by Melissa Marr
“Why? Because it’s impossible to find you? Because you’re sure he’s not watching you?” Henry reaches out like he’s ready to snatch me to him, but he doesn’t. His hand is outstretched, but not touching me. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? I talked to Andrew—”
“Did you tell him where I am?” I interrupt.
“He seems to think you said you’d be in New York. For a wedding . . . but I can tell you right now that he believes it about as much as he believes you’re going to take up knitting and cookie baking.”
“I can bake.”
The look he gives my attempt at levity is not unexpected. He stares at me, visibly takes a second to calm the temper that’s come near the surface, and offers me his arm like a proper Southern gentleman. He doesn’t say anything further as we begin to walk.
Somewhere between the shock of seeing Henry and the fact that he’s rarely been this close to me the last year or so, I am at a loss for words. We are crossing Bourbon Street before I look up at him and say, “I’m sorry I frightened you. I hadn’t thought . . . I just had a lead and all I could think about was finding her.”
“You do realize that you are not a detective, right?” His slightly kinder tone is the closest he ever gets to saying we’re all right again.
It’s not much, but I’ll take it and be glad. “I know.”
We walk quietly, and I realize that instead of waiting until I’m back in Durham, I ought to tell him now. In truth, I should’ve told him when I found out that Tess is alive. The thought of finding her, of finding a way to save myself and every other woman that the Creeper wanted to hurt, skewed my logic.
“Teresa Morris is alive. I have a photo of her in New Orleans.”
Henry stops mid-step, steers me into the doorway of a store, and orders, “Repeat that.”
I do.
“And you decided to . . . what?” His tone isn’t so light anymore.
We both know I fucked up. I’m not some kid who doesn’t know any better. I was wrong. We both know it. Explaining why I did it is another thing entirely. I trust Henry more than almost anyone, but that doesn’t make it easier to share my secrets. As I weigh what to tell him, I watch a man walk by in a top hat. His attention lingers on me.
“I’m acutely aware that there are awful people in the world, Henry. My job doesn’t do much to prove otherwise. I know there are good people, too. Like you. You’re a good man, but I know you are one of the exceptions.”
Henry presses his lips together as if he’s keeping words trapped in his mouth.
“You know I have trust issues,” I continue. “Hell, I suspect everyone who meets me knows that. Until the letter . . . until he sent that . . . I felt invincible. Now? He took that away. That sick bastard took away my sense of safety.” I hate it, but my voice cracks a little. The calm I am trying to pretend to feel slips a bit. “I don’t want to be a victim, Henry.”
For a minute, I think he’s going to ignore what I’m saying, but he lets out a breath and hugs me.
I’m stiff in his arms. “What are you doing?”
He laughs briefly. “That’s called a hug, Jules. Maybe you remember it? People hug when someone they care about is alive, and they’ve been worried. There are others reasons, of course . . . I could remind you of what used to follow it if you want.”
When he looks down at me, I squirm to get away. "No kissing!"
He smiles and releases me, before saying gently, “You’re not the only one who wants to stop that bastard or who can’t stand feeling helpless. It would gut me to lose you, Jules." He stares at me. "Taking off though? That’s an asshole move.”
“You’re not wrong.” I squirm under his gaze. “I’m sorry I worried you.”
Henry looks like he’d rather not say the next words. “And as much as I dislike Andrew . . . you ought to call him. He seems as worried as I was.”
At his words, a part of me wonders if I’m over-reacting about Andrew, if I’m jumping at shadows.
“Why don’t you like him?”
“Aside from the obvious?” Henry asks. His expression is about as friendly as a rabid possum.
I don’t reply.
“Something’s not right with him. He is hiding something, and I don’t like it. The fact that he sets off my alarms and sleeps with the woman I . . .” Henry stares at me again, as if he can will me to understand. He seems more like a cop again in that moment. “Just so you know, Jules, I didn’t like him before he took up with you.”
“Did he do something?”
Henry shakes his head. “We checked him out. A lot of things aren’t there. No real proof that he existed before five years ago, but he has an airtight alibi for several of the murders.” He pauses. His lips press together into a disapproving look. “You, Jules. You’re the alibi. I’m not sure what he’s hiding, but he’s not the Creeper.”
I text Andrew as Henry watches: “Just checking in. All fine here.”
“Do you trust him?”
"Maybe," I hedge. I want to say yes. I want to deny the things that have been making me uncomfortable lately. I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t know what to think about a lot of things.
All I know is that with Henry at my side, I feel fine to answer when Andrew’s name flashes on my screen again a half hour later.
Henry glances my way as I say, “Hi, Andrew.”
“Did Revill find you?”
“He did.” I watch a tour group gathered in a cluster and cross the street to avoid winding through the crowd.
“Good. He was worried.” Andrew pauses as if he’s struggling to get the next words out. “I was too.”
I glance over at Henry. “I’m sorry. I just needed to get away.”
“Where are you?” Andrew lets out a breath in a heaving sigh, and I wonder at his mood. I expected impatience or anger, but he sounds desperate. “You didn’t really go to New York for a wedding. I know that. You’d have been home by now. I’ve met every flight from New York the last two days. You’re not at your house. Micky had no idea why I thought you were in New York, and Revill was looking for you and—”
“Why?”
