Sweet Cherry Pie

by J. D. Monroe

  “And the police didn’t stop her,” Charity says. “The police didn’t come for almost twenty minutes after I shot her. I woke up to a noise and found my daddy dying in the kitchen. Ma—Harmony was already headed down the hall for my sister. I took my father’s rifle off the wall and I shot her in the head. I meant to kill her, and I missed by an inch. It was a damn shame.”

  And now this pretentious asshole has put it all out there, just another chapter in the textbook. He’s reduced her nightmare to bullet points and test fodder, ensuring that Andy Pierson will forever be the victim, living in the hulking shadow of Harmony’s crime. Which, as it turns out, may not be at all what it seemed.

  She flings the remains of the grass off her legs, then stands up. “Maybe this evil came from her, and maybe it was already there, but that knife has bad history either way. It’s happening again, and that’s all that concerns you.”

  “I— We— I don’t—” Georgia scrubs at her face with one hand, then looks up. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Then don’t say anything,” Charity says. “For once.”

  They sit in silence, and Charity stares up at the cloudless blue sky. Her mother is the ultimate curse, the shadow that will follow her forever. There’s no ritual to purify, no holy water clean enough to wipe it away. The one thing she’s always held on to is the fact that she could blame Harmony completely. And now, the universe is doing its best to snatch that from her, too.

  Georgia inhales sharply. “So do you think they used her knife to kill Tommy Crane?”

  “I think it’s way too coincidental otherwise,” Charity says. “Some guy gets his rocks off on homicidal maniacs, decides to follow in their footsteps. Copy cats are a thing even without the supernatural element.”

  Or maybe he doesn’t decide at all. Maybe that shadow grabs hold of him by the short and curlies, just like Harmony claims it did her. Maybe he doesn’t have a choice at all. Maybe Patience was right all those times she insisted that Harmony wasn’t herself, that she wasn’t in control of what happened. And maybe Charity fully intended to kill her mother for something the woman couldn’t stop herself from doing.

  No. It’s unacceptable.

  “Do you know where your mother got the knife?”

  “Not a clue,” Charity says.

  Georgia hesitates. “Do you think you could…”

  Charity sighs and looks up at the sky. She wishes she could smoke cigarettes without coughing like an asthmatic. She’d give anything to light her troubles aflame and blow them out to disappear in the wind. “I guess I can try.”

  19. DOUBLE DATE

  SHE WAITS ON HOLD for fifteen minutes with the North Carolina Correctional Institute for Women. Georgia is good at picking up hints and walks away to get coffee as soon as Charity starts pacing. She thinks Charity hasn’t noticed, but she’s been through the line already, added cream and sugar, and is hovering at the crowded cart to avoid the angry redneck elephant in the room. Charity doesn’t mind one bit.

  Finally, the static clicks, and she says, “Hi, I’m—”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Myers has already left for the day,” the male voice says brusquely.

  It figures. Life’s a bitch that way.

  “I really need to speak to Harmony Pierson,” Charity says. “It’s an emergency.”

  Long pause. “I’m sorry, but Ms. Pierson is only permitted to make outgoing calls. You can request to visit in person.”

  “You’re telling me you can’t go get her for a call. It’s important.”

  “I’m sure it is. If it’s an emergency, you can pass a message along, and her case worker will speak with her directly. Otherwise, you’ll need to visit in person.”

  “This is fucking ridiculous,” she says. “What if I needed to tell her someone was dead?”

  Long pause. “Miss, there’s no need to swear at me. I’m just telling you the rules. If there’s been a death, you can—”

  “You know what, I get it. Can you please just tell her to call me? Does that fit in your rules?”

  “You can submit a request to visit in person. Would you like help doing—”

  Screw this. She hangs up and grinds the heel of her hand into her eye. The pressure is painful and comforting at the same time. There’s a shuffle and a little cough as Georgia clears her throat. She hands a cup down. “Any luck?”

