by Amy Crandall
“Mom, what the hell are you talking about?” Her hands shook. Panic scalded the back of her head. Where had her mother come up with such an accusation? Then a horrible thought struck her. The clothes. Had she found the bloodied clothes and assumed she’d hurt Mike? Killed him?
“I’m talking about the letter I found at the doorway today, Abigale! Someone sent me a fucking picture of you standing over Mike’s body!”
Her mouth went dry. “I didn’t—I couldn’t—I never—”
Abigale’s mother slammed a fist on the steering wheel again. “Don’t lie to me!” she yelled. “You know what you did!”
At her mother’s accusatory tone, her eyes blurred with tears. “Mom, please listen to me. I didn’t do anything! I was home that night!”
“Liar!” her mother screamed. “You’re a liar! You killed him! You killed someone, Abigale! What the hell were you thinking?”
An image flashed across her vision, startling her. It was of her standing over a mangled body. A sadistic grin could be seen in the reflection of the blade she held over the lump on the ground. Abigale screamed and threw open the passenger door.
“Abigale Fern!” her mother yelled from inside of the Jeep. “You stupid girl! Get back here!”
Abigale ran as fast as she could in the direction of Damien’s house. She wasn’t sure why she’d run that way; it was probably because it was the only way she could go. Flashes from that night bombarded her. Of her terrifying expression as she stood over the bodies of Mike and Jules. Were they just visions her mind had conjured up to scare her? Or were they true?
Her mother was still yelling when she jerked the handle to the front door open and raced inside. She bolted the door behind her and slipped to the floor, sobbing.
“Abigale?” Damien’s confused voice called from ten feet away. Footsteps approached her shaking body. “Oh, sweetheart, what happened?”
When she opened her mouth to speak, all that came out was a strangled cry of pain, horror, and anguish.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
It took about an hour of coaxing before Damien could get Abigale on her feet and into a chair in the dining room. It was another half hour before she uttered a word to him.
She couldn’t focus on anything. Her mind was plagued with images; horrifying images she couldn’t comprehend. Every once in a while, a strangled cry would escape her lips, but other than that, she was a silent mess. Damien held her the entire time, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. He whispered words of encouragement that fell on deaf ears.
“Would you like something to drink?” Damien asked.
Her voice was hoarse when she spoke. “Water, please.”
He placed a kiss on the spot of her hand he’d been rubbing and stood. “I’ll be right back.”
She managed a small nod as he disappeared into the next room. She dug her fingernails into her palms. She squeezed so hard she figured she drew blood. It was the only way she could keep herself from becoming lost in the hallucinations.
Damien returned to the table a moment later and set a glass of water down in front of her. He focused on her white knuckles when he took a seat. “Would you like to tell me what happened?”
Abigale shook her head vehemently.
“Abigale,” he pleaded, “please tell me what’s going on. I can help.”
She glanced at him warily, an image of a bloody knife in her hand flicking through her mind. “You can’t help.”
His dark eyebrows furrowed in concern. “What do you mean?”
Abigale’s gaze dropped to the clear liquid sitting in the glass in front of her. As if a switch had been flipped, the water turned pink, just like it had been the morning she awoke covered in blood. Startled, she stood, banging her thigh against the table. The chair made an unpleasant screeching noise when she jumped back from the sudden pain. Her breathing was short and wheezy, like she’d just run a lap around the high school’s large gym.
“Abigale,” Damien said, “what is it?”
Shaking her head again, Abigale swallowed hard. “I—this was a mistake. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.”
As she turned away, he gripped her arm. “No!” he said, sounding panicked. “Please don’t go. Tell me what’s going on, sweetheart.”
Her body went rigid at the pet name. “Don’t call me that.”
“Sorry,” he said, pulling her back to face him. “I just—” Damien pushed her flush against him, their lips so close that Abigale momentarily forgot about the torturous hallucinations. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”
Gulping, Abigale stepped away. “No.”
He took a step closer. “Yes.”
She stepped back again. “No.”
The dance continued until Abigale’s back was pressed against the wall, and Damien was just as close as he’d been before. His hands rested on her hips, like he was making sure she didn’t try to get away. “You’re not leaving until I know what’s going on,” he muttered, pressing his forehead against hers.
Abigale sucked in a sharp breath. The close proximity was making her palms sweat, and the constant images dissipated for a moment. Her roaring thoughts transformed to a dull thud in the back of her head. “I can leave when I want to,” she managed to get out.
Pushing his body flush against hers, he lifted her chin with his finger. She was forced to peer into his dangerous eyes, the ones that seemed to unearth her every secret after a single glance. Goosebumps appeared on her bare arms, and she suddenly wished she was wearing a lot more than her strapless dress. “Tell me,” Damien said, his tone an octave higher than a whisper, “what is going on.”
Her lower lip quivered when he leaned in even closer than before. “As long as you let me sit down again.”
He took a step back from her, his hands leaving her hips. “Okay.”
Running shaky fingers through her hair, Abigale sat back down at the table. Her mouth was suddenly dry, and she took a sip of the water while Damien sat across from her.
