Pretty Broken Things

by Melissa Marr

  He reminds me of the life I knew before I defied my family and left. Shows and shopping, lovely meals and banal conversations, these were the pillars of life before I met Reid. Michael’s offers invite me into worlds I’ve avoided since I escaped. I figured Reid would look for me there.

  Maybe he no longer searches for me. Maybe he never did.

  I debate agreeing to the trip. It’s been years since I’ve been to Manhattan, but I didn’t know if I could pretend to be well that far from my city. Could I pretend to live that life for a few days in order to make Michael forget about the years I don’t want to remember?

  “We’ll have a great time.”

  The question isn’t going away, no matter how much I wish it would.

  “It’s really not a good idea.”

  “I don’t travel with women, Tess. You realize that, don’t you? I need to go, and I want you with me.”

  Being made to feel special is my weakness, as it was with Reid, as it was with mother and her many lovers. So, I capitulate.

  “I’ll come with you, Michael.”

  Even as I agree, I fear that this is the biggest mistake I’ve made in years. But Michael makes me want things I haven’t dared to dream of. I want to be normal again, to have a life, to be well and whole. He holds the illusions I crave in front of my eyes, and in my secret heart, I am still Teresa wanting to be loved the way Reid once loved me--before things went so incredibly wrong.

  Maybe the pills will be enough. I can double up for a few days, either enough to stay asleep or enough to stay awake. Hesitantly, I nod my head. I can’t make my tongue say the words, but I agree.

  I’m leaving my city. . . for him. I’ll go to New York for a week. It's not what he most wants, but I have another plan, one he set into motion by hiding from himself. I see hints of who he is, and I think that this is my solution. If I give him what he doesn’t realize he needs, he might stop trying to get the thing I am loathe to surrender.

  Michael is like a lot of men: he’s terrified of growing up. Commitments, marriage, kids, a house, they are the stuff of nightmares for him. I envy him a little that he knows so little of true nightmares, but if I envy him for that, I’ll have to envy a lot of other people too.

  Tell a man he’s brilliant, fuck him like he’s the best there ever was, listen to him, and he’ll tell you how to own him.

  I’m listening to Michael. I’ll be exactly the woman he needs. I can do that.

  “Take me to New York.”

  13

  A Girl with No Past

  At the time, I didn’t realize it. Edward was training me the way he’d train a dog. I was rewarded and punished. The methods might have been unusual, but the core of it was the same. Every decision I made was influenced by Edward. I missed classes when he wanted. I kneeled down in front of him in the shadows of a parking lot. I hadn’t slept in my apartment for at least a week.

  Maybe I had a bit more of my mother in me than I thought. I shouldn’t need a man to make me feel valued. I didn’t want that, had left her world where marriage was about status and connections. I had no urge to preserve family connections or forge new ones.

  “Do you trust me, Tessa?”

  There wasn’t a true answer to that, not really, but I knew the right one to give. “I do.”

  “Good girl.” He put his hand on the small of my back and steered me to one of the private rooms.

  Inside the room, he tapped out a bit of cocaine, and I watched as he turned the small pile into a line. “You need you to relax.”

  “I’m relaxed,” I lied.

  “You can trust me. I’ll take care of you. That’s what we both want, isn’t it?”

  He stood and kissed me. His kisses were unlike anything else; they were the kisses of a man who needed me. Edward, a man with money and power and danger, chose me.

  “Do you want to make me happy?”

  “I do.”

  “Such a good woman.”

  He demonstrated how to inhale the line of powder, and then he drew another one for me. He held my hair back over my shoulder as I bent down and inhaled. I felt it flood my system almost immediately.

  Edward’s hands slid to my hips. “Keep me happy.”

  “Yes, Edward.”

  “You’ll never belong to anyone else the way you belong to me.”

  From that day forward, I was his.

  14

  Juliana

  My hands shake as I read his words. A letter from Darren that escaped the monitoring wound up in my stack of mail.

