by Melissa Marr
I know my silence unsettles Michael, but he doesn’t press me. Later I can thank him for that. Today, I must simply try to let enough of Teresa in that I can handle being here.
His agent is already seated when we arrive. We’re not late, but she obviously decided to be early. I remember that game. She is my mother’s kind of woman. I dislike every detail of her appearance from the peacockish style of dress and jewelry to her insincere smile.
Reid would have broken her.
I would’ve let him.
That’s the secret I can’t tell.
I let him.
I was tired. So tired of hurting. So tired of bleeding. He always came back to me because he loved me. It is beautiful to be loved. Every person wants that. Often, though, being loved by Reid hurt. I wasn’t good enough to deserve a love without pain. I was never good enough. Not for my mother. Not for Reid.
I’m going to be good enough for Michael.
I straighten my shoulders and let him lead me to the table. I wait as Teresa would have so he can pull out my seat. My clothes are as well-cut as they ought to be, and I remember long ago manners that are unfamiliar to the woman I am when I fuck Michael.
I ignore both the agent and the writer while they exchange polite greetings. She gives him the same sort of stiff half-hug and faux European kisses that were the norm at parties I grew up attending. She’s no more sincere than they were, but neither is Michael. Neither am I. This is how most people live, false in every way. There is no truth in word or act. We hide it all under costumes and masks.
Reid removed those.
My memories surge. Teresa needed masks that Reid wouldn’t let us have. She wanted to believe things that made the ugly pieces kinder.
All of the pretty girls dressed in red . . .
So much red.
Sometimes my dreams are red.
I smooth my napkin in my lap. Blue. It’s blue. And my dress is black. There is no red here.
I tune them out until I hear Elizabeth order a bottle of red wine.
“White,” I insist. “Michael, it has to be white.”
He exchanges a look with Elizabeth, but he takes the wine list and selects a white wine all the same. “The 2000 Ceretto Blangé Arneis.”
The waiter leaves.
Overall, the meal is a stilted affair. Elizabeth opts to direct a few remarks to me, but mostly, I keep my silence. I concentrate on manners. I concentrate on the tattoos that she is surreptitiously studying, the answers etched on my skin that no one here can translate, the very story that has made Michael bring me to this city and this table. I wonder what they’d do if they knew. I know that answer though. Under the skin, under a knife, we are not so different. People like to pretend that they are above the horrors they consume in their films and novels, but at the core of it all, all people break. How much they break, how easily they break, those vary. But we all break.
The thoughts swirl until I debate excusing myself for another pill. I try to hide them, hide how much chemistry it takes to keep me steady. That is my every day plan with Michael, but right now, it feels daunting. Instead, I open my bag and shake one out.
“Headache,” I say.
Michael reaches out for my hand.
Elizabeth’s gaze follows. Her already pursed lips tighten.
“That will add to your wrinkles,” I tell her.
Michael coughs abruptly. His smile flashes at me almost against his will before he lifts his glass and drinks more than he should in one sip. I’m pleased. This is the man who has been twisting my sheets. His cruelty and his confusion make me calmer. It’s more familiar than the stiff expressions that he shares with Elizabeth.
She watches him. She studies me. She pats her lips and then gives up any faux politeness. “What is it you do, Tess?”
“I simply am.”
Elizabeth stares at me. “I see.”
She doesn’t, but until you’ve had a moment when you realize you’re likely to die, that the next exhalation should be counted as there are only a few breaths left, it’s hard to understand that the sheer act of living is incredible. I don’t know that I’m doing anything to make this world better. Most days, though, it’s a victory to simply be. I survived.
“Generally, I do whatever I need to do,” I offer in an attempt at explanation. The rest of the details are ones I won’t tell, not willingly, and certainly not to her.
I glance at the tattoo on my wrist. It tells the story I won’t. She just can’t translate it.
Elizabeth doesn’t seem to know how to respond. “Michael is quite successful,” she says after a too-long hesitation.
I laugh. She’s not wrong, but she’s not right either. I think she's being protective of him.
“His first book certainly was. The film helped, though, I’d expect.” I glance at Michael, who suddenly looks like he’s both fascinated and afraid. I continue, “That second book, though . . .”
Elizabeth lets out a quiet sound that may have been a word. She’s a lot like Sterling, a liar to the bone. There are layers here, but I’m not the one who will peel them back. Reid could have, but I don’t think there’s enough substance under her layers to have held his interest. He wanted me because there was Teresa under Tess, and he knew that there was Tessie in here too. Or maybe Teresa was the deeper layer. It gets confusing sometimes. All I know is that sometimes Reid had to cut me to find the layers inside.
I want another pill.
I want to go home.
I don’t want to think about sharp things or being good. I don’t want to remember the past when I’m not at home.
I reach out and refill my own glass even though I know it’s vulgar to do so.
“My next book will be the best so far,” Michael offers mildly, his voice pulling me out of my thoughts and into this strange room in Midtown Manhattan, his words reminding me why we’re here.
“I’m excited to read it,” Elizabeth says.
