“Donna Everette?” Petrosky said.
“Yes?” Her voice was low, soft, cautious.
He flashed his badge. “Detective Petrosky. We need to speak with you, ma’am.”
She blinked rapidly. “Is it Bianca?”
“It is, ma’am.”
She put the boy on the floor. “Go play in the room.”
He clung to her leg.
“Gavin, now!”
Gavin let go and scurried away.
They squeezed into the living room with the one window. She sat on a futon behind a large electrical wire spool topped with a plastic bowl of milky Cheerios. No other chairs. Petrosky stood across from her, Morrison in front of the door.
“What happened?” she asked finally.
“We found your daughter this morning in an abandoned barn off of Chickesaw.”
“By the hen?”
“Yes.”
“Is she—”
Fast and direct. “She’s dead, ma’am. The local coroner will have you make a positive identification, but her wallet was found with her. I’m sorry.”
Everette’s face didn’t change. “Will I have to go to the courthouse to identify her, or do ya have a picture? I don’t have time to be driving all the way to town right now.”
No surprise. No sadness. Petrosky clenched his jaw to keep it from dropping.
Morrison pulled out his phone and turned the screen to Petrosky. He’d gotten a shot of just the face—pale and dead, but none of the grisly mess. Petrosky nodded and Morrison handed the phone to Everette.
Her face was impassive. “That’s her.” She handed the phone back.
“Gramma?” Gavin stood in the doorway, eyes wide. “When’s Mama coming home?”
“Get in the room, now! Ain’t you got no sense?”
Morrison startled and dropped his phone on the carpet. He bent and wiped it on his shirt before sticking it back in his pocket.
Petrosky watched the boy walk backward into the bedroom and close the door. “I take it you two weren’t close?”
“How could anyone be close to that?” Her eyes narrowed. “You shoulda seen the things she did.”
Disgusted by her own daughter. His killer would be smart enough to at least act upset, but Petrosky wanted to haul her ass down to the precinct anyway. “But she did live here?”
“Sometimes, when she couldn’t find somewhere else. I didn’t see her much.”
Morrison’s pen scratched on his notepad.
“Anything unusual in the last few weeks?” Petrosky asked.
Everette cocked her head as if she had no idea what that sentence meant.
“Any bruises? Mentions of anyone violent? A boyfriend?”
“Oh, she had boyfriends all right, but never for more than an evening. Some of ‘em beat her, some didn’t, but I don’t think she cared as long as she got her money. Not that she ever brought it back here.”
“Where did she go when she wasn’t here?”
“Hell if I know. She just left.”
“What about friends?”
“None that I know of.”
Something hit the bedroom door and thunked against the wall.
“Is Gavin her child?”
Everette snorted. “Her child. She pushed him out all right, but ain’t never bothered with him since.”
“She didn’t support him, then.”
“Nope, she sure didn’t. She didn’t even know who his father was. Didn’t do much of anything except sell her crotch to the highest bidder. I used to hope she’d get smarter, better, but she was just always bad.”
“Maybe she was just always desperate.”
She glared at him, lips tight.
Petrosky gave her a card. “If you think of anything, ma’am, please give me a call. We need to do everything we can to find the person who did this to her.”
Everette crumpled the card in her palm. Petrosky nodded to Morrison and they let themselves out.
“What was that all about?” Morrison asked as their shoes beat against the frozen earth. “You think she hates her own kid?”
“Don’t know, but McCallum suspects that whoever is doing this had a disaster of a childhood. Mommy issues.” Not that they could really check. Most abuse went unreported, and even foster homes were a crapshoot when it came to safety.
“Do you think Graves knows—”
“Don’t worry about that asshole,” Petrosky snapped.
“Boss?”
“Fuck him, Morrison.”
“Yeah, Boss. Okay. But this is important.”
Petrosky yanked the car door open. “What?”
“The poem. It’s out of order.” Morrison pulled out his phone, tapped it a few times and handed it to Petrosky. “We’re missing one verse.”
Still she haunts me phantom wise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.
Petrosky passed the phone back and slid behind the wheel. “We’re not missing a poem. We’re missing a body.”
Monday, November 23rd
The itch was back. Robert had felt it as a child when he rolled around in the grass under the hanging tree, picturing the bodies dangling precariously above him as verdant blades irritated his skin. But he had not been back there since high school. And this itch was not one he could scratch.
He would have been what she needed. Whatever she needed. And now he couldn’t get to her.
Thomas sat on an adjacent bar stool, staring at him like an idiot with dopey eyes in a dopier head. Robert wanted to punch him. Probably would punch him before the night was over.
“What’s going on, man? Sounds like the boss has been getting on your case. You need help?” Thomas sucked back his beer, too righteous to wait for an answer before he tended to his own needs. He’d be doing the same thing if Robert hadn’t been there at all.
But Thomas’s question made him uneasy. Robert needed to slow down, get his head straight. Two in the last week, poor substitutes, but he’d had no choice. It was the only way to release the pressure.
