[Ash Park 01.0] Famished

by Meghan O'Flynn

  I am a slut. This is all my fault. “Please, I’m sorry, I—”

  His hand smashed into the side of my face. My ears rang. “Shut. The fuck. Up.” It was the quiet, husky tone he’d once used with my mother and it had made her sit motionless on the couch until he’d left.

  I tried to stay still like she had, tried to focus through the wavering orange that had settled across my eyes. I felt my pants sliding over my thighs, but distantly, as if in someone else’s nightmare. He forced my legs apart with his knees. No. I kicked in a futile attempt at freedom.

  “You wanted this. Don’t you ever fucking forget that.” He leaned close to me, his breath warm and putrid.

  The world twisted and faded. He forced himself into me and the hurt pounded through every part of my body, hot and sharp and raw, until I was nothing but the pain. He laughed and heat in my chest exploded into furious panic.

  “Stop! No! I’m going to tell!” No! Shut up, Hannah! You’ll make it worse! I bit my tongue until I tasted blood.

  “If you want them to die too, go ahead,” he whispered in my ear. “Just ask that bitch of a mother how her new husband is doing.”

  “You killed mom’s—”

  He sneered down at me. “You’d do well to keep that to yourself. Just knowing about it makes you an accessory. Between jail and death, I’d pick door number three.” He moved his hips. I felt like I was being ripped in two. “We will always be one, Hannah. I won’t ever let you go. And if you leave, I will find you. And I will fucking kill you.”

  Numbness seeped in where I once held only adoration. I floated outside my body near the ceiling, looking down at my prone figure draped in the angry profile of my father as he raped me, tearing the tapestry of trust and love and kindness that had taken my entire childhood to build. Blood-tinged semen dripped onto the bed. I prayed to a God I didn’t believe in, but understood that help would not come, not now, not ever.

  Nothing would ever be the same again. And it was all my fault.

  I jerked upright, the air cutting like shards of ice into my sweat-covered skin. My shirt was soaked through. My teeth chattered.

  The nightmares. I had thought they were over. I was wrong.

  On the end table, the clock glowed three-fourteen.

  I should go see my shrink again, maybe on Monday. But I had no words to describe my pain. And when I didn’t know what to say, Tammy would say something like, “Let it out. Openness leads to less difficulty over time.” Complete bullshit. There was no faster way to screw things up than to open your mouth.

  Maybe I could tell Tammy about my mother leaving us for her boss, the dentist, the summer before I entered fourth grade. And about her husband’s death the following year from ingesting something he was allergic to, and how my mother never came back to visit, even when she didn’t have some mouth-poking, tooth-filling, wrinkly man to climb on top of. Maybe I could tell her how I had retreated to my father’s room, wanting to ease his heartache. How some days he seemed happy and I rejoiced, as if finally there was something I could do correctly. But what would she say to what came after?

  The night he put his hand on my thigh, I had not resisted. When his mouth found mine, I had brushed aside the nervous tingling at the base of my skull and reminded myself that he was the only one who believed I was worth anything. When his fingers parted me gently, I wasn’t sure it was wrong. It felt weird, yet somehow nice. And as I lay naked and felt the searing, intense pain of him deep inside me, he had held me and whispered in my ear: “It’s okay, baby. Daddy’s here. Everything is okay.”

  I had believed him, from elementary school and all through middle school, though to say that out loud now seemed insane. Even more so when I considered that the more often I found myself in his arms, the more I knew I was completely and totally in love, a notion that was not contradictory to what I’d been taught in rudimentary sex education classes. Sex was for people who loved one another. Check. Sex happened between people in committed relationships. Check. Sex needed to be based on trust. Check. It all made sense.

  In the teacher’s defense, it was unlikely she suspected anyone in the class would be fucking her own father.

  It was great until it wasn’t. Sometime in high school, awareness crept up on me like cold centipedes on my arms, a million tiny legs groping me. It was in the way he avoided hugging me in public like other fathers did. The way he hid the cordless phone in his pocket and never let me answer it. The way he sometimes called out my mother’s name when he came.

