Pretty Broken Things

by Melissa Marr

  I fist my hand and discover a knife there.

  Sometime between fucking Michael and now, I must have stopped at my home. The minutes get blurry when Tessie starts stretching under my skin. She's me, or I'm her. We were once both Teresa.

  Hunting feels far too familiar. It's almost like Reid is with me. I can hear him whispering, memories of the things he said or maybe just a part of him that he left behind in my skin. He left his mark so deeply inside me that I can still hear him. I look at the people I pass, see the traits that mark them as lambs waiting to be culled.

  "Tessie?" Lucas is on his stoop. He pats the floor beside him when he sees me.

  I close my eyes. I want there to be another way, but this city is my home. "Don't shit where you eat" is what my mother used to say. Admittedly, she said it with a clipped accent and in reference to fucking the help, but the point is the same.

  "Walk with me?" I ask softly, letting Tessie's voice free. Tessie is softer, weaker, unwell. Tessie seems vulnerable—but she is the one who survived Reid.

  "You okay?" Lucas is stumbling, drunk on the money I gave him.

  “I need company.”

  He ambles into the dark with me.

  We walk toward Crescent Park, and we talk about . . . things as we walk. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what all I say. I tell him things. I ramble, no more or less incoherently than drunks and madmen. It's late, and the city is ours at this hour. Over in the quarter, in between neon lights and harsh music, there are tourists. In the Marigny, floating on sultry jazz and friendly locals, there are my people. Further into the city, there are families in their homes.

  And here at the edge of the Mississippi, there are no faces either familiar or strange. Crescent Park is deserted.

  Lucas is not the first man I've walked to the park. There are things we all do to survive. I don't want to be found unless I choose it. I don’t want anyone to tell my story.

  I don't want to die.

  "I don't tell no tales, Tessie. What you did, you did."

  He's right. There are truths that a person can't understand until they've lived them. Lucas had a family once. I think he might have even had a job. Things change. People change.

  "If I hadn't, he'd have killed me," I explain. I slip off my coat and toss it on the ground. Then I walk toward the bank of the river and stop.

  Lucas follows, too. The river is spilled out in front of us. There's something about that rolling water that seems to purify me.

  Reid kept the girls in water sometimes.

  "Sometimes, he'd fill the tub," I explain.

  I don't look over at Lucas. If he understood, maybe he would live. That was what Reid told the women. If they could only understand . . .

  The knife is at my side now. My right arm is steady, and the shadows are thick.

  Lucas stands on my left. He's tall.

  "He just wanted them to be good, to be clean. I always tried to be good, too. After the first year, I tried so hard. I’d tell them what he liked so he wouldn’t hurt them as much."

  "I ain't never told no one, Tessie. No one knows you're the missing woman what was on that news all the time."

  "But you know. You know, and you drink, and one of these days you'll slip. I slipped. I told you. I'm sorry for that."

  He steps away then. If he were sober, maybe he'd run. He's not.

  "I'm so sorry." I truly am, but sorry doesn't change anything.

  Then the knife slides into his belly. He stumbles. Falls. I'm on top of him. He struggles as the knife goes in again. It's not easy to die.

  We resist it. Sometimes we resist enough to buy a little time. I bought time.

  In the end, though, when it's time to die, we die. Lucas knows things, and knowing is power.

  It’s why Reid wouldn’t let me leave. I knew things.

  I know things.

  "I gave you money to leave," I remind him, but he’s already dead. "I tried not to do this."

  Afterwards, I strip down, pile up my clothes, and light them.

  Then, I purify myself in the river. I get the soap from my coat pocket and wash myself. The water takes away the blood. It takes Lucas away. The blood, the dirt, the body, the water fixes it.

  Then I put my coat on to hide my wet body and walk home, as pure as if I'd been baptized. This city is good for me. I won't lose it. Not the river, not the music, not the peace I have here.

  Lucas should have taken the money and ran. It's what I did. It's why I'm still alive.