  He’d sent it to someone else, who then sent it to me. If I’d known it was from him, I wouldn’t have opened it.

  My Dear Sister,

  I’m sorry that you have become caught in such danger. If Sophie was alive, she’d be worried. I pray for your safety. Some of the people inside these walls are evil. This killer is surely the same. Take comfort in the Lord, sister. I will continue to pray for you each day.

  yours in faith,

  Darren

  On the surface, his words are innocuous. A man praying for my safety. And yet, I know it was his twisted version of religion that he used to justify Sophie’s death. Some men hide behind Christianity—or other religions—as if a good and kind god would find their violence righteous.

  I force myself to calmness, or a facsimile of it, and I refold the letter. I tuck it into its envelope. Later, I will give it to Henry. The police can follow up on who helped Darren. This letter, at least, we can trace.

  I doubt that they had much luck with the Creeper’s letter.

  It’s been almost a week since I helped lift the unnamed woman out of the grave. We still do not know her name. There is no relative to comfort. I know now that she’d been dead less than two weeks. Just last month, she was walking around. I wonder what her laughter sounded like. I wonder what her life was like. Unless we catch the Creeper, I’ll never know.

  In my job, I’ve listened to the stories of innumerable people, many of whom I dressed for their final public appearance. I’ve sat with them in silence. That’s my mission, the responsibility I took on when I became a mortician. I know some people find it macabre. It’s uncomfortable work—and I’ve made my share of off-color jokes at funeral industry conventions. Sometimes we laugh to avoid crying or crawling into a bottle of gin.

  That doesn’t change the core belief that drives me: I am as much a caretaker as a priest or teacher or nurse. My charges are unable to tell me what they want, but often they’ve left instructions or told loved ones. Even if I don’t have the specifics, I know that everyone wants to be treated with love and respect as they leave this world. Whether it’s a standard embalming, a natural burial, or a cremation, every last person should be given respect.

  The Creeper disrespects them and me by dropping the dead in shallow graves, unwrapped, dirty, with no more care than trash. He insults them in their last journey . . . and he’s intentionally done so where I am the one to care for them. It’s disturbed my peace to the point that I’ve slept like shit. I need more coffee the way an addict needs a fix on a very bad day. Nothing like dreams of a killer to make rest elusive.

  I walk into the kitchen to find Uncle Micky and Henry crammed into the tiny breakfast nook. The sight would be almost funny if it wasn’t for my sour mood. . . and the surly look on my uncle’s face.

  “Fuck,” I mutter.

  As I meet Henry’s eyes, he gives me a look I’ve seen far too often, vaguely amused and disappointed all at once. For all of the slack we cut each other, he is still an officer of the law, and I am still a stubborn bitch. Those two things mean we reach conflict regularly—at least that's how I explain it to myself or anyone who asks. I don't mention that the way we spark once led to the kind of kisses and touches that defy words.

  My uncle lifts his gaze from his floral tea pot. “Were you going to tell me?”

  Both men are holding their delicate white china cups. Uncle Micky looks natural. He has an entire routine to his tea. It’s soothing to hi
m, and at this point in my life, I find it comforting more often than not, too. Henry looks unnatural, not because of the cup or the coffee. It is simply wrong for him to be at my table with my uncle at all.

  “Coffee first,” I mutter.

  I skip the pretty cups in favor of an enormous mug with “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” written on it. It’s not one I’d ever use in the business part of the house, where mourners might see it, but it’s the right size for mornings.

  “Juliana . . .” Henry starts.

  Mutely, I shoot him the sort of look I wouldn’t dare in the field or in public. He’s a detective. He’s entitled to respect—or he is usually. He’s come into my home telling tales. That changes things. Sure, I told Andrew I was going to talk to Henry. I meant it too. I just wasn’t ready to do it just yet.

  “Coffee first,” I repeat more sternly.

  “She's still like this in the morning?” Henry smiles at me. "Here, I thought she'd get sweeter with age."

