by J. D. Monroe
“So what now?” Georgia asks.
“We find this Adam kid,” Patience says. “I’ll tail him, since he doesn’t know me.”
“And for Charity and me?” Georgia asks.
“Well, for starters, Charity’s going to talk to our mother,” Patience says.
“I most certainly am not. Why don’t you go?”
“Because you got your dumb ass arrested once already, and the cops here don’t know me,” Patience says.
“Twice,” Georgia adds.
“Georgia!”
“That’s impressive,” Patience says drily. “Even for you. Go to Raleigh and ask Mom about the knife. Ask if there’s any pattern, anything she can give us that will put us a step ahead of Adam.”
“And me?” Georgia asks.
“You stay with me,” Patience says lightly, full lips curving up in a smile that makes Charity think of a crocodile. “Let’s get to know each other.”
28. BAGGAGE CLAIM
AS CHARITY CROSSES THE CITY LIMITS in Raleigh, she considers driving straight through and going until the road runs out. Let Patience and Georgia have each other and deal with this. She’ll find a new start somewhere far away. Canada and its snowy nights sound better than ever.
It took less than two hours for Patience to turn everything sour, like pissing in a perfect cup of coffee. The last six months of her life might as well have been a dream. Now she’s running around like a good little soldier at her sister’s command, right back to the one place she’d rather never see again.
All those times she wished things could be the way they were before, she pictured the much older days, when they still got along. She pictured the two of them in the truck, Patience with her bare feet sticking out the window, both of them belting Dixie Chicks with no cares other than their next stop along that endless blacktop.
If she knew her wish might come true, she’d have been a little more specific.
She makes a stop at a drugstore two blocks from the prison. There’s a fine drizzle falling, just enough to drop a silvery-gray gloom over the world. She tugs her hood up over her still-damp hair and hurries into the store.
First stop, office supplies. Georgia planned it all out and sent her off with a shopping list and instructions. She’s quickly learning the art of barking orders from Patience. Great.
After consulting Georgia’s texted directions, Charity grabs a pack of padded mailing envelopes and a roll of clear tape, then heads to the photo counter. A huge yellow kiosk with a computer screen stands off to the side, advertising half-priced calendars made with her own photos. Somehow, she thinks there’s not much of a market for her kind of photos.
An older woman with a bleached blond cloud of hair comes around an aisle of shelves carrying a stack of cardboard envelopes. Her name tag says Shirley, but the perm screams Dolly. “Can I help you?”
“Need to pick up some pictures,” Charity says. “Smith.”
“First name?”
“Jane.”
Shirley raises one penciled-on eyebrow, then turns to shuffle through a big plastic bin on a shelf behind the counter. She takes out an envelope and opens it. Her face whitens under clownish orange blush as she slowly hands over the pictures. “Y-you want to make sure they printed all right?”
Jesus in heaven.
Charity barely glimpses the ripped red meat before she shoves the pictures back in their envelope. “My friend does special effects makeup,” she says. “I know it looks real, but it’s all for movies.”
“Uh-huh,” Shirley says. She gives Charity a once-over like she’s trying to make sure she’ll remember her for a police sketch artist later. “You want to pay for that here too?”
Charity drops the tape and envelopes. “Please.” She hands Shirley a twenty and forces herself to wait calmly while the woman counts out her change with shaky hands.
Charity can feel Shirley’s raccoon eyes on her as she books it out of the store. Just don’t call the police, she thinks. She can see the local news now. Manhunt begins after serial killer prints pictures for scrapbook. Shirley will be there with freshly applied lipstick, drawling, “I knew something wasn’t right when I saw them pictures.”
Patience and Georgia are probably having a good laugh at her expense. And what the hell are they doing back in the RV while she makes a road trip and looks like a particularly inept serial killer? Patience is probably showing off her scars from the crocotta they killed in south Florida, because she shows everyone within an hour of meeting them. Georgia is probably due for a change of panties after basking in Patience’s glory for the last few hours.