  “They’re jerking me around,” Charity says. She sips the coffee. Straight black. Georgia remembered. “They say I’ve got to go up there and see her.”

  “Well, can you?”

  Charity sighs. “I’d rather take an ass-whipping from a Green Beret, but yes. Tomorrow, though. I think we need to home in on our guy first.”

  Georgia nods. “Well, while you were calling, I got some good news.”

  “The killer turned himself in.”

  “Not that good.”

  “We’re getting laid?”

  “Charity, really? I got in touch with Patrick Bell,” she says. “I found his contact information and sent him a message on Facebook.” She bats her eyes and puts on a helpless expression. It’s almost impressive how well she plays dumb and distressed. “I’m in his History of Homicide class and need some help on my project. PowerPoint is like, super complicated.”

  “Well, that’s convenient. How do you know he’ll fall for it?”

  “I called the registrar’s office while you were calling the prison. It’s a sixty-person lecture class,” Georgia says. “There’s no way he knows everyone in there.”

  Charity smiles. “So we get Patrick—”

  “Oh, no. I get Patrick,” Georgia says. “He’s bringing Adam Keller with him. I told him I had a girlfriend who took the class last year and did her final project on Harmony Pierson. Got an A-plus, too. Fair trade.”

  “Oh, fuck you and the horse you rode in on,” Charity says. “I am not—”

  “No.” Georgia puts a finger in her face. She looks at her finger and slowly withdraws it, like she’s trying to avoid sudden movements. “I’m sorry for what happened to your family, and if you want to talk about it anymore—”

  “I don’t.”

  “I gathered. But are you going to sit here and tell me your precious feelings about this are more important than a case? I know damn well that’s not how you operate.”

  “Did you just get bossy with me?”

  “You’re damn right I did.”

  She stares at Georgia as her emotions tangle in a messy knot. Part of her wants to tell Georgia to go fuck herself. Again. Some things ought to be off limits. But there’s a part of her that appreciates Georgia’s cold calculation. She’d like it a lot better if it was directed elsewhere, but the girl’s not wrong.

  “Fine. But you seriously owe me one.”

  Before leaving campus, they make a stop at the library, where Charity grits her teeth and searches The Asheville Citizen-Times archives for articles on her mother. Somewhere, Patience has a folder full of every newspaper clipping, court document, and medical report pertaining to their mother’s case. For her part, Charity has her own scrapbook from hell—the official crime scene photos, death certificates for John Dupree and Andy Pierson, and the official police reports with her name redacted. None of that is any of Adam Keller’s business, even if she could put her hands on it easily. Instead, she prints a handful of articles about the case and arrest reports from the months before the murders and stuffs them into her bag.

  Their double date is set for a sandwich shop just off the southwest corner of campus, the Bread Baskette. The décor is thrift shop eclectic, like someone cleaned out their dead grandma’s attic, then handed its contents to a blind man, who stapled every piece of junk onto the walls. There’s a stuffed moose head in a tiara over the door to the ladies’ room, staring out at a fleet of toy planes hanging from the ceiling by clear strings. It’s noisy, with whiny folk music and a sputtering espresso machine competing for dominance.

  One wall of the shop has a long booth bench wit
h small tables spread out along its length. They sit side-by-side on the cushioned bench. Georgia reads over Calloway’s class syllabus and plays with her hair, like she’s getting into the part. Charity picks at an oatmeal raisin cookie from the bakery counter as she watches the door.

  “This is sad,” she says.

  “What is?”

  “The fact that my first real date in over a year is going to be with a murder suspect,” Charity says. Fooling around with Brock didn’t count. That had been a matter of boredom and pent-up frustration. Mutual problem, obvious solution, no need for formality. “I used to think I could do better. I guess times are tough.”

  Georgia shakes her head. “How do you even date, doing what you do?”

  “Dating is a stretch,” Charity says. “A couple of beers, maybe we dig up a grave together, finish off with a box of wine and see where the night goes.” Georgia pales. “I’m kidding.”