“Because I love you, and you’re in danger.” His words are right, and for a moment, all I can think of is that he’s been my haven so often that there’s no reason for my mistrust right now. He’s a good man. Why isn’t that enough?
“No, why are you meeting flights?”
Andrew laughs, but in that way that tells me he’s frustrated that I don’t understand him. “I care about you, Jules. I want to be in your life, to be the one you turn to. A killer is contacting you. I want to keep you safe from him, protect you the way those other women weren’t protected. I don’t want him to ever touch you. We might not be what I want, but we are something.”
“I’m in New Orleans,” I say because I can’t answer the rest. I have never been the sort of person who wants to be half of a “we” or believes that there is anything remotely like a fairy tale or fated love. The closest I ever came was with Henry.
But I like my freedom, and he’s old school. Henry wants a wife, a family, a home. When I considered it, I was stopped by the thought of Darren, who demanded all of that from sister and it still wasn’t enough.
I need to be with a man I don’t need, who doesn’t need me. I thought Andrew was that, but right now, Andrew is not acting like the sort of man I want—even though I know he’s telling the truth about caring for me.
After a moment that’s just shy of too long, I tell him, “Teresa Morris is here somewhere. I’m not sure where, but she is.”
“So why did you hide that? Did you stop trusting me, Jules?”
“I don’t know. No,” I lie. “I just . . . I wanted to find her. It’s stupid, but all I could think about were the women I couldn’t help, the things he did, and I reacted.”
I look at Henry again while I’m talking, but he’s pretending not to listen to the awkward call I’m having. We stand on Royal Street and watch a crowd gat
hered to listen to a woman singing. She’s worth a pause. For a blink of a moment, I wish I was here with Henry, not for work but just to be.
“Are you coming home soon?” Andrew asks.
“I’ll let you know when I do. I’m staying here a couple more days.”
“And Revill?”
“He’s here,” I admit, not looking at Henry this time. It’s not an answer to the question Andrew asked, but I can’t unpack what he really wants to know: why is Henry here not him? I don’t know that I’m ready to answer that question for any of us, so I just add, “He found me, and he’s here.”
“I see.”
When Andrew doesn’t push for answers about Henry or volunteer answers about his secrets, I tell him goodbye and disconnect. I don’t want to be cold-hearted, but I can’t deal with him right now. What we have has worked for well over a year. We never had the “let’s be monogamous” talk or “someday we’ll get married” conversations. We simply were what we were, and it worked.
But it doesn’t feel like it’s working now.
Henry clears his throat. “Are you okay?”
“Not so much.”
“You’re a good woman,” Henry says awkwardly. “It’s only logical that he was worried when you hared off.”
It’s such a Southern thing to say, a compliment twisted in with an unspoken criticism. I can’t fault his logic, but that doesn’t mean I feel like engaging it either. I place my hand on his forearm. “Walk with me?”
He nods, and we walk from the French Quarter across Canal and into the Central Business District. Henry is more familiar when he’s steady and silent instead of hugging me and offering advice. Neither of us comment on the fact that my hand is once again tucked into the fold of his arm. He might be more affectionate here than he’d be when we are home in North Carolina, but that doesn’t change doesn’t change all of the reasons I shouldn’t cross the line into intimacy with him again. Henry isn’t the kind of person who can be in your life casually.
And I’m not the sort of woman who wants a partner—even one who flew to another state, using vacation time most likely, and stands at my side like a guardian.
29
A Girl with No Past
“Happy Thanksgiving, Tess.” Edward’s brothers greeted as they came into the house.
“You, too.”
Edward looked at his brothers. “Sit. Eat. My Tess made us a traditional dinner.”
I had. There was turkey, ham, even green bean casserole.
We said grace.
A noise from the back of the house made everyone pause, but no one said a word. Everyone there knew about the girl in the tub. Edward had a difficult week at work. One of his investments had a loss, and he was feeling anxious. I’d tried. I really had. I’d been his for twenty-two months now, and it wasn’t getting better.
Last month, I’d spent three days in a row in the shed.
Edward looked at his brothers as I stood there, hoping things weren’t going to go poorly, hoping they’d intervene. I couldn’t. Not again. I wasn’t sure I’d live through the last beating.
“You think the courts wouldn’t arrest you too?” he began when he caught Buddy looking at me. “You think they’d ignore it if they found out you knew about the girls and—”
“No one’s getting arrested,” Buddy said firmly. “So, they found a few bodies. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“They should never find them unless I want them to.”
“It’s okay,” William said. “It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
I’d never heard them like this, and I had to wonder what had happened. Sure, the pretty things arrived, and then they left. Unlike them, I hadn’t been out of the house without Edward or one of his brothers in nearly two years. There was no phone in the house. I had no cell phone. I had no computer. I had no access to anything other than what Edward allowed—and Edward didn’t allow much.
No one spoke.
Finally, he looked up at me and said, “Grab drinks.”
I went to grab a bottle of wine and opened it. No one spoke as I poured it. Buddy refused to look up from his plate.
