by A J Rivers
She was a part of him. Even when she was pulled away. Even when he had to step back and let her go for a time. He always knew it wouldn't last forever. They would come back together. She was part of his essence. Inextricable from him. No matter what it took, he would draw her back, exactly as she should have been. They never should have been apart. If all had worked out the way it was meant to, the way he wanted it to before he had to humble himself and submit to the tribulation that proved himself, they would have already shared so many years together.
He would never be able to get back those years. Sometimes the thought of that drove him mad. The torment would creep into the sides of his mind and up the back of his neck until it invaded his thoughts. Those were the moments when he almost lost control. When he risked letting go of everything he held onto so tightly. He could lose everything because of that despair. He couldn't let that happen. He had to restrain himself. Remind himself he was more than that. He was stronger, smarter, worthier. All he went through only increased his strength. When it was finally time for him to eliminate all that stood in his way, everything he went through would be worth it.
She was worth it. She was worth everything. And now he would never have to long for her again. He knew where to find her.
Levi and Thomas waited just where he told them to. They didn't know what to expect from him. This wasn't the first time they stood ready. It wasn't the first time they prepared themselves to go to war. But they were willing to do whatever he asked of them. They could already see his power.
It would take time for him to climb through the ranks, to rise to the surface. But he would. A day would come when he would be above them all. It took time to create a god of chaos, but when his time came, he would humble the world. Knees would bend, or they would break. Either way, they would bow.
These two understood. Levi and Thomas were loyal to him. They would do as he asked, knowing the rewards their service would bring. If they pleased him, they would be favored. That would mean everything to them. And his favor would carry them far. They wouldn't languish among the lowest ranks. They wouldn't have to grapple for attention and hope for another to notice them. Their lives would be more than just endless toil.
For others, that toil was all they could hope for in the mission. There were the grains of sand, and there was the sea. Leviathan needed both. And when the crashing of powerful waves consumed the sand, there was always more to replace it.
"I have the address," he told the waiting men.
Their shoulders squared, and their chests lifted as if the words filled them. This is what they had been waiting for. Many other times they'd been called. They stood ready, right on the precipice of greatness. But it was always taken away. They never had that chance to fulfill the promise. Now they were another step closer.
"You cannot hesitate. There will be cameras. There may be lookouts. Keep your eyes open and pay attention to what's around you. When there is an opening, you have to move. Stopping even for an instant could reveal you. Make it fast and make it clean. As soon as it is done, you leave. Go in a different direction than you came. If anyone heard you, they will be looking on that path. Don't stop for anything," he instructed them firmly.
"What about proof? Should we take a picture?" Levi asked.
"There's no need. I will hear soon enough. It matters more for you to get out." He looked between them, meeting their eyes intently. "And if you're found?"
"We won't be," Thomas said without hesitation.
He gave a single, slow nod. It was exactly as he wanted to hear it. As they walked away from him, he felt a sense of peace fill him. There would be blood, but with blood came order. Blood cleansed. Blood redeemed. Blood paid debts. Blood sharpened minds and brought hands to action. And this blood would release chains and return what was rightfully his.
There wasn't long to wait now. No more years. No more months. Soon. Soon it would be over.
Chapter Six
Now
"Considering a new look?" Sam raises an eyebrow as he sits down beside me on the couch and peers over my shoulder at my computer screen.
I glance at him, and he holds out a white Styrofoam cup.
"Is that one of Pearl's peppermint shakes?" I ask.
"Would I bring you anything else in a white cup three days before Christmas?" he responds.
Snatching the cup from his hand, I eagerly suck down some of the intensely thick shake. It’s pure candy cane on my tongue and smooth going down my throat. These shakes were always one of the few things I carried with me from Sherwood during the long years I stayed away. I didn't let myself think of the town or anything in it very much, but when the holidays rolled around, Pearl's peppermint shakes were never far from my mind.
After getting down a few sips, I point to the screen.
"Mary Preston," I tell him.
Sam nods and takes the cup from my hand to steal a sip.
"Pairing metallic eyeshadow with your regular daytime rotation?" he asks, reading the title of the video.
"Apparently, it adds pop and visual interest to even your most toned-down look," I say, reading off some of the description. "But I'm not after the makeup tips."
"What are you after?" he asks.
I let out a sigh. "No idea. Whatever it is, I haven't found it. I've been going through all of Mary's videos, her social media, all the articles about her. Everything I can find that has anything to do with her, I'm looking through it trying to find anything that might explain the connection."
"You really think there is one?" he asks.
"There has to be. It's too convenient. Someone sent me that clip of the video. Which means they had access to Mary's cloud. How would they even know to look for it unless they already knew it was there? I've been going through all of her videos, trying to find patterns."
"Have you found any?"
"A ton of them. That's kind of the problem. She follows a formula. Every video she does is essentially the same structure, same approach. And there are at least two or three videos every week. Nothing has stood out to me in any of them so far," I say.