He spent every waking moment obsessing over Hannah. He lost himself in her eyes even as his boss berated him for mistakes on his projects, mistakes he never should have made. He couldn’t even recall designing the projects in question, let alone fucking them up.
“I just need to concentrate. Been having some trouble sleeping. Too much coffee.”
Lies. He was turning into an animal—growing claws and teeth, almost rabid with desire. He shook with the constant, desperate need to find the next, to take her, to slake his lust, lest he implode before he could beg Hannah to love him, to forgive him.
He had waited too long. Someone else had taken his Hannah.
Thomas raised a finger to order another round. “Maybe the beers will help, eh?”
Robert plastered a smile on his face, the face he needed to have to survive, to fit in. To keep them from knowing. “Perhaps.”
“I’m meeting up with Noelle in a little while. You want to join us?”
“On a date?”
“Kinda. We’re just going bowling. But you seem a little down, like you could use some company.”
So, Thomas wanted to share his woman. Use her, throw her to the lions, watch her squirm. “I’m sure she’d love that.”
Thomas grinned.
Imbecile.
“Maybe if you show her how charming you are she can hook you up with Hannah. You keep going out with all these other women, but you never see them again. What’s not to love about blond hair and tight pants? What’d they do to piss you off?”
The itch. His back crawled with the prickling of a thousand needles. “How do you know that?”
Thomas sipped, swallowed. “Know what?”
“What they look like?”
“I know you. You’ve got that photo on your desk of some woman.”
“Are you crazy? That’s my mother.”
“Yeah, your mother. They say we all look for someone like our moms.”
/> “Who’s ‘they’?”
“I dunno. Scientists.”
Behind the bar, the television flickered, taunting Robert with laughing newscasters. He looked away, heart hammering, half expecting Thomas to turn on him after some prim news anchor flashed his photo with a list of his sins laid bare for the world to see. And if Thomas saw his picture and was warned, Hannah would also see his face staring at her, telling her to stay far, far away from him.
He needed her more than ever. He could not lose her.
The thorny sensation on his back subsided. Perhaps if he found his way to someone close to her, someone she loved more than her abominable ex-boyfriend, he had a chance. He would be careful. Very careful. His efforts had not been tenacious enough, methodical enough. She had not been hurt enough to fall into his arms. She’d need to hurt in order to see. It was the only way she would find her way to him.
“Bowling sounds fun,” he said.
She’d hurt. He could make it hurt.
And then she would be his.
Tuesday, November 24th
Icicles seeped from the metal table through the thin gown I wore. I shivered, wrapping my arms around my exposed abdomen. The child would be cold too, if I didn’t leave.
A woman walked in rolling an expensive-looking ultrasound machine, her eyes bright with animosity. An elaborate array of blue, green and yellow cables sprang from the front of the machine, and next to it sat a television monitor and a white cord attached to a small paddle.
The woman grabbed a tube of bluish jelly and squeezed a frigid glob onto my abdomen. “Watch the screen.” She shoved the wand against my belly. I bit my lip and tried not to shrink from her piercing stare.
“There’s the heartbeat,” she said, not even trying to hide the disdain in her voice. “Still beating right now.”
Please … please stop.
“Here’s her head … her feet.”
The world was closing in. “Her?”
The woman kept her eyes on the screen. “Sure you want to go through with this? You can still change your mind. There are other options.”
Want to? I had to. And I had to do it now before it was too late.
Through a veil of tears, I nodded. “I’m sure.” I was prone, captive, and totally vulnerable. And I was nothing to her.
The woman thrust the wand back into its holder on the machine and started for the door. “The doctor will be in shortly. God bless that poor child.” She made the sign of the cross and softly closed the door behind her.
I didn’t notice the doctor entering, but suddenly, there she was, only a jet black ponytail visible between my knees. I stared at the ceiling, removing myself from the pain as I had so many times in the past. When I couldn’t pretend any longer, I let the tears fall, soaking my hair with salt.
One final surge of suction, and I heard a familiar voice: “All done.”
I watched in horror as the doctor stood, but it wasn’t the doctor anymore. It was him, holding the tiny child, my child, by the leg, its face grotesque and bloodied, its scrawny arms and legs flailing against my father’s wrist. He wrenched the child’s head, snapping her neck bones in one fluid motion. He laughed, and it echoed through the room, inside my head, even when his mouth stopped moving.
I scrambled backwards on the table.
“You thought you’d get away from me that easily, did you? You will always be a part of me.” My father lunged toward me, extending the mangled infant slick with my blood. “We’re a family now, Hannah. Take her, love her the way I loved you.” The child’s skin brushed my face. Cold, so cold.
I screamed and bolted upright, shivering from fear and the cold sweat that soaked my T-shirt. My hand settled on my flat abdomen. A dream. Just a dream. Just another shitty night to write about in my notebook.
I felt his gaze on me before I saw him, seated in a leather chair in the corner, obscured by shadow. The nightmares were surely too frequent for him to ignore. How often had I woken him up in the last week?
I crossed the room and settled awkwardly on the arm of the chair. “Sorry.”
He shrugged, his face impassive.