  I knew there were legal penalties for adults who engaged in sexual activities with minors, but I also knew I was already in too deep. It was too late to go back.

  I was not normal, and never would be. I loved him too much. And I had to remain silent or he would end up in jail and I would never see him again. At some point, panic gave way to dread that settled in my chest like a stone, growing heavier with each passing day until I knew it would crush my lungs.

  And then I talked. It was such a simple question he’d asked: “Hey, Hannah banana, what’s wrong?”

  I could have said I was tired. That I was worried about a test. That I was on my fucking period. Anything. Instead, I sobbed into a pillow.

  “You … we’re not supposed to—” I had choked on the words, as if saying it out loud would somehow make it true. You’re not supposed to have sex with your daughter. It was applicable to everyone else in the world, but not to us.

  Then radio silence. Static. And the pillow had been ripped from my hands.

  Honesty gets you nowhere. Openness is fucking crazy.

  Focus, Hannah. He’s not here. Not now.

  I peeled myself out of bed, the wet top sheet still clinging to my skin. Every night home alone seemed worse than the one before it. Maybe tonight it was because of that electricity I’d felt when Jim’s fingers brushed against mine. Or maybe it was the knowledge that I was now completely and utterly alone. Vulnerable. Small. With no one to help me if he finally came sneaking in from the hallway with that awful hungry look on his face, lips peeled back in a sneer, eyes dark and glittering with excitement. Maybe he even knew about the baby.

  Maybe he was pissed. More pissed than he’d been at mom’s husband, and he’d poisoned him, right?

  My breath caught in my throat and I tried to think of something that would make it better, make it funny, make it bearable, but there was nothing besides the fear and the urge to retch as if I could purge all this vile stuff from deep inside.

  I left the bedroom, made my way to the living room window on jelly legs and drew back the curtain. Below, the streetlight cast ghostly shadows onto sidewalks covered with wisps of powdered sugar snow. Empty as it always was, but hell, I was a paranoid freak, right? It had been five years, surely he wasn’t coming tonight.

  I dropped the curtain.

  Stop, Hannah. Just stop. I kept my hand on the couch to steady myself, then the counter. In the kitchen, I pulled a lonely Pabst Blue Ribbon from the fridge and drank it in front of the sink in case it made me throw up. I gagged once, but swallowed again and again, and tossed the empty can in the sink. That would buy me four or five more hours of sleep and tomorrow I’d jot down notes about my shitty night, just enough to make Tammy shake her head and say: “Mm-hmm. And why do you think that is?”

  I staggered back to my bed, the room wavering at the edges, and pulled the blanket up to my chin. Beside me, the deserted spot where Jake used to lie felt like a living thing, breathing into my ear.

  Alone. So alone. But did I miss him or just the body that provided some respite from being so vulnerable? Had I ever wanted him or was I a terrible person who just needed someone to be there because I was so fucking afraid?

  Probably the second. In a perfect world, I would have chosen someone more supportive. But that didn’t mean Jake deserved to die. My eyes filled and I wiped them on the blanket. If I’d just held my tongue, Jake wouldn’t have left that night. Though he’d still be here if he had been more … calm. Patient. Understandi
ng. Or if he hadn’t fucked someone else.

  Let me know if there’s anything I can do …

  Dominic’s flowers were still on my desk, probably wilting and filling my cubicle with their sickly sweet perfume. I’d have to get rid of them soon, though I didn’t want to. How dead would they have to be before Noelle began to tease me for holding onto them?

  I closed my eyes, pictured Dominic’s face, and slipped my hand into my panties.

  There must be something I can do for you, Hannah. His voice in my head was deep and smooth and reassuring.

  Maybe if you just stayed here, just for a night, I could get some sleep.

  Shall I sleep on the couch?

  No, why don’t you stay with me in the bed. I’m sure we’ll both be more comfortable …

  I ground my hips against my fingers. Nice, but not earth-shattering like what you read about in those Cosmo-type magazines. I focused on the mellow warmth of the alcohol coursing through my system. Not orgasmic, but sort of nice.

