Shallow River

by H. D. Carlton

  “How do you feel?” he asks.

  I want to rage at him. Ask him the cliché questions. How could you? Why would you do something like this to me. I thought you loved me…

  But I don’t. I just stare at him, with eyes full of hurt and anger. I’m not even angry about my finger at the moment. No, I’m angry about the violation of my body. Like a coward, he drops his eyes to my body. To what he’s done to me while I was unconscious from his own hand. He promised he wouldn’t do something like this again.

  He promised.

  When his eyes lift to mine, they’re blank. He shrugs a shoulder and gives me a smirk. “You’re my girlfriend, River. I own you. I can fuck you whenever I want.”

  “Did you have to do it while I was knocked out? After you knocked me out?” I challenge.

  Another shrug. “Why not? Your pussy was available, and it turned me on seeing you so vulnerable to me. What’s the big deal?” he asks, his voice growing agitated. He acts as if I’m being unreasonable. As if asking why he would rape me is an absolute preposterous question.

  I suck my bottom lip into my teeth. I don’t want to piss him off more.

  “Would you have said no to me?” he asks, his voice changing to a softer tone. He sounds a little hurt, and it pulls at me. “I’ve always loved that you’re so open and willing to do anything that makes me happy. I didn’t think having sex with my girlfriend would be so hurtful to you.”

  I frown. Having sex with your partner isn’t hurtful, he’s right about that. But that doesn’t make it okay. It feels strange, knowing someone was inside me without me knowing it. Feeling it. Consenting to it. This isn’t the same thing as a boyfriend waking me up to the pleasure of sex—that I’d always be okay with. There was no waking up. No opportunity to say yes or no. A dark feeling coats the inside of my body.

  I feel used and dirty. I feel… foreign inside my own body.

  “I just… I just wish I could’ve experienced it with you,” I whisper finally. His face softens.

  “I’m sorry, baby. I wanted to try something new. I wouldn’t mind if you had sex with me if I was knocked out.”

  Tears prick at my eyes. I hate when we fight. I hate when he’s angry at me. Having sex with someone you’re in love with shouldn’t be a crime. I wouldn’t have said no to him if I was awake anyway. Guilt starts to blossom inside my chest. Why am I making him feel bad for something that would’ve been consensual regardless?

  “It’s okay,” I say softly. He walks over to me and sits on the bed next to me. Slowly, he swipes loose stands away from my forehead and behind my ear.

  “How does your head feel?”

  The tears dry quickly. He had pushed me. He hurt me. My finger is broken.

  “You hurt me.”

  He sighs. “I’m so sorry, River. My anger got the best of me again. I feel like complete shit. Please don’t make me feel worse than I already do.”

  I glance down and force myself to stare at my broken finger. Seeing the abnormal sights send a fresh hot wave of pain in my finger. The tears come back with a vengeance. God, it hurts. It hurts that he continues to break me over and over, inside and out.

  “You said you wouldn’t hurt me again,” I remind him weakly.

  “I know, baby, I know. And this time I’m serious when I say I won’t. I promise you. I know that I really need to work on my anger. What can I do to make you see that?” he probes, sincerity coating his voice like candy dipped in chocolate.

  I sniffle, snot starting to run down my lip.

  “What are you going to do when you get angry next time? How are you going to handle it?” I ask. I try to toughen up my voice, but I still feel… desolate. Like something inside of me is missing. The way he’s acting is relieving and a little soothing. But I’m just having a hard time feeling it right now.

  “I’ll walk away until I calm down. Then we can work through the problem together. We’re in this forever, baby. I don’t want to lose you because of my temper.”

  More tears well up in eyes until Ryan becomes a blurred image. I nod my head, accepting his apology.

  I know I should feel better. Now only if I could actually feel anything at all.

  “LUCKILY, YOUR FINGER SNAPPED cleanly. No fragments have been broken off. You’ll be healed up nicely in about four to six weeks,” the nurse says. She’s looks older than me only by a few years. Her pin straight brown hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and her brown eyes watch me closely as I assess my splinted finger.