She placed the glass back on the table.
“Well?” he urged.
Abigale looked down at the granite table. As the images started bombarding her mind again, she wished she was still pinned to the wall. At least she’d been able to forget about the current matter for a few moments. “I just had an argument with Mom. It’s nothing.”
Liar.
“It wasn’t nothing, Abigale. You broke into my uncle’s house completely delirious.”
When she glanced up, Damien was looking at her with an intense stare. She had a hard time tearing her eyes away when she spoke.
“Mom thought I did something horrible,” Abigale admitted.
Damien interlaced his fingers and peered at her more closely. “What did she think you did?”
Pursing her lips together, Abigale said, “I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Abigale paused, “I just can’t.”
He nodded, his gaze hardening. “Well, did you do it?”
Abigale drank another mouthful of water. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t think you would’ve been that upset if you didn’t know.”
“I guess not,” Abigale said. Blurry spots danced the tango across her vision, and a wave of nausea made her place her hands flat on the table to keep herself grounded. “Whoa.”
“What is it, dearest Abigale?”
She froze. “What did you j-just s-say?” Her tongue felt too large for her mouth, and a tingling sensation spread over her.
“Don’t worry, the feeling will pass,” Damien said, sounding more distant than before. “Just try to relax.”
Her blurred gaze drifted to the empty glass on the table. “You d-drugged m-me.”
“Shh, sweetheart. Save your strength.” He reached for her, but she jerked away.
“S-Stay away from me!” Abigale tried to stand, but her legs gave out from under her and she crumpled to the floor. Her head felt ten pounds heavier than u
sual. She scrambled up onto her hands and knees, so dizzy she couldn’t even crawl in a straight path.
“Oh, dearest Abigale. Where do you think you’re going?” Damien’s distant, mocking tone crooned.
Abigale’s eyes threatened to slide shut as she neared the front door. She tried to reply to his taunt, but her lips wouldn’t form the words.
When she got to the front door, Abigale reached up to the door handle, which seemed so much further away from the level she was at, but her fingers slipped off the metal. She desperately reached for the door again, but her hand was gruffly shoved away by someone behind her. Two seconds later, a sharp click bounced around her skull. It was Damien, locking the door.
“Shh,” he whispered. “Just close your eyes. It will be much easier that way.”
She tried to scream, but her body was too weak to respond to her. Her head hit the carpet, lolling to the side like a ragdoll.
Just before her vision went black, Abigale felt something soft, yet familiar, brush along her mouth in a soft caress.
THE INTERROGATION
PART EIGHT
June 26, 2015, 8:09 A.M.
Case No. 20150625-04
“I would like to discuss your affiliation with Mr. Damien Thackston,” Agent Ross said from across the room. His expression was guarded, as it should have been. “Will you let me take a seat?”
Abigale’s eyes drifted down the agent’s tall frame, her countenance cold. He’d come in just moments before. Her hand twitched as she thought of how badly she wanted to rake her fingernails down his face. “Don’t say that name.”
“Abigale, Damien is—”
“Don’t you ever say that name in front of me again!” Abigale yelled. Her back throbbed in the spot that was still healing from the brutal attack. She could feel the knife digging into her flesh. Her knuckles whitened as she tried to grip onto the tiny piece of reality she had left.
“I understand the matter is a touchy subject for you, but I have a few questions,” he said, taking a seat. “Detective Collins asked the same ones in the hospital, but you were too distraught to make any sense. I need some answers if you want to find justice for your family and friends.”
A wave of anger washed over her. “I don’t want justice anymore,” Abigale hissed. “What I want is to go home!”
Agent Ross folded his hands on the table. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, Abigale.”
She sat forward in her chair. “And why is that, Agent?”
“Because,” he said, flashing a cold smile, “you are a suspect in the murders of two people. I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere for a while.”
Abigale rolled her eyes. “Like I’ve told you for the millionth time, I haven’t killed anyone!”
“Something tells me that you don’t even believe that,”
Her teeth clenched. His—Abigale had vowed never to use his name again after the horrific night that ruined her life—words came back to her. She still felt his hot breath blow past her ear as he whispered things she’d never forget.
I gave you everything, Abigale. I covered up Michael’s murder for you. I slipped that note for your mother under your door so that she knew the real you…
“I didn’t kill anyone,” she whispered. “You bastard! Do you hear me? I didn’t kill anyone!”
She was losing control. Unless she calmed herself down, she’d soon snap completely, and then the agent would have more than enough evidence to charge her with the murders.
Pull it together, Abigale.
Agent Ross’ smug expression didn’t help her temper. His callused fingers tapped the table in a steady rhythm. He looked to be lost in thought, his eyes staring right through her. Abigale shifted in her seat, and the agent zoomed in on her unease.
“Fascinating,” he muttered.
“What?”
Agent Ross leaned forward in his chair. His fingers stopped dancing across the table. “Fascinating,” he repeated. “You’re so insistent that you didn’t kill anyone, yet your constant fidgeting says otherwise.”