And why the hell does Charity even care?
As she makes the right turn into the parking lot of the women’s prison, her guts tie themselves in a neat fisherman’s knot. She sits in the car, staring blankly at the slow sweep of the windshield wipers. She’d rather walk right back into the Stedman County jail than into this place again.
Her phone buzzes in the console.
Patience: You talk to her yet?
Harmony really missed the mark with that name. She should have had a third kid and named her Irony.
Charity takes her time with the pictures. There are a dozen pictures of someone else’s family Georgia got from some family photographer’s website. A couple of baby pictures, a wedding picture, even a shot of a little girl blowing out a birthday cake with four candles. With blond pigtails and glittering blue eyes, she could pass for Charity’s offspring if she was cruel enough to pass on her certainly cursed DNA.
At the bottom of the stack, she finds the pictures that sent Shirley’s eyebrow running for cover in her teased bangs. These pictures would be more at home in the Manson family albums. Three are detailed shots of the knife from a “murderabilia” site Georgia found. Half a dozen prints feature close-ups of Gabe Mullins’s and Mikey Wagner’s bodies.
With shaky hands, she twists short pieces of the clear tape into loops. She sticks a family picture on top of each bloody picture, then intersperses the extras in the stack. When she shuffles through them, it’s just a slideshow of someone else’s happy, All-American, pie and ice cream life. The guard at the visitor’s desk will shuffle through the pictures and hand them right back, provided Shirley doesn’t call in an APB on a suspected serial-killing blonde.
She’s got to give it to Georgia. The girl doesn’t think like a hunter, and Charity’s finally realizing that’s not a bad thing.
The phone buzzes again, and Charity snatches it up to clear the message from her sister. She hastily types one back, then hides the phone in the glovebox.
Charity: Going in now. Chill.
Harmony looks perkier than she did before, although it’s not a pleasant thing. Her cheeks blaze feverish red against the paper-white of her face. Blue eyes twitch from corner to corner of the room. There’s a fire deep in her eyes that doesn’t evoke cozy warmth so much as a lit match falling in slow motion over a pile of dynamite.
“Hi, baby.”
“Don’t call me that,” Charity says, sinking into the blue plastic chair across from Harmony. “I heard Patience talked to you.”
“That’s my girl,” Harmony says, mouth twisting up in a smile that’s more mean than sweet, like a wolf baring its teeth. That’s the Harmony she knows, peeking out through the mask. “Hard as a rock.”
“You’re damn right. Look at these and tell me what you know.”
Charity takes out the envelope of pictures and flicks her eyes to the guard in the corner. He’s mostly focused on the TV in the kid’s corner, which is tuned into ESPN. For a moment, she envisions Harmony flipping her shit and going all Gollum over the knife, but it’s a risk she’ll have to take.
Sack up, she tells herself.
Harmony stares at the top picture. It’s the birthday girl. “I don’t understand.”
Charity slides the picture aside and pulls out the wedding photo. She pries up the top layer to reveal the hidden picture of the knife. “Look familiar?”
&n
bsp; The look that crosses her mother’s face sends a chill breaking across her skin like an electric shock. It’s two parts hunger, one part lust. Her pupils dilate, and her tongue darts out over her chapped lips. It may have filled her with fear before, but now she’s like a junkie getting a fix.
“That’s my knife,” Harmony says. “The one John bought me. Did you bring it with you?”
“Are you fucking crazy?”
Harmony ignores her and slides the picture toward herself, paper whispering across the table. Bony fingers caress the picture, tracing it the way she should touch a picture of her family. Charity’s stomach churns, and she feels like puking up her breakfast.
“Where did you get it?”
“Hmm?”
Charity snaps her fingers. “Earth to Harmony. Where did you get the knife?”
“Antique shop,” Harmony says absently. She brings the picture close. Her eyes are frozen on it, staring through the paper. “Up in Tennessee. That hunt the three of us did right before—well, you know.”