  She’s blunt and to the point, which I appreciate.

  “How did this happen again?” she asks, eyeing my broken finger with enough pity to drown myself in.

  Appreciation gone.

  I technically don’t have to answer, but the excuse slips my from my mouth anyway.

  “I smashed it in the car door.” It’s the first thing that came to mind. And when her brows tighten, I realize it probably wasn’t the right excuse.

  “Huh,” she says, her voice suspicious. “Usually fingers don’t break when they’re crushed like that. And especially in the manner that your finger was broken.”

  “Are we done here?” I ask impatiently. She takes a step back, her lips tightening, seemingly sensing my growing agitation.

  “If you don’t feel saf—”

  “I feel fine,” I snap, cutting her off. I don’t want to go down this road. The last thing I need is a nosey ass nurse asking questions and trying to pry into my life. I’m glad I didn’t tell her about the head wound. Ryan said I hadn’t bled, and there’s a small knot forming on the back of my head. The knot isn’t forming inside of my head, though, so I’m not worried. More than likely, I have a slight concussion. I had already healed from the last concussion, courtesy of Billy.

  Ryan already promised he’d wake me every couple hours as punishment for causing the concussion.

  I wouldn’t have to come to this god forbidden hellhole in the first place if I was able to fix my finger myself. Unfortunately, it was too far bent for me to set it back into place. And considering neither of us have any medical experience, it’s likely we would’ve just made it worse.

  Billy did have medical experience. There’s no way he acquired his medical knowledge the old-fashioned way by attending college. I get the feeling that Billy dealt with many broken bones in his life, and instead of going to the hospital, he learned how to handle them himself. He had to have had someone teach him surely. His connections reach far and to people with many different occupations.

  Cops. Politicians. Business men. Doctors. Even celebrities.

  Luckily, I’ve only had minor broken bones. Fingers, toes, and my nose. Billy would set my bones back into place for me. I was never under the impression he did it because he cared, but because having an imperfect prostitute wouldn’t sell very well.

  The nurse gives me instructions on how to care for the finger. I hardly listen, too anxious to get the hell out of here. Ryan’s outside the door, waiting for me. He refused to let me go alone, just in case the nurse who helped me is a male. Said he doesn’t like it when another man touches me, even if it’s to fix a finger he broke.

  I just want to go home. I fucking hate hospitals, and I’m discovering a newfound hatred for this nurse too.

  “Can I go now?” I ask, cutting her off mid-sentence. She shoots me a derisive look, and huffs.

  “Yep,” she says shortly.

  I walk out without a thank you. Nurses deserve thank-yous, but she’s just going to have to get that from another patient tonight.

  Fourteen

  Mako

  I’M SEVERELY TEMPTED TO just kidnap the little wench.

  I really thought she had made a breakthrough when she called me that night. Worst fucking night of my life. Hearing her small voice through the receiver, helpless and in pain—I had nearly lost my mind.

  I think I did lose my mind.

  And then she disappeared on me. Ran right back into his fucking arms. So badly, I wanted to drive to his house and ta
ke her back. But I’ve seen this before. The push and pull. The mental manipulation. How he hurts them, and then woos them back into his arms.

  He’s a master manipulator. He convinces them that it’s their fault that he beat them. How he does it, I have no idea.

  I know I can’t even begin to understand the spell they’re put under. I had asked Alison over and over again how she keeps falling for the same old shit. There were so many times in the beginning where she raged at me, screaming at me that I will never understand what it’s like to be in that position. I just… didn’t get it.

  Finally, she tried to explain it to me. The fear that grips you when you think about turning him in. How many times he threatened to kill her, and then would nearly follow through. Not for one second did Ryan make it seem like an idle threat. And then the brainwashing. He would convince her that it’s her fault he treats her like that. As if she actually fucking deserved it. Gaslight her and make her feel crazy and dramatic. He would dehumanize her, strip away her identity and make her feel like no one else could love her except for him. That he’s doing her a service by loving her when no one else possibly could.