Before he can answer, the sound of a car door outside makes our eyes snap to each other. Setting my computer down, I cross to the large window at the front of my house and slide the curtains aside to peek across the street. A little more than a month ago, I stood just like this, watching through the window at what I thought was the murder of my new neighbor happening in the house across the street. Not long after that, it was Pamela's car pulling into the driveway that got my attention, which almost left me dead in the garage.
Now I know the house was empty, and both incidents were actually Kevin Holloway and Sarah Mueller drawing me into her web.
I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse when I see Pamela's red Miata pull up in front of the house again. Sam steps up beside me and puts an arm around my waist. He brings his mouth to my ear.
"Don't worry. I see her, too," he whispers.
I elbow him playfully in the side. "Too soon."
He laughs, and I pull on a coat and shoes before heading outside into the brisk December afternoon.
"Hey, Emma," Pamela calls out, waving from the front yard.
Sometime in the last few weeks, Lionheart Property Management finally put up a 'for sale' sign in front of the house. Even though the house had been on the market for many months, Derrick, the owner of the management company, hadn't put up a sign. He thought the signs looked tacky and took away from the appeal of the street. When a prospective buyer pulled up to the house, he didn't want them to see a property that was for sale. He wanted them to see their home.
The events of recent weeks have shifted his perspective on that a bit. At least for now. There might be a time when he decides to go back to his clandestine real estate approach, but for now, he's going with transparency.
"Good to see you out and about," I reply.
The scarf around her neck conceals her healing injury, and her full makeup and hair would dist
ract anyone from knowing she had gone through what she did.
"It would be better if it was warm, but I'll take it. You actually saved me a trip coming over here," she smiles.
"I did?" I ask her, looking at her quizzically.
"I was going to come by and ask you to come to the house with me."
My eyes slide over the cold, empty windows at the front of the house and the door I once thought I saw smeared with blood.
"Haven't you gotten enough of this place?" I ask.
"You'd think. But it turns out I have some unresolved… stuff happening. The doctor thinks walking through the house might help me move past it," Pamela says.
I resist the urge to smirk. It wasn't too long ago she was taunting me for my own skirmishes with mental health. In fact, hers was a particularly forceful voice in the mob trying to oust me from Sherwood. It’s a little taste of sweet reversal now knowing that she’s the one on the couch. But considering everything she faced, I figure now isn’t the time to get smug.
"That makes sense," I nod.
Pamela glances over at the house and lets out a breath before looking back at me.
"Would you come in with me?" she asks.
"Me?"
"You have a different perspective of all this than I do. When we walked through the house together the last time, I didn't know what was going on. I still thought you had…"
"Lost my marbles?" I finish with a smile, not wanting to slip back into the heavy feelings I've only just recently gotten out from under.
"At least most of the important ones. I didn't know if you were seeing things or making things up. I had no idea what you were actually going through. Now I do. I think it would be beneficial for both of us to go through it together," she explains.
I nod. "That makes sense." I glance back at Sam. "Want to come in?"
He shakes his head. "I actually just got a call from the station, and I need to go check it out." He comes up to kiss me. "I'll call you later. Be careful."
When his car is gone, I look at Pamela again. "I wish he wouldn't say that."
"Why?" she asks, starting toward the front door to the house.
I follow her, feeling tension creep up my spine the closer I get to the door.
"Because it's usually after he says it that things like getting locked in a garage with a running engine or falling down an elevator shaft happen," I point out.
Pamela's eyes flick up and down my body like she's evaluating me in a new light.
"Valid."
She takes a key from her pocket and uses it to open the door. Images flash through my mind as we step inside. I can still see the smear of blood that looked so real in the moonlight. I see the legs of who I thought was a woman named Ruby, battered and bloodied on the living room floor.
At the time, it was so intense, so real. Everything in me believed I just watched a woman who had become my friend get murdered. But only moments later when Sam arrived, all signs of the brutal killing were gone. The speed and smoothness of the orchestration was impressive, looking back, but the memory still makes my stomach turn.
"It's so quiet," I say.
"Tell me what you saw," she says. "I want to know what happened."
"There were boxes everywhere. Remember, she told me she was moving in, so there were things set up around like she was unpacking. When I think about that night, I can't honestly remember how much stuff there was. There were a lot of boxes and a few things, like a sweater hanging from the banister. I remember that because she wore dresses and sweaters all the time," I tell her.
"So did Ruby," Pamela murmurs. "At least, she did before she met... "
Her voice trails off. She doesn't want to say his name. The man who murdered her beloved cousin. That was the real Ruby. A woman who really did live and breathe. A woman who really did die at the hands of a man who once said he loved her. That made Pamela one of Sarah's victims well before she ever placed the knife against her throat.
I place my hand on Pamela’s shoulder and give her a reassuring nod.