  I flip my middle finger up without looking. My right hand is busy holding the carafe of happiness that pours into my mug. I don’t bother with cream. Or sugar. I just need coffee.

  “Henry brought scones.”

  “Bribery? Isn’t that illegal?”

  Henry grins. “Pretty sure scones aren’t considered bribes, Jules. They were a friendly gesture to a colleague who’s had a rough week.”

  I snort, lifting both middle fingers from my cup.

  “Micky deserved to know.” Henry slides a cranberry orange scone my way.

  I pull out a chair and sit. “These are homemade.”

  He shrugs.

  “Definitely a bribe.” I can’t resist though. Henry may be pissing me off, but the man is an exemplary baker. “This is your grandmama’s recipe, isn’t it?”

  Henry shrugs again, but once I take a bite, he doesn’t need to confirm anything.

  “Are we going to talk about this?” Uncle Micky asks. It’s not truly a question. They were waiting for me. Henry gave me a couple days to settle myself and admit that I needed to deal with being in the gaze of a killer.

  I just don’t know what it means to deal with it. There isn’t a thing I can think of that is a good solution. Tell the killer I took out a restraining order? Somehow, I don’t think he’s the law following sort. Hide away until he’s caught? He’s been killing for years, and I can’t stay hidden or under protection for years.

  “I’m sure he already told you everything,” I tell my uncle, not coldly but honestly.

  Henry leans back in his chair and studies me. He does that far too often for me to be unnerved by it. He can’t turn off his job the way I can. In public, I am a consummate professional. I am polite, reserved, approachable. I am the woman you can come to in your loss and pain, and I will remember your name when we are in line at the grocer. I don’t intrude, leaving the choice to speak up to the bereaved—because even years later, that’s what they are to me. They are the bereaved, and I am not going to remind them of their grief by approaching them. Here at home, though? I am Juliana. I am a woman with a temper. And right now, Henry Revill has sparked it. Again.

  “Someone had to tell him,” Henry says unapologetically. “You not dealing with it stopped being an option once the Creeper sent a letter to you.”

  “You weren’t surprised by the letter.”

  Henry shrugs. “Too many bodies when you’re around. Too many bodies that end up being yours. That meant either you were connected or guilty of something.”

  “She’s not guilty of a damn thing!” Uncle Micky might be the sweetest man I know, but he’s still the closest thing I have to both a guardian angel and a father.

  “We know that.” Henry looks at Micky. “We follow every lead, no matter how improbable when it comes to a case like this.”

  I take the scone sitting untouched on Henry’s plate. If he wanted the damn thing, he should’ve eaten it before I walked into the room. “You checked out everyone who works here then.”

  “And Andrew.” This time Henry doesn’t sound at all sympathetic. Andrew’s dislike of Henry is matched by Henry’s increasingly obvious disdain. In truth, no one in the police department seems to get on with Andrew. I have to wonder now if it was because of this.

  “When?”

  “Two bodies ago. The papers weren’t the first to wonder at the connection. The department saw it. You had to have considered it.”

  He pauses, and I nod. I considered it. I chose to reject it. Thinking that the Carolina Creeper was watching me felt solipsistic . . . and paranoid. I’d prefer to be neither.

  “So, we paid attention. Checked out your associates.” Henry’s speaking to me the way I speak to the bereaved. “We want to keep you safe, Jules.”

  Uncle Micky makes a sound that might be a gasp or a cry. I can’t tell, and I can’t look at him right now. I reach out and rest my hand on his arm. His other hand covers mine, holding it there.

  My gaze is fixed on Henry, though. “I’m not going to stop doing my job, Revill.”

  His brows raise at my reversion to his surname. “No one thinks you will, Miss Campbell. That doesn’t mean you can stop us from doing ours either. I gave you a few days without pointing out that we’ve started keeping an eye on you, but—”

  “You’re following me?”

  “Protecting you.”