“When is the next book due? I’m not sure how that part works. Is it already sold or does he need to write it before . . .” I meet Michael’s eyes and smile again.
He looks away.
He’s already writing it. I knew he was going to. I knew he was trying to see inside my dark places and steal things, but his sideways glance tells me that he’s already started writing.
There are words on a page about me. I knew, but now I see he’s told her, too. There are secrets of mine that he thinks he knows, and he’s spilled them like ink on a page instead of onto my skin.
He wants me to see his pressure, as much as he wants me to be wooed by the New York glitter—and like everything, it’s an attempt to find out more about my past. The entire trip is his attempt to manipulate me, but the version of myself that I have become after-Reid isn’t someone Michael can manipulate without my consent. A niggling feeling pushes at me. The Bad Things . . . the ones I can’t remember . . . the ones I drown in whiskey and pills if I start to remember too clearly . . . they were why I couldn’t be with Reid.
But that’s why Michael wants me. He wants to know all the bad things. He wants to figure me out, but if he does, he’ll know if I’m a monster.
I don’t think either of us really should have that answer.
22
A Girl with No Past
Life had shrunk a little, reduced to what Edward said, what Edward thought, what Edward wanted. I suspected that it was precisely why people became religious: does my god or church want me to do this? Having that one question enabled every answer to be clear. I did what my husband thought was best.
I didn’t decide what I wore, or what I ate, or when I spread my legs for Edward. He had rules for all of that. He kept track of what I ate. He watched me to be sure I did a good job grooming myself. Sometimes, it was hard for both of us. He had a demanding job, far more complicated than I could understand. He explained that to me.
Sometimes he gave me cocaine for days in a row when he needed me to stay awake to take care of him. He always took
it away, too, so I didn’t become an addict. Edward didn’t like addicts.
Edward’s happiness was my job. That was why waitressing and school had to go away. Sometimes, even though I tried my best, I wasn’t good enough. It made him angry. Then he had to find someone else to take care of his needs. I tried. I tried to be good enough so that he wouldn’t need them.
I was never good enough.
He brought a new girl home. Courtney. He offered her coke, but she was crying more than I was. She didn’t take it.
“She doesn’t want it, Tess. Show her how.”
“Yes, Edward.” I couldn’t move, though.
“Do I need to show her how to be good?”
The pretty things always bleed more when he was angry with me.
“It’s your fault,” he reminded me. “If you were good . . .”
“I’ll try harder,” I promised. I did try. I closed my eyes. Sometimes, Edward had stressful days at work. My job was to make him happy. Maybe if he was happy, he wouldn’t make Courtney cry. The girls he kept in the bathroom eventually all went away. They stopped crying, and then they were gone.
I didn’t cry. I never cried. Edward liked that. He liked me to say “thank you for taking care of me.” If I could let him do more bad things to me, he wouldn’t have to have other girls, but I wasn’t strong enough for everything he liked—and I wasn't allowed to die—even though I tried.
If I was good enough, strong enough, no one else would get hurt.
After a few days, Courtney didn’t fight. She didn’t cry much. Usually they stayed longer, but this one was different.
I was in there puking. She watched. I wished I could shower, but she was in the only tub I was allowed to use.
“Just do what he says. He won’t hurt you as much if you’re good.” I leaned against the wall, trying to stay upright. I shook all over, and I had fever and chills. I wanted the drugs. I wanted . . .
I wanted to be the one who died sometimes.
I think Edward knew that. The bathroom door was open. He didn’t like it if I closed it. I leaned against it and tried to decide if I had to puke again.
He was afraid I’d find a way to die.
Sometimes I wished they understood that there was an end for them. If they could be good, if they could just be a little patient, it would stop. It never stopped for me.
“He likes good girls,” I told her. “If you’re good enough, you can leave.”
She laughed. It wasn’t a good sound. I saw her wrist as she moved. There was a flower on it. Already. The pretty girls he brought home all got flowers. Edward drew them himself.
“Could you leave?” she asked. “If you wanted to leave, to go away from here, could you?”
I didn’t know what to say to that either. I wasn't chained in the tub the way they were. I slept in his bed. I ate at his table. But there was an alarm, and no phone, and I only went out with him. Trying to go alone meant time in the shed.
Edward came into the bathroom.
“Could I leave?” I asked.
He went still. His attention fell to Courtney, then it returned back to me. “Do you want to leave me? Like the other girls? Do you want me to take you home?”
Home meant dead. I knew it. He knew it. I wasn't allowed to call it dead, but that's what he meant when he said they were “going home”—to their maker, to the earth.
"I want to be where you are," I said, and it was still mostly true. I didn’t want to die just then. He never asked me if I wanted to go home when I was in so much pain that I wanted to die.
“No.”
“Should I keep her, make her my wife, and take you home, Tess?” He didn’t touch me. “Do you want her to stay or you to stay?”
I thought about the others. I thought about their eyes as he carried them away. “I don’t want to go home.”
“Get out, Tessie.” He slapped me. “Close the door.”
I did.