  Panting and nauseous, I rolled over and glanced at the clock. Four thirty. I needed to sleep so I could head to the shelter later. One of the only places outside of work where I wasn’t as alone, wasn’t as afraid, wasn’t as fucked up.

  I stifled a yawn and knelt before a little boy who was bouncing on the balls of his feet. Ash blond hair glinted above huge brown eyes and cherub cheeks that I would have pinched if it wouldn’t have made me look like a huge weirdo. He was the kind of kid you see and think, aw, I could eat you alive! but you try to keep that to yourself because it’s super creepy to talk about eating children.

  “What’s your name?” I asked him.

  He smiled broadly. “Timmy.”

  “Nice to meet you, Timmy.” I held out my hand and he took it. “Would you like a hot dog? Your mother said it was okay.”

  “Yessssss!” he said, drawing out the word as only a five-year-old can.

  “Follow me, sir.”

  He skipped behind me to the cafeteria tables, clambered onto a bench and grinned up at me as I retrieved a plate of food from the kitchen. “You’re pretty,” he said.

  I froze, though I wasn’t sure why. What the hell was wrong with me? I swallowed hard. “Here you go.” I put his plate and fork in front of him and went back to the kitchen to take care of the women who were waiting patiently for their plates.

  Hot dogs, baked potatoes, canned green beans. Hot dogs, baked potatoes, green beans. Dogs, potatoes, beans.

  Timmy’s mother, Antoinette, stood next to me, efficiently wielding a pair of tongs. The bruise on her cheek and the gouge across her lip had almost healed from the altercation that had brought her to the shelter last week. Her blond hair was up in a clean ponytail, and freckles were visible along her nose and at her neckline. A pair of perfectly matched bluebirds on either shoulder aimed inwards toward her collarbone. Antoinette twisted to grab another stack of plates and there was something in the set of her shoulders—high and straight—that suggested she hadn’t been born into a life of abuse. What had changed for her?

  A little voice piped up from behind the counter. “Momma, can I have another one?”

  Antoinette stood on her tiptoes and peeked over the partition. “Did you eat the beans?”

  “Um …” Timmy scampered back to his plate.

  “Kids,” Antoinette said with a grin.

  “He seems sweet.” I set the last plate on the counter.

  “He really is. He’s an angel.”

  “Momma, all done!” He was back with his empty plate.

  Antoinette put another hot dog on it. “Here you go, hon.”

  He frowned. “Ketchup, please?”

  She smiled, squirted some on the hot dog, and he ran off, eyes on his food.

  “So what do you have planned for next week?” I asked. Unless no one else needed the rooms, women could only stay one week. Right now, we were full.

  Antoinette shrugged and took off her apron. “I think I can go back to my old apartment.”

  I nodded uncertainly. “I hope it works out. But if it doesn’t—”

  “I know where you are.” She wiped her hands on her jeans and went to the front room to sit with Timmy.

  Out the front window, the last of the dying sunlight had faded to dusky black, making everyone in the dining room stand out in stark contrast. I watched Antoinette ruffle Timmy’s hair and kiss his cheek, and my stomach turned like I had eaten something bad. I turned away and headed for the dishes in the sink.

  The back door clanged open. I lifted a frying pan like a club and held it at the ready until I heard the pecking beeps of someone entering the alarm code. Then Ms. LaPorte entered, hugging three paper grocery bags to her chest. I rushed to her side and grabbed them from her, still gripping the pan.

  “Thank you, dear.” She shrugged out of her down jacket, hung it on a hook and opened the fridge by the stove. “I got everything for tomorrow’s breakfast. Even found some bacon on sale.”

  I set the bags down and handed Ms. LaPorte a gallon of milk. Her hands were warm and comforting, but my stomach was still tight. I took a deep breath.

  “Everything going okay here?”

  “Dinner’s winding down. Nothing else to report. Pretty quiet, actually.” Quiet and gloriously boring.