  I know he’s doing the same thing to River.

  Although I can’t personally understand it, I know it’s real. I know they’re in a serious situation and they feel incredibly helpless, even when they convince themselves they’re not. It took an incredible amount of strength for Alison to leave him. When she did, he had threatened her, then tried to woo her again, and eventually tried to attack her.

  I had been there and stopped it.

  Ryan had always hated me. I was the son that was never supposed to happen. He wanted to be the one and only and terrorized me our entire childhood together because of it. The Good Son looked like a Disney movie compared to Ryan. Countless times, he tried to hurt me. There were moments where I was positive he was going to go to the kitchen, grab a butcher knife and follow through with his darkest fantasy, but something always held him back. I could see it in his eyes, though. The desire to make me disappear for good.

  That night, when I had stopped Ryan from hurting Alison—that’s when his hatred truly festered. It bubbled into blisters and became permanent third degree burns over our relationship. I think if Ryan had the opportunity now, he would kill me.

  And to be perfectly fucking honest, I feel the same about him.

  After that, he had no choice but to let Alison slip away. I had witnessed his volatile reaction and intervened when he tried to attack her. He accused me of fucking Alison, and I let him believe it. There wasn’t any way to come back from that.

  Ryan would rather roll over and die than take back a girl he thinks I fucked. After that, she’s tainted. Ruined forever. Disgust twisted his features when he saw me protect her, and I knew him believing I had Alison too was the only way Ryan would truly let her go.

  But that’s not what I want for River. She’s been accused of being a whore since she could talk, so the last thing River would allow anyone to think is that she had to sleep her way out of a relationship. She’s too prideful, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t respect her for it.

  I left her alone for nearly two months because if I had seen her, I would’ve kidnapped her. And several times a week, I had to look Ryan in the face and not fucking murder him. My resistance is slowly fading, and I’m no longer scared of what I feel myself preparing to do.

  For now, I’ll respect River and keep my mouth shut about our odd relationship. But she has another thing coming if she thinks I’ll ever let her forget that we have one.

  “GHOST KILLER AT IT again,” I sigh, staring down at the dead body. Same fucking kill, just different bodies. It’s becoming tiresome. And I feel like it’s fucking personal. “And I can bet my life on the fact that there’s nothing new to see with this body.”

  Redd grimly shakes his head, his lips tightened with disappointment.

  “Same M.O. Plenty of DNA samples. I’ll test them, but I guarantee they will match sex workers and incarcerated criminals just like the last ten bodies.”

  I crouch down, getting a better look at the dead man. The word ‘Ghost’ is carved into his chest just like every other victim. The words are as neat as they possibly could be when carving words into a live, squirming human being. A little bullet hole decorates the middle of his forehead. Same gun as before.

  “Do we know who the vic is?” I ask Redd.

  “Nineteen-year-old Sage Blomberg. Heavily involved in the gang that runs his neighborhood,” he answers, snapping another photo.

  Being heavily involved in a gang translates to drug dealer. Kid more than likely has already been in jail for dealing and possession. Every single Ghost Killer victim has been in and out of jail for some type of drug charge. Not all of them are as young as Sage or Greg, but it’s disturbing to see that the majority are.

  These kids could easily be rival gang members. But my gut tells me they’re not. The word carved into their chest is too personal, too telling of whatever they did to piss off the Ghost Killer.

  And I can bet that the Ghost Killer’s motive is insubordination. The suspect is a gang leader or drug lord. Someone that these victims answered to. I bet that he runs a very tight ship, as most gang leaders do. And if kids are anything these days, they’re convinced they have life all figured out.

  The victims either lied, stole or betrayed the Ghost Killer in some way. Maybe some of them even challenged him, thinking they’re tough shit. Whatever the case, they acted against the wrong person and paid the price for it.

  “Let me know who the DNA links to the minute you find out. I’m going to pay them a visit, even if they’re in another fucking state,” I say to Redd.