  She’s really not. She and Fox Wesley flirted shamelessly for about a year before they finally got together after an epic hunt in the Everglades. Adrenaline and a few shots of tequila made for one hell of a night that turned into a weekend for the books.

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “What’s your deal? High school sweetheart, hit it and quit it, what?”

  Georgia laughs. “Neither. It’s just…well, it hasn’t been a priority for me over the last few years.”

  “Well, listen. I know some guys who aren’t total shitbags or functioning alcoholics. Not many, but there’s a few decent ones out there,” she says. “Or girls, if that’s more your thing. I won’t judge. You just let me know.”

  Georgia conveniently ignores her as she checks her phone. The girl is smooth as sun-softened butter. She suddenly straightens up and cranes her neck to look out the front windows. “They’re on their way.” She frowns at Charity. “Relax your face. You look like you’re going to throw up or murder someone.”

  “This is my face,” Charity says. “Blame my DNA.”

  “You don’t always make that face,” Georgia says. “Try smiling.”

  Charity sighs. “Right now, I would much prefer to haul Adam Keller out back and threaten the sanctity of his scrotum.”

  “Well, life is full of new experiences,” Georgia says. “I’m going to go out on a limb and advise that you avoid the topic of his testicles.”

  She tips her head toward the door as two guys walk past the front counter. One is thin, barely more than a bony frame in black skinny jeans and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt. His dark hair is messy and flips all different ways under a striped beanie that hangs obnoxiously on the back of his head. The other guy looks bulky, like he plays the occasional pickup game of football but doesn’t actually work out. His green button-down is rolled up to expose thick forearms. His right hand is wrapped in a thick bandage.

  Georgia raises a hand in greeting. “Patrick?”

  “Hey, you must be Georgia,” the bigger guy says. “Patrick Bell.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” Georgia says. Her voice has gone up, and the smile on her face is so fake it almost makes Charity laugh. Patrick doesn’t seem to notice. “I really appreciate you coming to meet us.”

  “Anytime. You must be Charity,” Patrick says. He sticks out his left hand to shake and smiles sheepishly. “Burned my hand on the stove, so a lefty will have to do. This is Adam.”

  Adam nods to them, then pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts texting. Charmer.

  “Here, we’re going to spread out a little,” Georgia says. On cue, Charity slides over to the next small table.

  Adam Keller sinks into the chair across from her and gives her an appraising stare. She immediately dislikes him. Squirrelly, Steve called him. She can see it. His eyes slide away from hers, fingers dancing on the table. She can imagine him reading all those articles about the murder and fantasizing about the feel of blood on his hands.

  Georgia is already talking animatedly with Patrick, who guffaws at something. Charity sighs inwardly. This is not her world. Give her a bunch of country-fried rednecks any day. What the hell does she have in common with Adam Keller?

  “So, Georgia told me you guys were doing a project on my—Harmony Pierson,” Charity says. “I researched it when I took the class, too.”

  Adam’s face shifts then, a little spark of interest in his eyes. “Yeah. Crazy case, right? It’s like, here’s this normal-ass country chick. High school dropout, nothing special.”

  Something gritty slides out of her hand, and she looks down to see the pulverized remains of her cookie, a lone raisin rising like a tombstone from the rubble. Be cool, Cherry. Be cool.

  “And then out of nowhere, she snaps,” he says, snapping his thin fingers to make the point. It’s an eerie echo of Calloway’s story. “And she doesn’t just kill them. She tears these guys apart. Like, crazy, bath salts kind of strong.”

  You have no idea, buddy.

  “So what do you think happened?” she asks, keeping her tone neutral and hoping the implied asshole doesn’t soak through.

  “I’ve got some theories,” Adam says. He glances at his phone again. What are you looking for?

  “I bet you do,” Charity says. “Lay it on me.”