  9

  Juliana

  I’m walking alone down West Peabody Street, knowing full well that I need to be cautious, far too aware that a killer knows my name and face. I realize I need to think about safety. If Henry knew I was walking around, I’m guessing the lecture I’d get would be loud. He’d be angrier than he’s ever been with me. We both know he thinks I need police protection—and we both know I’ll refuse. I did ever other time.

  He’s a good friend, and I know he means well. He's also the only man whose come close to being a lot more than a friend, and I know that he can see the fears I'm trying to outrun right now.

  I just . . . feel like I’m losing something if I let anyone control me. I’ve seen the bruises and wounds on the women the Creeper has killed. They are restrained. They are injured over a period of weeks or days. I don’t know if it’s breaking them that makes him kill them finally or what. I am not an investigator. The dead are my priority, not the pursuit of the living. But I can tell he wants control.

  The Creeper is determined to pull me into his perversion, but cowering would give him power.

  That isn’t a path I’m willing to take.

  Despite that, I’m not so foolish as to spend my evening aimlessly walking around in public. I let myself into my more-or-less boyfriend’s building, walk to the third floor, and use the key Andrew gave me last year. I sent him a text a half hour ago. He didn’t reply, but he never travels more than an hour or two from home, so if he’s not here right now, he will be soon.

  He’s not the sort of man who would ask me to cower—or to submit to anything. He doesn’t try to take control of my life or freedom. It’s why he’s in my life at all.

  He won’t call me out on the way I test myself. He’d understand that I needed to get out of the house. I needed to know that I wasn’t crippled by the fears that I couldn’t quite put to rest. I don’t know how to sort through what it means that a killer has decided to notice me.

  I’ve never met the Creeper, but I do know him. I know he’s right-handed. I know he’s of average build. Both were theories I shared with the Durham police because of the bruising on Christine Megroz’s body.

  I see things that let me know him better than I would ever want to know anyone capable of such violence. I chose to protect the dead, to shepherd them to their rests, to ease their families’ pain.

  I didn’t choose to be a detective, but a serial killer has forced me to think about motives, about his identity.

  “Jules?” I hear Andrew before I see him.

  Andrew is wearing a towel. I swear the man showers three times a day. I won’t say he’s overly body-conscious, but he’s definitely aware of his body in a way that’s unusual to me. I like his attention to his cleanliness and fitness most of the time, but I sometimes worry that his obsessive showering is a hint that the scent of my work lingers on my skin.

  I drop my things on his sofa and close the distance. He’s a smart man, sweet in ways I appreciate. If I were a different person, I’d tell him I need to talk, but I’m here to feel alive. Andrew is handsome in the way typical of the sort of man who spends more hours exercising than in the library, but I know for a fact that those muscles actually come from riding a bike or walking everywhere. He’s an environmentalist and a part-time researcher.

  He doesn’t resist when I remove his towel. He doesn't need words from me, not to tell him what I need, and not to tell him how I feel.

  Andrew understands me, all the words I'm not saying, and in
short order my shirt and skirt are on the floor. As lovers, we fit. He knows that sometimes the only thing that matters is feeling the world go silent. It’s not a show. It’s not about racing to orgasm. Those are perfect on other days, but the desperation that drives me when the job gets too much is different.

  Skin on skin is all that matters when I feel like this, which means that being bent over the back of the sofa is exactly right. His hands roam, holding my hips then stroking up my sides.

  Touch is everything.

  My mind falls into that glorious place where there are no thoughts, no fears, no worries or self-consciousness. All I know is that I am safe here. I don’t need words or voice; I don’t need to see him. In these moments, I am alive as I can possibly be.

  Andrew gives me a space where I can fall apart. Tears come with my orgasm, and I can’t say which I needed more.

  He leans down so he's holding me and kisses my neck. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I shake my head.

  “Are we going to anyhow?”

  I snort. “Probably.”