  I turn away from the scene, Amar following behind me. Quiet as usual.

  “What are you thinking?” Amar asks after a minute of letting me stew in silence.

  “I’m going to find out what gang Sage belonged to, and then we’re staking out their hangout location. See who goes in and out.”

  Amar doesn’t argue. It’s a dangerous stake-out, hanging out in the streets where crime happens in broad daylight without a care in the world. But that’s the point I’ve reached myself. I don’t give a fuck if it’s dangerous, I just want to catch the killer.

  Whoever he is, he’s a cockroach. Crimes have ramped up eight percent since he started killing his Ghost’s a year ago. Overdoses increased by fourteen percent. Those are fucking massive numbers within a year’s time.

  And to leave the victims out in the public for us to find shows his arrogance. He never actually leaves the bodies in Shallow Hill, but in the neighboring town where I live. He’s number one in his world. Bet he feels fucking untouchable. As if he’s a god.

  I squeeze my fists until my knuckles turn white.

  I can’t wait to show this fucker just how human he really is.

  “Mako?” Amar barks, snapping me out of my violent musings. I look at him, stunned. Amar is staring back at me, his dark eyes filled with concern.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been calling your name for the past five minutes. We’re just sitting here,” he says, gesturing towards the windshield, indicating we’re still in a very parked car.

  I haven’t even put the keys in the ignition.

  “Sorry, man,” I mumble, jamming the keys in the ignition and starting the car.

  “Where’s your head at?” he questions, his eyes probing and too fucking observant.

  A harsh breath punches out of my mouth. “I’ve been chasing this fucker for a year now, and I’m not any closer to finding him,” I grit out.

  Saying it out loud makes me want to shove my fist through the steering wheel, rip out the air bag and wrap it around my own damn head. Fuck, this asshole gets me heated.

  I don’t care that the Ghost Killer’s victims are criminals. They’re young, impressionable kids that chose the wrong path to walk. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t have the chance to turn their lives around. That doesn’t mean
they couldn’t have been saved.

  The asshole is taunting me with them, I fucking know it. I feel it in my bones.

  “You’re taking it too personal,” Amar observes next to me. Instead of answering, I lurch the car forward, heading back to the precinct. I have to find out who exactly Sage was involved with.

  “You’re right, I am,” I admit.

  “Maybe you should remove yourself,” he suggests quietly.

  I grind my teeth together. Only Amar would feel secure enough to say shit like that to me. This case feels personal because it is personal.

  “We both know he killed your real father, Mako. I haven’t told anyone else that, but I’m starting to second-guess that decision.”

  I slam on the breaks a tad too hard when I stop at a red light, bringing the car to a sudden stop. The car behind me blares their horn, nearly rear-ending us from my dick move. If I were in a cop car right now, the car would’ve stayed silent. I’m not an asshole that needs to lord my badge over anyone so I ignore his anger.

  “Shit, sorry,” I mutter, ripping a hand through my hair again. I’m just so fucking tired.

  We fall into silence while I digest his veiled threat. It’s coming from a good place, I know that. But doesn’t mean I don’t want to fucking strangle him for saying it. I’m not supposed to be on this case with my involvement with the Ghost Killer’s victims.

  Matt and Julie adopted me when I was thirteen years old, after spending a year in the foster care system. For the first twelve years of my life, I grew up on the streets with a drug dealer for a father and a prostitute for a mother.

  Johnny Lancaster was heavily involved with a gang called the Crucibles. He was a shit father, but yet there was a small part of him that cared enough about me to keep the dealings away from me as much as he could. My mother didn’t pay me the same courtesy on the nights she worked, but I’d rather have a sloppy man looking for pussy in the room next to me rather than a gang member loaded with guns and high off crack.

  That is until I came home from school one night to find my father dead, in a pool of blood with ‘Ghost’ carved into his chest and a bullet hole in his head. This was before the Ghost Killer became the serial killer he is today. It was an M.O. no one had seen before and hadn’t seen until recently—just a year ago.