“Did I wake you?”
“Yes,” he said, like he had just agreed to a bologna sandwich. Did he not care about being awake or did he not care about … me?
I’m going to lose him. Spoors of panic took root in my chest and multiplied, crushing my lungs and ribs. It had been acceptable for Jake to think I was a little nuts—he had been a jerk either way. But, Dominic was genuinely kind. And he actually cared. I didn’t want to push him away by keeping things from him.
So tell him.
Is damaged better than crazy?
I stared at the floor, the words rushing out before I could stop them. “About five years ago, I ran away from home. My father … he … I was pregnant with his child. I aborted. I had no idea what else to do.”
“And you wish you had done it differently?” His voice was neutral, serene even. He was probably relieved that he had a good reason to kick me out.
“No.” My voice cracked.
“Deciding not to carry an infant you know you can’t feed seems perfectly rational. What were the other options? Force the child and yourself into a life of poverty? And for what? If anything, you did everyone a favor, including that incest-derived embryo whose mere presence would have served as a constant reminder to you of all that is wrong with the world.” He stood and took my face in his hands. “Would you like something to drink?”
I stared at him. “Uh … sure.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I barely noticed him leave the room. Had he really just said that the things I’d spent a lifetime hiding were … acceptable? I must have misunderstood.
“Here you go.” He was back already, handing me a glass. “Orange juice. I thought you could use the vitamin C. With all that worrying, you’re going to end up sick.”
Was I dreaming now? He doesn’t hate me? I sipped, despite my lurching stomach. Sweet, with a slight bitter tang of peel—probably fresh squeezed. The good stuff.
He looked at me, almost expectantly, but I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say.
I lowered the cup. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? Everyone has a past. Children have only so much control.”
My stomach churned, hot with shame. “I mean … it’s a lot to take in. I’ve never told anyone. And I wasn’t a child when I had the abortion.” I waited for him to say something, anything, but he just squeezed my hand and watched me. “Don’t you feel anything about all this?”
He shrugged. “Not really.”
And when I searched his eyes, I saw no disgust, no anger. He understood. Calm, pure and blue, ran through my abdomen where stabbing anxiety had held me prisoner for so long.
He doesn’t hate me. He doesn’t think I’m a terrible person.
He led me to the bed. I lay there, wrapped in his arms and let the tears fall as years of pain melted into acceptance.
As I fell into sleep, I wondered how I had gotten so lucky.
It’s time.
Robert stood at the bottom of the bed. The whip unfurled at his side, dangling over his shoulders like the cross he bore, the leather warming with his body heat. His knee squeaked against the plastic mattress cover. He jerked his wrist and a noise like a firecracker reverberated through the room.
She screamed, but all that came out was a muffled whine. Pathetic. Handcuffs clanked against the metal headboard. He cracked the whip again and shook his head in disapproval. She stopped moving, her face a mask of fear behind the duct tape that held her lips together.
She knows. And she hates me for it. The knowledge of his exposure swarmed his brain like a cloud of locusts, gnawing away at his self-control.
They all knew. Except one. Except her.
And she’s with him.
He brought the whip down against the whore’s rib cage. She flexed and moaned. Crack! Crack! Slices appeared in the shaved skin at the apex of her
thighs.
The fear in her eyes drew out his own.
I’m a marked soul, every mistake inscribed on my face. But love can erase it all. Love can save me.
He needed Hannah. And soon.
His heart rate accelerated. He cracked the whip harder and watched a long line of blood weep from beneath pale ivory as skin gave way. She wheezed a ragged sigh through her nose.
He brought the implement down, again and again, crosshatching the skin of her thighs, her breasts, with oozing red.
She would bear the marks too.
Satisfied, he tossed the whip aside and climbed between her legs, positioning his face above hers. Pancake makeup dripped down her face on beads of sweat.
Look at me, bitch.
She did, as if she could hear his thoughts.
He ripped the tape from her mouth and thrust into her roughly, feeling the resistance that she couldn’t will away, even for the money he was giving her.
Pinpricks of crimson on her lips grew until the blood trickled down her chin.
“Please, stop—”
“Close your fucking mouth.”
“But—”
Robert only wanted the words of one woman. I forgive you, Robert. It’s okay, Robert. I love you.
“Please—” Her voice was nasal and petulant and vile. And she was not Hannah.
He backhanded her, the sting on his hand and the clack of her teeth offering some comfort, some consolation, though not enough.
“Anything else?” he said.
She stared at the wall.
Robert squinted, blurring his vision so her thin face dripped away like a Dali painting, oozing, shifting, reforming, solidifying. Hannah. Dark hair swirled around her lovely face, the green of her eyes pulling him into her.
She smiled at him. I forgive you.
He moved his hips faster, with renewed passion.
I can take the pain away. I can help you.
Over and over he thrust, feeling her, smelling her. When she moaned louder, the screams were Hannah’s as he brought her to the peaks of passion with him, rewarding her for saving him, for loving him, for releasing him from a lifetime of dread.
[Ash Park 01.0] Famished Page 21