“Well, you know?” She shakes her head. “You happen to remember where?”
“This cute little place in Manchester,” Harmony says. “John saw it first. Picked it up, said he thought I’d like it. Why does it matter?”
It hits her hard, like jerking awake from a light doze. She doesn’t know. Her mother has no clue that this shadow she’s imagined is the knife itself. Her mother is a lot of things, but she’s not a good liar. Harmony Pierson was well-known for speaking the truth and nothing but, even when a little white lie would have gone a long way toward keeping the peace.
Charity reaches for the picture. Harmony scowls and tightens her grip on it, white-knuckling it until Charity snatches it away. She smooths out the crumpled paper and shoves it at the bottom of the pile. Harmony’s eyes go wild again, as quick and stark as flipping a light switch. “Was there anything strange about it?”
“Strange how?”
“Was it cursed?”
Harmony snorts derisively, but it doesn’t have its usual fire-ant bite. Her brows furrow, and her eyes search Charity. “I hear from Patience that you’re the expert now,” she finally says. “You tell me.”
She ignores the loaded jab. “This is what you used to kill Dad,” Charity says. “And John.”
Harmony nods slowly. “It wasn’t me, though. I told you.”
“Right, the shadow. I know what you said,” Charity says. “I don’t understand it, but I think this thing made you do it. I need to know how, or this is going to happen to someone else.” She pries apart the next picture, a close-up of Gabe Mullins’ mangled chest. Harmony lets out a cry of anguish, half-sob and half-shout. Keys jangle as the guard comes running. “Jesus, Harmony. Quiet.”
Charity fumbles the pictures into a neat stack again as the guard reaches the table, one hand resting on his gun. “Is everything all right?”
Harmony stares at her with horror in her eyes.
“We’re fine,” Charity says. “I had to tell her some bad news.”
It takes a long, heart-thumping stretch for Harmony to look up at the guard and nod slowly. He returns to his post, but he watches them closely now, ignoring the football game playing on the TV.
“Who is that?” Harmony asks quietly. “It’s not your sister…”
“Of course not,” Charity says. “The knife is in play. Do you—”
“My knife? Did you bring it?”
“Harmony, seriously? We just discussed this,” Charity says. Her mother’s eyes are glazing over again at the mention of the k-word. “No.”
“You know, John bought that for me,” Harmony says. “Such a beautiful piece. He was a good brother.”
The anguish evaporates like so much smoke, and she’s back to the moonstruck, dreamy Harmony. Watching her mother makes it hard to hold on to that nasty pit of anger in her belly. The knife carved up Harmony’s mind the same way it carved up Andy and John’s bodies. Harmony is still in there somewhere, but she’s hanging by a ragged thread, and that knife blows her every which way like a loose shutter in a hurricane wind.
“You mentioned that,” Charity says. “Listen, I have to ask you something, and I need you to keep cool.”
The dreamy expression falters. Harmony’s face hardens again, lines settling around her icy blue eyes. “You think I can’t?”
“I don’t— I just need you to be clear, that’s all,” Charity says.
“Ask me whatever.”
“You said Uncle John bought the knife for you. So he touched it, then handed it over to you. Why didn’t he start killing but you did?”
“John,” Harmony murmurs. She’s already slipping again. “I didn’t want to hurt him.”
“Focus,” Charity says. She hesitates then thrusts her hand across the table to touch Harmony’s. The skin is paper dry and feverishly warm under her fingers. Her mother’s eyes widen, but Charity focuses on the hand. It’s a utilitarian move, that’s all. A moment of contact to anchor her. “Why you and not him?”
“I really don’t know,” Harmony says. “Andy sanded and cleaned up the wood for me and sharpened it out in the shed. Didn’t affect him either.”
Until she stuck it into his spine, at least. Charity pushes down the nightmare rising up at the back of her mind. Not now.
“Is that why you—why they were the targets? Does touching it mark them somehow?”