  He stands up, letting me have space to come to my feet. He treats me with a level of kindness I'd found uncomfortable initially. With Andrew, everything—no matter how simple—requires consent in some fashion.

  "Tea?" he asks.

  “What’s with the tea thing? Uncle Micky has corrupted you, hasn’t he?” I tease.

  “So, coffee?”

  I bend to pick up my clothes. I’m not going to bother getting dressed, but if I don’t pick my things up, they’ll end up in his wash—as if too long on the floor makes things instantly dirty--or perhaps it’s just his theory that washing our things together is an encouragement of a primal bonding. Andrew’s current research area is biology, and it’s led to a few peculiar theories.

  “I can stuff my bag in the closet.”

  He grins and holds out a hand. “Or . . .”

  I give it over. His quirks are more than made up for by his kindness and tolerance of my own eccentricities.

  He says nothing as he takes my clothes out of my bag and sees the stack of manila files under them. Instead, he pulls the files out and puts them on his table before he folds my clothes. It’s as close as we get to him offering to help me. A lot of our conversations are ones with no words in them.

  “Coffee?” he asks again.

  “Please.”

  He glances at the files again and makes enough coffee for both of us. Tea is more of a social drink for him. He doesn’t drink alcohol, and it’s only on rare occasions that he drinks anything other than coffee, fruit juice, or water. People often assume he’s a recovering alcoholic, but in truth, it’s a lot like his fastidiousness with cleanliness and order. Andrew likes things the way he likes them.

  I’m not interested in poking at his reasons why, and he gives me that same consideration. Maybe that’s all love truly is: two people who accept each other as they are without needing to change or control the other. Still, ‘love’ is not a word I’ve ever used. There’s a stability to our relationship that makes me wish we could use that word sometimes, but using it would mean things changing. I don’t want that. What we have is enough for me.

  “You’re a good man,” I tell him as I get out a couple of cups.

  He looks over his shoulder at me. “Really bad day, eh?”

  “Body dump.”

  He nods, waiting for the rest.

  “Carolina Creeper,” I add.

  “Those are always hard.” He motions to the fridge. “Do you need food?”

  “No.”

  For several moments, the only sound is the steady flow of coffee. It’s comforting. Like everything with Andrew, there’s a familiar warmth to the simplicity of it. There’s nothing confusing or complicated between us. It’s peaceful.

  And I am about to ruin it.

  “He sent a note.”

  “Who?” He meets my gaze. “Who sent a note?”

  I hear it, the unspoken urging to tell him he’s misunderstanding me. I want to. I want to lie. To him. To myself. Saying it aloud, telling Andrew, makes it real in a way I have been trying to avoid.

  “The Creeper.”

  “Jesus, Jules!” He’s across the few yards separating us in a heartbeat. His arms are around me, and his hand cradles my head like I’m precious and vulnerable. If I hadn’t cried when my orgasm hit earlier, I’m fairly sure that the tears I prefer to never shed would be impossible to ignore now. Sex is a much better way to release emotions.

  “I’m fine,” I lie.

  “You’re not.” He only leans back far enough to look into my face. “What’s the plan? What are they doing to keep you safe? Do you want to move in here?”

  I shake my head.

  “No what? No there’s not a plan or no to moving in?” An edge creeps into his voice, and I know it’s fear.

  “No to all of it. I sort of haven’t talked to Henry or any of them since I found out. I had to take care of the woman and—”

  “Bullshit.” He steps back then, arms releasing me, putting distance between us. Anger. Worry. Frustration. He's feeling all the things I can't, and I wish briefly that he was a bit less in touch with his emotions. “You’re avoiding dealing with it.”

  I walk around him and pour the coffee. I add the creamer and sugar he likes and hold out his cup. For a moment, I think he’s angry enough that he’s not going to take it.

  “I came to you. That’s what I’m doing so far.”

  He sighs. “You need to talk to Revill about your safety.”

  Any other time, I would’ve called Andrew out on the tinge of hostility he has toward Henry, but tonight, I ignore it. There are reasons for his jealousy and possessiveness, but I came to him, not Henry.