  “Ah, we can all do with some quiet nights.” Ms. LaPorte bustled back and forth between the fridge and the cupboards. I started on the pots and pans with a stainless steel scrubber. By the time I set the third pan on the sideboard to dry, my stomach felt almost normal.

  “Hannah, why don’t you go home for the night?”

  And the nausea was back. My hand shook. I dropped a clean pan onto the sideboard and it clattered like it was going to break the counter. Ms. LaPorte shoved something else into the cupboard and either didn’t notice or didn’t mind the racket I was making.

  “I’m okay for now.” I fought to control the tremor in my voice. “I figured I would help clean the after-dinner dishes.”

  “You’ve been here all day, dear. Time for you to get home and get some rest. Everything will be fine. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  Everything will be fine. Of course it would. It wasn’t like I could live at the shelter. I set the last pan on the sideboard. “I’ll be back early tomorrow evening. Right after work.”

  “No hurry, dear. You take your time.”

  I exchanged my apron for my coat. “Like I said, I’ll be back early.”

  I cast one more glance at Antoinette, who was wiping Timmy’s mouth. She saw me looking at her and waved. I waved back, zipped my coat and exited the building, letting the door swing shut behind me with a clang that echoed through the deserted lot. No … not deserted—

  I dropped my keys but I was frozen, unable to retrieve them.

  A figure crouched next to my car with a long slim object.

  A knife!

  My lungs stopped working. No a … coat hanger.

  He’s trying to get into my car!

  He jerked upright and made a break through the trees at the back of the lot.

  His gait. The way he walked. I had not seen his face, but I didn’t have to. I knew.

  He was going to get in and wait for me … and then— My insides turned to water. I thought of Jake, of those women. I did not want to know what my father had planned for me. And if he was here … maybe he had killed those other women too, just to scare me.

  Or to practice.

  I could never come back here. Ever.

  I am not crazy.

  Detective Petrosky’s sad bulldog eyes flashed in my brain. He thinks I’m a murderer.

  He’s right. Knowing who killed Jake makes me an accessory.

  It’s all my fault.

  I retrieved my keys and leapt to the car, my heart shuddering in my rib cage, my mouth dry as I gasped for nonexistent air. I was out of time.

  What the hell am I going to do?

  Monday, November 16th

  Scorched air huffed from a vent under the psychiatrist�
��s desk. Petrosky had been there five minutes and dampness was already creeping around his armpits.

  “The change in victim is concerning,” McCallum said. “It doesn’t fit the mold. Not only do you have a completely different victim, but you have a completely different type of restraint system. Then, there’s the fact that there was no writing at the scene.” He grabbed a pen out of his desk drawer and clutched it in his meaty fist.

  “We purposefully withheld the poems from the public in the first two murders. It suggests copycat, but with the similar dissection styles it’s hard to say. We’re still pushing the same killer to the public either way, though. One is less scary than two.”

  McCallum nodded.

  But Campbell was killed by his guy, Petrosky could feel it. So why would he vary his pattern? And why Campbell, some loser nobody, with no connection to the other victims?

  “Let’s hash this out. I need to think.” Petrosky leaned forward in his chair. “If we’re dealing with the same killer, he had a very specific reason for choosing Campbell. I just can’t figure out why. Did Campbell piss him off? Did he see something he shouldn’t have? I could get behind our guy just being in the mood to slit someone’s throat, but he had all his dissection shit with him. It was premeditated.”

  Petrosky’s gut was a hot mess of too many chili dogs and too little Jack Daniels; the nip he’d had before coming here wasn’t nearly enough.

  McCallum tapped the pen on the desk. “If we’re looking at the same killer, there’s clearly some connection between the third death and the first two. If Campbell knew something, he’d have to have been there to see something, or know someone who was. Did he go out much?”

  “Nope. DUI a few years back, no license, no car. He does have one common acquaintance from the shelter, but she only knew one of the female victims, not both.”

  “This girl … is she a suspect?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t think so.”

  McCallum’s eyes bored into him. “You’re worried about her.”

  Petrosky sighed. “Yes.” It sounded dirty to say it out loud—dirty but honest.