She and Patience had found a cursed painting out in Louisiana a few years back. Everyone who slept in the room where it hung died within a week. They hadn’t figured out why before burning it to ash, but maybe the knife worked the same way.
“I can’t say. I just knew it had to be them,” Harmony says. “I had no idea it was the knife. About a week after John gave it to me, I started having these dreams that were so real. I was this warrior goddess, like I was invincible. I was hunting, getting stronger every time I took down my prey. Life from death. That’s how the world turns, baby girl.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“It had to be John, and then Andy,” Harmony says, eyes darting around wildly like a moth at a flame. “It made perfect sense at the time. I just knew.”
“Even though you loved them,” Charity says.
“Especially because I loved them,” Harmony says. “It’s not a sacrifice unless it’s the things you cherish most.”
It hits her then. That night, Charity heard the muffled shouts and the thump of her father’s body hitting the floor. She crept up from the basement, rifle clutched in her shaking hands. Harmony was already on her way down the hall to Patience’s bedroom. Uncle John and her father had already boarded the midnight train off this mortal coil, and Patience was next.
Patience.
She yanks her hand away.
Not Charity. Past the living room where her father lay dying, down the hallway to the small bedroom that belonged to Patience. Not downstairs to the musty basement Charity had claimed as her own one rebellious summer. No doubt about it now. Three things Harmony cherished most in the world. How screwed up is her life that she actually feels a pang of rejection?
She needs a stiff drink.
“Then it is three,” Charity says finally. “Patience has a theory that it goes in threes.”
“That’s my smart girl,” Harmony says. She hesitates with her hands, then finally folds them in front of her.
“That’s her,” Charity murmurs. “So how do I know where he’ll strike next?”
Harmony shrugs. “For me it was the people I loved most. He could be the same. You found your guy?”
“We think so,” she says. “Can’t prove it.”
Harmony frowns and holds her bony hands out. “Look at his hands.”
“What?”
She pushes her palms toward Charity. The natural lines of her palms are intersected by thick white scars, rounded and smooth like burns. The mark on her left hand is a flawless triangle.
“Did you do this?”
“The shadow,” Harmony murmurs. She s
hows her right palm and traces the lines with her left. The mark on her right palm is incomplete, just a V. “One day they weren’t there, one day they were.”
“So you’re saying whoever has the knife should have these,” Charity says.
Harmony nods.
“You know what it is?”
“It’s a triangle, child.”
“I’m not— Jesus. What does it mean?”
“Life,” Harmony says. “The power of three.”
“You wanna vague that up for me a little? Or you want to give me something that’s going to actually help me?”
“Can’t tell you what I don’t know, Charity Lee,” Harmony says.
“Okay,” she says. Time to get back to the regularly scheduled freakshow. She gathers up the pictures, but Harmony grabs her wrist. “Let go.”
Harmony’s eyes flick to the guard, and she lets go. “Don’t go yet.”
“I have to,” Charity says. “They’re waiting on me.”
“Charity,” she says. “I wish to God none of this had ever happened, but I can’t change it. But I need you to give me a straight answer. No bullshit. Do you hate me?”
Her mouth goes dry. Yes. No. The pause is too long, and she sees something she’s never seen in her entire life. Harmony’s eyes go glassy with genuine tears.
“I understand,” Harmony says. She releases her grip, and her features go stony again.
“But—”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Charity says. “It’s complicated.”
“Shouldn’t be. It ought to be real simple,” Harmony says. She gestures to the guard. “We’re done here.”
29. MAMA BEE
“IT LOOKS LIKE WHAT?”
“It’s a triangle, Patience,” she says on the phone. Patience listens about as well as a fucking rock.
“Why?”
“She says, and I quote, ‘the power of three,’” Charity says, fiddling with the stack of pictures.
“So I was right about there being three,” Patience says.
“Congratulations. Do you want a cookie? We still don’t know where Adam is.”