  I snort, and despite myself, I look away. I don’t feel comforted by the idea of my colleagues trailing me, studying where I go and what I do. I especially don't feel comfortable that Henry is doing so. It makes me feel weak. Admittedly, a part of me also cringes when I realize that they'll all know that I deal with bad days by running to Andrew’s bed. I don't want anyone to know that—or maybe I’d just rather Henry not know that detail. I feel a flash of guilt, like I'm betraying Henry.

  “Jules?”

  I look back at Henry and shake my head. I can't do this, none if it. Henry saying my name like that . . . it's too much. I am not a girl in need of a rescue. I am not a woman in search of a man. I am a professional who just happened to catch a killer's attention. "Back off, Revill."

  “I need to do my job. If it were Micky in danger, if it were anyone else, what would you say?” Henry says, more kindly than I might deserve. “Don’t make this about—" He stops himself, takes a breath, and tries again, "Don't make things difficult.”

  There’s no way for it to be anything but difficult. I don’t want to be a victim, but I don’t relish the thought of years under surveillance either. Nothing I say right now will matter, though. Henry will do what he believes is right, regardless of what I say. He would no matter who the Creeper targeted. The fact that the letter was sent to me complicates matters further. I know it. I suspect a lot of people know it. Henry and I might not address the thing between us, but it’s still there.

  “Uncle Micky?”

  “Yes?”

  “Sort out whatever details the detective wants to put into place. I need to look after . . . her. I need to do my job.” I stand and toss Darren’s letter to Henry. “Deal with this while you’re meddling. It came here to the house.”

  Then I walk away.

  15

  A Girl with No Past

  My mother had been sending messages. She twisted guilt and demands together into what her string of husbands have always heard as “things I must do to appease Sterling.” Unlike all of her men, I know that nothing appeases my mother. If she’s ever satisfied, it’s only a state she’ll linger in long enough to weigh and reject it.

  I haven’t been to my apartment in weeks. Today, Edward had his oldest brother, William, drive me here to get a few more of my things. I was packing them when she called again. I shouldn’t have answered, but I did.

  “Tessa, how are things?”

  “Why?”

  “Darling . . . Shouldn’t a mother ask?”

  “What do you want, Sterling?” I close my eyes. I’m not hurt. I remind myself every time I hear her tinkling laugh or crisp accent that I’m not hurt.
She can’t hurt me now. Edward keeps me safe. Edward protects me.

  “Does a mother have to want something to call her own daughter?”

  I wait in silence. It is the only answer that works. Engaging her in arguments serves no purpose, but acquiescing is beyond me now. Silence is my defense.

  “I want you to come home the month after next,” she says after a small sigh that is the Sterling Morris equivalent of giving in.

  “I live in North Carolina now, mother.” I look around the dive of an apartment. The carpet is a vaguely brown color darkened by dirt and stains. The furniture is thrift store bargain, made tolerable by a lot of Febreze and cheap but new blankets as furniture covers to hide the age and stains.

  My mother’s skin would crawl at the mere thought of standing here.

  I have money. A fund that comes with oh-so-many strings. But using it would give her hope that my defection was temporary. All I’d need to do is tell her I wanted an allowance from my fund, and I could live alone and in a far nicer place.

  I’d rather try to prove that I can survive on my own than concede anything.

  “Please come for a visit.”

  “What’s in it for me, mother?”

  She sighs again. “I’ll pay you to come.”

  I laugh. It’s the closest she’s come to admitting that she’s willing to use her money to control me.

  “You’re asking to hire me, Sterling?” I tease, crueler than I am with anyone else. She makes me that way. She made me that way. “Shall we draw up a contract?”

  Another sigh.

  “Fine. Tell me when. I’ll come if I can get off work.” I resist telling her where I work. That detail may be too much for her to overlook. I know she still thinks my independent streak is temporary. Hearing that I’m working at a strip club, that I’m dating a man who frequents the club, would provoke fights I’d rather skip.