. A hairdryer. A bag of cotton balls.

  A box of tampons.

  “I don’t use that brand,” I say.

  The detective goes to set it on the ground, but the box tips over and the lid pops open.

  And out slides my cell phone.

  “That, however, is mine,” I say, automatically stepping forward to grab it.

  “Evidence, ma’am,” the detective says, holding a hand up to stop me. With his gloves, he grabs it and puts it in yet another evidence bag.

  “How long until I get my stuff back?” I ask, my jaw clenching tight, my hands curling into frustrated fists.

  “As of right now, all of it is evidence,” the detective says with compassion I don’t expect. “All of it can only help your case at the moment, Ms. James. But if we find your ID and your bank cards, we can give you those back.”

  “Oh, I can have my own name back?” I snap with too much snark. I’m not meaning to be so nasty, but being here, seeing all of my things, in a space I never had anything to do with, it’s made me all the more bitter about what’s happened.

  The detective ignores my annoyance, and goes back to searching the apartment.

  “We’ll get it all
back,” Davis says. He runs his hand over my back in soothing rubs. I feel myself naturally lean back into his touch and he wraps his arm around my waist.

  I’m not sure what we’re doing. We’re not sleeping together. But we’ve slept in the same bed since that night. We’ve kissed. We touch. We’re here to support each other.

  Every bit of us feels real.

  But this is all under fake, stolen circumstances.

  Neither of us has any delusions that this can last. That our lives will stay intersected past when this all gets sorted out.

  But if there is one bright spot in this mess that my life has become, I’m going to enjoy every second of it.

  A detective’s phone rings and she answers it. I identify my desk and computer and drafting equipment in the spare bedroom.

  They go through the files, and my stomach sinks when I realize there is work here, a lot of architectural work, that isn’t written in my hand.

  She didn’t just get the same degree. She was even doing my same job.

  The detective on the phone hangs up and walks in. “Your car was found in a pharmacy parking lot in Bothell this morning. They say surveillance footage shows a woman who looks just like you parking it there Tuesday morning. She went inside for about twenty minutes. When she came out, she didn’t return to the car. But your ID and cards were left inside the vehicle. Along with a lot of blood.”

  “Great,” I say, and it comes out as both genuine and sarcastic, because I’m feeling both.

  “We’ll go to retrieve the vehicle in an hour,” she says. “You can have your cards and ID back then. Though we ask you don’t cancel them yet, they could help us track Charity’s activities.”

  I nod in appreciation. With a look around, we determine I’ve gone through everything.

  “Can you drive us to my brother’s?” Davis asks as we walk back out to the police car with the officer assigned to protect us today.

  “Sure,” he says.

  Ezra hasn’t answered any of Davis’ calls in the last three days. We’re getting safety reports from the officer babysitting him. He’s just been working and then going home. He’s not making phone calls beyond work stuff. He’s not trying to leave town.