“And what does my constant fidgeting have to do with anything, Agent?” She attempted to sound cool and collected, but part of her feared that she had given herself away somehow.
A smile lit up the agent’s pale face. “Fidgeting suggests guilt. What do you think you’re guilty of, Abigale Katherine Fern?”
Her full name rolled off of his tongue like acid, but she continued to maintain a stony expression. “Nothing,” she said. “I’m not guilty of anything but defending myself.”
“Defending yourself by killing Michael for attempting to rape you? Defending yourself against the knowledge that your counterpart gave to Julia?”
“What?” Abigale pushed herself away from the uncomfortable back of the chair. “What do you mean by my counterpart?”
Ignoring her question, the agent asked another that completely caught her off guard. “How well did you know your father, Abigale?”
Abigale thought she knew the man who raised her, but after his peculiar behavior the last time she saw him—the last time he was ever seen alive—she wasn’t so sure.
“He was my father,” she said, flashing the agent an annoyed look. “What kind of question is—”
“Did you know that he had a mental disability?”
A mental disability?
“No.”
The agent stood up from the chair. “Did you ever notice any weird mood swings when you were around him? For instance, did he act like a completely different person from time to time?”
Abigale swallowed hard. Images flashed through her mind; of her father beating her mother senseless the one minute, and the next, he’d act like the loving husband that her mother married. She, of course, didn’t want to admit something like that to the agent. “No,” she said. “He acted like a completely regular person. He was a good father.”
“Funny,” Agent Ross mused. “That’s not what I’ve gathered. Thank goodness someone else admitted to the crime, or you’d be suspected of murdering more than just Michael and Julia.” He paused. “Unless you got him to take the blame for you. After all, it would be really easy to pin a murder on a dead person, right, Abigale?”
She clenched her teeth, unable to process his words. “Where’s my lawyer? I asked for one two hours ago.”
Agent Ross smirked. “He’s outside being prepped about your case. Though, I don’t think you’ll be needing him, Abigale. You’re about to break.”
Her fingers bit into the palms of her hands as she squeezed them hard. “I’m not breaking,” she whispered under her breath.
“What’s that?”
Her gaze snapped up to meet that of Agent Ross. “Get out. I’m not speaking to you without my lawyer.”
Agent Ross nodded. “Suit yourself.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
Something was cutting off the circulation to her wrists when she awoke in the pitch black, creating an unpleasant numbness in her arms. Her ankles were lashed to the two front legs of the chair, creating a draft between her legs. Her dress was pushed up to her upper thighs, torn from when she crawled in a desperate attempt to flee.
“Hello?” a hoarse voice called out into the darkness. It took a moment for her to realize that it was her own. How long had she been out? Hours? Days? There was no way of telling. Well, besides the fact that, even though she had to relieve herself immediately, she hadn’t soiled herself.
Her tongue, dry as sandpaper, darted out to lick her equally dry lips. “Is anyone there?”
When she got no answer, a numbing fear settled in the back of her mind. What was going on? Why was she tied to a chair? She wanted so desperately to push her thighs together but couldn’t with the restraints digging into her ankles.
How had she gotten to this room? Her mind flashed to her last few conscious moments, of Damien’s dark, dangerous eyes peering down at her, a glint of glee in his pupils. Of his lips, giving her one last soft kiss before the drugs pulled h
er under. He had done this to her. He was the reason she was alone in this room tied to a chair in a torn dress.
“Damien!” she screamed. “Let me out of here now!” No reply came, and her patience was wearing thin. “Show yourself, you coward!”
The room was eerily quiet. The only thing Abigale could hear was her own breathing. There was no source of light in the room; no way for her to tell if anyone was with her. Then a floorboard behind her creaked.
A scream caught in her throat, and she forced herself to swallow it back down. “Please,” Abigale begged. “Damien, let me go.”
Another floorboard squealed. Abigale shut her eyes tightly to stop the flow of tears. Even though she couldn’t feel her hands, she squeezed them into fists as best as she could. It helped keep her focused.
Her pulse accelerated when someone’s breath chilled the back of her neck. She detected something—possibly someone’s fingers—lightly press against her back. Her breath hitched as the hand traveled around her neck, stopping at the base of her throat. It slipped down lower, stopping right over her heart, as if they were figuring out exactly how fast it was beating.
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this, Abigale,” someone murmured in the darkness. The hand slithered even lower, and a sob escaped her mouth.
“Please,” she croaked. “Let me go.”
The hand froze. The breaths hitting the back of her neck were harsher than before. “Why would I do that?” the voice asked with an edge to their otherwise careful tone.
“Be-Because,” Abigale stammered. She was so lightheaded it was hard to form a sentence. “I would like for y-you to let me go.”
The hand drifted up, settling on her neck again. Fingers squeezed her air pipe, constricting her ability to breathe. Alarmed, Abigale struggled against the bonds holding her wrists to the chair. Normally the pain in her wrists would have been enough to make her cry out, but while her throat burned with a fire that could only be quenched by cool oxygen, it wasn’t an immediate priority.