  He’s a good man. There are good men. Sometimes, though, when I see the women who die at the hands of men, I remember that in most cases, they thought their killers were good once. How can anyone trust? How do we know which love is safe?

  Darren killed my sister. My nephew.

  The Creeper is out there, blending into society.

  Men like him are out there, and I cannot trust my own judgment to be sure that any man is truly safe.

  I shake my head. “I need to find him.”

  Finding the Creeper . . . well, no one’s managed that. It’s sheer arrogance to think I can find him.

  But then again, he isn’t sending anyone else letters as far as I know. He’s paying attention to me. Maybe he wants me to find him. The thought of that, of him wanting anything from me, makes me fill with so much fear that I feel like I might vomit.

  “That’s Revill’s job. Not yours.”

  “The Creeper didn’t send a letter addressed to Henry. He said he wanted me to take care of his ‘pretty things.’”

  “Jesus.” Andrew pulls me in for a hug. “Move in here. Let me take care of you. Stay with me so he can’t get to you.”

  It’s not the worst idea ever, but I can’t, especially now. I will not let some sociopath control my life, rush me into decisions I’m not sure are wise, change how I live, force me into commitments. I watched Darren dominate my sister, make her smaller and smaller until one day he just killed her.

  No one will ever control me. Not the Creeper. Not Andrew. Not Henry.

  “You know I . . . care about you."

  "I figured that out the first time you shoved me onto a bed."

  I roll my eyes. "I care. It's not just sex. I care . . .I . . . "

  "I know, Jules." Andrew looks like he's not sure whether to laugh at my discomfort. "So why not move in?"

  “No. I’m staying at my home with Uncle Mickey. Right now, that’s where I belong.” I don't want to discuss it, but Andrew deserves some answer. I push past my tendency to keep my fears to myself. "He's obviously trying to manipulate me. I can't let him."

  He gives me a sympathetic look. Andrew lost a sister and his parents when he was a kid. He understands loss, too. It's not pity in his face, but he's looking at me in the way
that reminds me that he knows better than anyone why I find the mere thought of commitment terrifying. My sister's death just about broke me. My nephew's death . . . there are no words for how I felt when I heard that Darren killed Tommy, too.

  I walk out of the kitchen, trying to move away from memories best left forgotten. I need to stop thinking about Darren. He’s in jail. There's nothing more to say there.

  I walk away and stare at the files I brought with me.

  Silently, Andrew follows me to the coffee table. He doesn’t offer to help, and I don’t ask. We both sit and take a file. It’s not the first night we’ve done this.

  “What if they never find him?” Andrew asks several minutes later. He doesn’t lift his eyes from the stack of articles he’s pouring over.

  “They will.”

  The Carolina Creeper case has bothered me since the first body was on my table, but this time, it’s worse.

  His latest victim is in my basement. He’s obviously trying to draw me in, but I don’t know why or what he wants. Is it a warning that I’m in danger? Or does he want to be stopped? Some of the articles in the past speculated on my physical similarities to the victim that was never found. I look like her, and I handle the dead.

  “I have to find him. I don’t know. I can’t . . . I just . . . I can’t ignore it.”

  I look at Andrew as I realize that he was aware of the latest body before I came to his place. He had to be; everyone in Durham is. I suspect people in the whole of the state and other states, too, are. There was already another write-up that got picked up by the AP. So, all of the Associated Press affiliates had summaries of the killer. What was omitted so far was his presumed fascination with me.

  I stare at Andrew, but I don’t ask why he didn’t seek me out or prompt me when he undoubtedly knew what sent me to his arms. He chose not to come to me, but he didn’t reject me. I’m not sure what to do with that.

  “I couldn’t prepare her body because of his fucking letter.” I try to keep my voice level, keep both my anger at the killer and my frustration with my lover out of the words I need to say. “He killed another woman, and I couldn’t do my job.”