  “Well, you know, she killed her husband and her brother at her own house. What was the brother even doing there? I’m thinking small town secret. You know, like, maybe she was screwing the brother and—”

  “That’s fucking stupid,” Charity spits. Adam recoils, eyes going wide. She doesn’t realize how loud she was until she looks over to see Georgia gaping at her. “I mean, what would make you think that? There’s nothing that points that way.”

  “Well, you know how those little redneck towns are. If you can’t keep it in the pants, keep it in the family, right?” He grins, like he’s waiting for her to laugh, but she only stares at him blankly. “So anyway, the coroner says the brother died first. Maybe the brother had enough of the affair, told the husband, and they confront her. But she snaps and kills them both to punish them.”

  “Or maybe she had a drinking problem that finally got the best of her,” Charity says. “That’s my theory.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “There’s a whole string of drunk and disorderly arrests on her record,” Charity says. Most of it was out on the road, so it never made local news or local gossip, which is usually far more reliable. She only found out because Patience told her about it years later; her parents managed to keep a whole pile of secrets that came out in the wake of the murders. All things considered, a few nights in the drunk tank weren’t going to tarnish her mother’s sterling character. “Right up to a few months before the murders.”

  Adam shrugs. “That’s the really awesome part of it. No one knows why it happened. Probably never will unless she talks.”

  “Yeah, that is really awesome,” she echoes dimly. Because psychotic breaks and multiple homicides are the definition of all that is awesome. She wonders if Adam will still think it’s awesome if she sticks her gun down his pants and gives him five seconds to ‘fess up. “So what attracted you to this case, anyway? You mentioned the incest angle. Is sister-fucking something you find particularly interesting? Personal connection, maybe?”

  “Whoa, whoa,” he says, throwing his hands up. His brow furrows, and he glances over at Patrick like he’s looking for an out. “It’s not like that—”

  “Different strokes for different folks, am I right? Believe me, I’m the last person to pass judgment on someone’s life choices.”

  Her pocket buzzes.

  “Seriously, I’m not—”

  “Hold that thought.”

  She slides her phone out to see a message from Georgia.

  Georgia: Stop antagonizing him! Be NICE.

  She looks over to see Georgia glaring at her over the laptop. Charity shrugs. This is her being nice. She hasn’t threatened him or carried out bodily harm, has she?

  Yet.

 
“Look, we read about the case in class, and then Calloway brought in the knife on his little show-and-tell day. We thought it would be cool for our final project.” He spreads his hands. “Look, it was really Pat’s idea. He said it would be an easy A, since Calloway has such a boner for the case.”

  “Right. So you know someone stole her knife a few weeks ago, right?”

  Adam’s face slips for a second. “I heard Calloway got robbed, but I didn’t know what got stolen.” He casts a longing glance over at Georgia, who’s giggling over the table with Patrick as he shows her something on the laptop. She’s watching the screen intently, but Patrick is full-on eye-banging her. Meanwhile, Adam’s face is screaming, how did I get stuck with the crazy one?

  You and me both, buddy. Georgia’s flirting up a storm, while Charity has to play nice with this asshole who gets off reading about serial killers.

  “Hey, I heard you were in that play with Tommy Crane,” she says. Might as well knock it out of the park for worst blind date ever. “You see anything?”

  His face goes stone cold, and the color drains out of his cheeks. “I don’t want to talk about that,” he says. “Pat said you had some official documents or something that we could use.”

  “Tell me about the play, and I’ll give them to you,” she says.

  “You know what? I didn’t see shit,” Adam says. “My friend gets killed right in front of me, the police asked me questions for two hours straight, and now everyone wants to know about it. That’s all there is.”

  Poor baby. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s almost definitely their killer, she’d feel bad for him. For once, she wishes her sister were here. She’d take one look at Adam and know whether he did it or not.

  “If you had to say someone in the play did it, who would it be?”

  “No one,” Adam says hotly. “Nobody would intentionally hurt Tommy. One of the knives jammed up. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Now drop it.”