“Would you like your own drink?” Edward prompted.
“If it’s okay.” I was thankful that he let me have a glass, but after I drank a bit, I wasn’t sure what to do.
“I’m going out for a smoke,” William said.
When no one objected, he pushed his chair back and left. Edward and Buddy weren’t speaking yet, and I wasn’t sure what to do. Carefully, I reached out for a dinner roll and took a few bites while I waited.
Buddy shook his head. “I won’t ever tell your secrets, Edward. You know that. I never have.”
“If I ask you to testify what my brothers did to you, will you?” Edward watched me, and I was glad it wasn’t me who had angered him.
Buddy looked away.
“Did William threaten you?”
“Yes, Edward.”
“And Buddy? Did he fuck you after you said no and cried? Pretend we’re in court, Tessie.” Edward’s voice had rarely sounded as cold as it did just then. “Could you cry for the judge? Could you tell him how you begged for mercy? Would you tell the judge how my brother hurt you and you had no choice?”
Buddy froze.
“Then do it. I don’t want you to have to lie.” Edward stood then. “If they come after me because you let them find that girl, you’ll be in jail, too.” He shoved me toward his brother. “Don’t break her too much.”
When Edward walked out, Buddy stared at me. “Tess . . . I won’t.”
For a moment, I wanted to believe that was an option we had. It wasn’t. No one disobeyed Edward. I thought of the women. The more they fought, the faster they died.
“I don’t want to spend tonight in the shed again,” I told Buddy quietly. “I don’t want him to hurt me either. You need to do what Edward says.”
A few minutes later, Edward returned. “Has he hurt you yet?”
I shook my head.
“Do you want to go to jail, little brother?” Edward stepped closer and put a hand on Buddy’s shoulders. He had his after-dinner coffee in the other hand.
Buddy held my gaze. “I can’t.”
“There’s your mistake,” Edward said. “I didn’t ask what you thought. Tess wants me to be safe. Don’t you, baby?”
“Yes, Edward.”
He tilted the coffee cup, pouring it down my chest. It wasn’t as hot as it could’ve been. I knew that from experience. I had no need for the hospital.
The coffee burned my chest, my belly, my thighs . . .
Buddy reached out. "Edward—"
“Tell him no,” Edward ordered.
I felt his fist. Felt him strip me. And then I was on the floor.
“Please, don’t.” I felt sick from the burns, and despite best efforts, I tried to get away.
“Fight him, Tess.”
So, I did.
Edward stood and watched his brother rape me.
I wouldn’t need to lie if we went to court.
30
Tess
I knew there would be consequences when Michael let me keep my secrets that night. He bandaged my hand with a shirt of his that he cut up with kitchen scissors. I think he was afraid that I wouldn’t still be here if he went to the store without me, or maybe he was afraid that I’d run while we were in the store, or maybe he just felt too raw after the night we’d had. We didn’t go though. We fucked, and I slept.
When I wake, I have the start of a plan.
“You didn’t need to debase yourself for me,” he whispers as he pulls me close. He likes to sleep with his arm around me, pinning me to him so he wakes every time I slip out of the bed.
Reid held me the same way. It makes me feel safe, being unable to flee. I think sometimes that if any of the men I fucked since Reid had even tried to hold me like this, I might’ve considered a relationship. They didn’t, though. They were content with my fuck-and-roll-away approach to dating.
It was easier for everyone.
Michael doesn’t want to let me go. It makes me feel needed, wanted, essential.
After I first left Reid, I only dated married men. I knew they wouldn’t try to stay, and even though I knew I was still breaking Reid’s rules every time a man touched me without his permission, it felt better if I wasn’t the only one breaking my vows. I sometimes found myself excited at the idea of Reid finding out, of him knowing that someone else touched his property, of him seeing that I was happy without him.
After I left, it took two years for me to remove my wedding ring. I wonder if he still wears his. I suspect he does. Reid has flaws, but he understands commitment. He killed women so he could let me live. He kept them in our home so he didn’t have to hurt me because I was too weak. I tried to be strong enough though—and I failed. Other women died because I was weak.
Waking up to find Michael still holding me makes everything seem clear. For a moment before I turn and look at him, before he speaks, I pretend that Reid is with me again. I’ll be stronger.
This time, I’ll have the power.
Lips are on my neck, and a hand slides over my stomach.
“Tess . . .”
“Shhh. Just don’t say anything.”
He listens, and I part my legs in invitation. Maybe last night was good for us. Michael’s not a particularly giving lover. Most of the men I’ve fucked aren’t. Today, though, I feel cherished. His fingers are sure and quick, not like Reid. He liked to make me beg, to leave me so close to desperate that I would do anything if only he would continue.
“Harder,” I say.
He stills, but after a moment, he complies. It’s closer to the cruelty that I learned to like.
“I won’t break.”
After a moment, I give him the incentive he needs. I share my plan, still only half-formed. “I’ll answer all your questions. Pleasure for words.”
His voice is shocked. “I give you pl—”
“Hurt me, and I’ll tell you my stories, Michael.” I press back tighter to him. “Let’s play pretend. You can be the monster, and I’ll be your victim.”