I don’t know how many days passed. Eventually, he took me in to see her again. She wasn’t screaming anymore. I wasn’t sure when she’d stopped. They all did eventually though. They learned—just like I had—that it’s for the best to keep him happy. If you keep Edward happy, it’s better.
“Do you see how good she is, Tess?” Edward pointed at her.
“Yes, Edward.”
I sat on the toilet lid. The girl was silent now. I thought about telling her that she could rest. He was calm now. Soon, she’d get to leave. She could go home now that Edward was calm.
“You need to be good.” He motioned at the girl in the tub. “She’s good now.” He looked at her. “Aren’t you?”
Mutely, she stared at him.
“If you were good enough, I wouldn’t have needed her,” Edward reminded me.
“I want to be good.”
“But you weren’t, and she had to bleed because of it. You did this, Tessie. You made me need to hurt her.” He walked away, leaving us in there.
The girl looked at me. “Help me. Please?”
“You’ll get to go home soon,” I promised her.
She laughed. It was a strange choking sound. “Help me.”
“I can give you a blanket. Or a sandwich. If Edward says . . .”
“Help me,” she repeated, louder this time.
And Edward was back.
She watched him, cringing back into the tub.
“We need to let her sleep now, Tess. She’s tired.” He held out his hand to me. There was blood on it, but there was often blood on Edward when he was in these moods.
I took his hand. “Yes, Edward.”
He led me to our bed. “You need to be a good wife, Tessie.”
“Yes, Edward.”
“Do you want me to have to bring home other girls?” he sat on the bed next to me. When he was like this, when he was gentle, I could almost forget about the other things. I wanted to forget.
I shook my head. “She doesn’t want to be here.” I swallowed. “I want to be good enough.”
“You can sleep.” Edward smiled. “I’ll take her home tonight.”
23
Juliana
Getting off the plane in New Orleans feels like a letdown. An anonymous airport. Another Southern city. I want this to feel significant, but it feels like any other trip I’ve taken. I want today to feel like the start of the end, the solution to finding the Creeper, the stop of the deaths. It doesn’t. It feels like any other day. Worse perhaps. I’ve spent years with these girls on my table because of him. Sometimes I think I know them better than I know people in my daily life. The possibility of finding one of them alive rather than dead seems impossible.
I feel uncertain. Andrew has left me unsettled, and right now, I don’t feel like I know Teresa Morris at all. The woman in those photographs shares little with the one that her mother spent hours talking about in interviews.
It doesn’t take a second glance to know she’s experienced things that haunt her. Confirming that isn’t surprising. I’ve seen the scars on the bodies of the Creeper’s victims. I’ve had nightmares simply from seeing the M.E. reports. If she was with him—and the tattoo she shares with them says she was—then how is she here? Is he here? Something about her is different.
I don’t know how to find her or what to say when I do.
I grab my bag and head out to the taxi stand outside the airport. The air has a familiar heaviness, a humid weightiness akin to the heart of a Carolina summer. It holds scents captive in the air in a way that makes everything linger: an older woman with too much perfume, a man who has been traveling too long, his clothes tainted with sweat and gin, the exhaust of a car in need of a tune-up. The scents twist together as they tend to do in thick Southern air. I don’t know if it’s the sensory overload or my rattled nerves that has my stomach in distress. Either way, I feel queasy as I slip into a taxi.
The ride toward the far eastern border of the French Quarter isn’t long enough for me to figure out answers I couldn’t come up with on my flight her
e or the hours before that when I paced the RDU airport waiting for the flight. There is no polite way to walk up to a woman and ask if she’s been tortured by a killer. There is no kind way to ask if she knows her mother is dead. There are no right words to say to someone who has been victimized.
Maybe I can get Teresa to come with me to talk to the police.
I send a quick text to Uncle Micky: “In New Orleans.” And then I send a slightly longer one to Henry: “In New Orleans. Safe. Following a lead.”
If I let myself think on it, I will have to ask why I can tell Henry but not Andrew—or why I didn’t tell Henry before I boarded a plane. I file those thoughts away for another time, one when I’m not in a strange city seeking a woman I’d presumed dead.
Teresa is here. That means she’s not his captive. It also means there is another Ana, another Courtney, another Maria out there somewhere. The killer has a woman either as a captive or picked to be his victim. Men like him don’t stop until they’re dead or caught.
I stare out the window of the taxi as the driver takes me into the French Quarter. I need something in my mind’s eye that isn’t filled with the faces of his victims, of shallow graves, or letters from a killer.
“How do I find Jackson Square?” I ask the driver.
I see his grin in the rear-view mirror. “First time here?”
I nod.
“You can’t miss it, darlin.” He’s gentle, but he has the sort of laughter riding in his tone that tells me that my question was ridiculous. “Right smack in the middle of everything in the French Quarter.”
He looks at me again, and I apparently look like a country mouse in the city because he asks, “Are you meeting friends here?”
“I’m here looking for someone,” I tell him, feeling foolish at the thought that I ought to explain myself to a random taxi driver, but he has the look of someone’s grandfather. I have a flash of the Southern gender rules that I usually find tedious as I add, “I’m not here to drink or party.”