Chapter Seven
Pamela and I make our way slowly through the house, talking through it as we go from room to room. I never entered the house when I thought Ruby lived here. She always came to my house, so by the time I actually went inside, she was already gone. We go into the kitchen, and I see the oven again.
"When I came here to look around outside, there was sugar outside the door," I explain. "When Sarah came to my house to get sugar, she must have brought it back over here and just tossed it out. That really bothers me. I know that sounds ridiculous, considering everything else she did, but for some reason, thinking about her walking back over here and throwing the sugar out the back door really gets to me. She was just sitting there in my kitchen, bleeding her heart out to me. Now I know it was all an act. She thought of all that before she came to my house. Right down to the borrowing the sugar so she could pretend to bake a damn cake."
"She didn't think of it," Pamela whispers. "Not all of it, anyway. She stole most of it from Ruby."
A sheen of tears over her eyes expresses the painful depth Sarah's cruel game cut. The entire time I tried to convince the people around me, I saw the woman across the street, Pamela taunted me for losing my grip. She questioned my ability to do my job and the safety of having me be a part of police investigations. All the time, she had no idea the woman I met had stolen the identity of the cousin she was still mourning. It was part of the torment, part of the twisted way Sarah was trying to destroy my sanity and my reputation.
I resented her for it—and for her constant flirtation with Sam—for a long time. But these last few weeks have really put things in perspective for me. I never knew Pamela struggles the way she does. And ultimately, I signed up for a life of danger and fear. I’ve been shot at, chased, hit, attacked, more times than I can count. I throw myself into life-threatening situations as a hobby. Pamela doesn’t. I can’t blame her for still feeling shaken up. And even though part of me wants to feel glad now that the shoe is on the other foot and she’s the one needing my help, I just can’t. I feel bad for her.
We visit the attic last. This is the one room of the house we didn't go into when Pamela finally relented to showing Sam and me the house just after the faked murder. The smell of unfinished wood is strong, and I notice small dark spots on the floor to one side. Pamela gestures toward them.
"Fake blood," she says.
I nod. "Sam told me when they searched the house after the showdown in the cemetery; they found traces of fake blood and a couple things scattered on the floor. Kevin must have been waiting right out of view, and as soon as I went to call Sam, they brought everything to the attic. They knew people would be watching the house after that, so when they went to get everything out, they were rushing and must have dropped some things."
Pamela lets out a slightly shaky breath. "If I had let you come up here."
She says it almost like she thinks she's talking to herself.
"What?" I ask.
She looks over at me and shakes her head slightly. "Just thinking about the day we came here. After you saw… that. We didn't come up to the attic. I didn't see anything. I didn't notice anything strange, and I couldn't understand why you were still so determined something happened. Seeing everything that proved you were wrong should have snapped you out of it. The empty house, the new appliances. All of it. But it didn't change anything, and I just wanted to get out of the house. If we came up here, we would have seen that stuff. Maybe…"
I know where that thought's going, and I stop her. "It's not your fault. It wouldn't have stopped her. Even if we did come up here and find that stuff, all it would have done is proved someone was here. We wouldn't know who it was or why she was doing it."
She nods and wraps her arms around herself as she looks around the attic. Her eyes stop to the side, and she shivers.
"I really hope they looked in there," she says. "I know Derrick has shown this place a couple of times, but I don't want
to be the one who shows it to the people who want to look in there and find a bunch of creepy stuff."
"What are you talking about?" I ask.
Pamela points across the attic, and I see a door I hadn't noticed before. "The closet. I hope the police went in there when they were sweeping the house. I know no one actually died here, but that doesn't mean I want to see the fake blood and stuff."
She shudders, but I'm fascinated by the door. "It's a closet? How big is it?"
"Fairly large. It's not really a closet, that's just how I think of it. Some of the people around here finished their attics and turned them into master suites with a nursery or dressing room. You should know what it looks like. Your house has one."
I pause at the door and turn to look at her.
"No it doesn't," I frown.
Pamela's head cocks to the side. "Yes, it does. Almost all the houses in this neighborhood were designed by the same team. They have different layouts, but one feature they share is the small room off the attic. It's a weird little quirk of this particular designer."
"He must have gotten over it by the time he got to my house, because there isn't one in my attic," I tell her.
"I know the layout of your house, Emma," she says.
My eyes narrow. "That's not creepy at all."
She sighs. "I've seen the plans. Remember, Lionheart manages your house. All that information is in the file, even if we're not actively handling the property. The original plans have the extra room just like all the other houses."
I turn back to the door and open it to peer into the small space beyond. "They must have changed their mind when they were building. That was my grandparents' house. I spent a lot of time crawling around in the attic when I was younger, and I know I would have noticed an extra room. That would have been my fort as fast as I could drag a blanket and bag of snacks up there. It's not there."
