by Melissa Marr
His breath hitches, and his hips surge against me.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it? You want to understand how to be a monster.” I feel him responding even as he struggles to come up with the words to deny it. It’s pointless. I wouldn’t be here if he didn’t have that seed inside him. I nurture it a little more, teasing it out. “Do you want to hear about how I crawled on my hands and knees, naked, bruised?”
He’s the one who can help me. Michael is my cure, someone safe who let me take back control.
And Michael wants to hurt me, debase me. I just didn’t realize how much until last night. It’s not just my secrets he wants. He wants to roll around in my shadows.
“Would you like that? Me kneeling there with your brother watching—”
“My fraternity brothers . . .”
I smile. In that moment, he’s mine. Fair, perfectly pure, and good: I own him. He just doesn’t know it yet.
“I kneel in front of you, all of your frat brothers see me there, see your teeth marks on my thighs, see my swollen—”
Michael flips me over and does exactly what I tell him. It’s not quite like it was with Reid. I never needed to instruct him. He knew how to break me, how to hurt me so I wouldn’t disobey. Michael is not Reid, but he wants to be darker than he is.
“Is that your best, Michael? Maybe we need to call in those frat brothers of yours to show you how to do it right.”
In the next moment, I let out a shriek of pain, but he doesn’t stop.
Afterwards, I think he’s going to be the one to run. He keeps staring at the bruises on my thighs. Teeth marks, finger prints, his marks.
“Why did you let me do that?”
I shrug.
“Seriously, Tess. You were a mess last night. I heard you begging for your life. Reid . . . That’s who did it, right? He was going to kill you. You saw something . . .”
“My . . .” I almost slip and say husband, almost tell too many truths, but Michael isn’t ready for that secret yet. He’s still struggling with the violence he just enjoyed. Telling him I’m married to a true monster would be more than he can handle. “Reid was a complicated man.”
“You wanted me to hurt you.” It’s a question, a plea for reassurance that he’s not a bad person.
“You wanted to do it.” I sit with my legs wide open so he can see what he’s done and because closing my legs will hurt. It’s been a while since anyone’s been so rough with me. I feel more focused than I have in years. The entire world is crisp, and I think I may actually manage a day without the Adderall. “I need a cold towel, Michael.”
He looks like he’s going to be sick.
“And my purse,” I add.
Michael silently retrieves both. “Are you calling someone?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I . . . because you’re hurt, Tess. You’re bleeding.” He gestures to my thigh where one of his bites is, in fact, a little bloodier than I’d like.
“I still got off.” I rummage through my pill bottles. I pop a pain pill in my mouth and swallow. “And you learned what your character is really like, didn’t you? It’s not that hard to become the sort of man that nightmares are made of.”
Michael just stares at me.
Today, for a rare change, I don’t even feel the need for my usual regimen of pills. I want to kiss Michael for that, thank him for making me feel more stable than I have in years. I still take the Xanax, and the painkiller, but that’s all.
“We made a deal, Michael. I’ll tell you my stories, and you will hurt me. ” I say quietly. “I think you won’t mind as much as you’re trying to tell yourself you will. I see it, the edge of that violence, when we’re together. You keep it leashed, but it’s in you.”
He doesn’t try to deny it.
“You want to know my story. That’s why you wanted me when you met me,” I say, pointing out the truth I hadn’t made either of us face so clearly until today. “You heard how extremely fucked up I am, and you know there’s a reason, a story, and you want it. You wanted it more than you want me.”
“Not right now,” he admits. “I want you.”
I smile. “But you want to understand the monsters, don’t you? To be able to write about them, to be able to get another movie deal. To surpass your last success. To make the failure of your last book the fluke, not prove that the first book was the fluke. I knew. I knew the day after we met.” I trail my hand over the bruises that are showing dark against my pale skin already. His gaze tracks my fingertips like a predator. “I knew before we fucked. I understand better now though. You want a muse. I can be that. I can show you all the things you need to know to write something horrifying.”
“I don’t want—”
“Liar.” I understand the world so much better now that I’ve figured out my cure. I can give Michael his story, and he can give me my stability. I was putting the pieces together wrong. I know better now. “Get your pen, Michael. You wanted to know what a monster looks like, feels like, thinks like. I can show you.”
He stares at me. This is it: the moment of my salvation if he gives it to me. It’s a contract, but not the sort he was offering when he started to date me. He wanted to manipulate me, twist me until I sobbed a little story on his shoulder. He could be strong and kind, and I would give him my pain to turn into a book to pay his bills.
“Everyone thinks that it was a single thing, a memory, the one you saw last night, but that’s not true.”
Michael wavers.
“You liked that taste, didn’t you, Michael? Liked the dark thing that stretched out inside you. You wanted to hit me, but you didn’t.”
Even now, he stares at me, eyes dropping to my bloodied skin and darting back to my face.
“Reid taught me to survive. He made me who I am now.”
“How?” Michael asks.
“Get your pen.” When he doesn’t move, I add, “He killed people. Sometimes it was bad.”
“He . . .”
I want to laugh. Even now, even having seen me when my shadows were rolling all over me, Michael seems shocked. I don’t understand how he thinks to write darkness if he finds murder shocking. It’s not the murders that are the story.
“Get your pen,” I say for the third time.
31
Juliana
Last night, Henry had escorted me to the rental where I was staying, and this morning, he’d met me there to walk to breakfast with me. The area around my short-term rental isn’t bad, not by Durham standards, but it certainly isn’t elegant. The part of Esplanade Avenue were I’m staying is a border of sorts, dividing the French Quarter and the Marigny. I’m not forgetting what I’m there to do, but having the company of a man I trust goes far to ease the anxiety that my nightmares had brought.
“Sleep poorly?”
I sip my coffee and ignore the question for a moment. We’re in one of the tourist-friendly restaurants in the French Quarter enjoying chicory flavored coffee. There really is nothing quite like it. I’d already bought a bag of it to take home with me. Good coffee, a good conversation, a charming man: it’s almost enough to erase the lingering worries from my nightmares.
“My boyfriend is being illegally investigated by my co-worker, and a serial killer sent me a letter.” I shake my head. “Right now, I understand the allure of staying here. I don’t want to go back to North Carolina.”
“So, stay here,” Henry suggests. “Micky has things under control at home. I can ask the locals to keep an eye on you.”
Something about the way he says it tells me that he’s leaving out a detail, but I need to be sure. “That’s why you didn’t ask to sleep on my floor last night. You already asked them to up patrols there.”
Henry grins.
“Isn’t that abuse of your authority, Detective Revill?” I say it teasingly, but there’s no mistaking the edge of irritation.
“I flew on a last-minute flight to track your ass down, Miss Campbell. You are a person of int
erest, a potential target or witness, in a serial homicide investigation that crosses state lines.” Henry has no lightness in his voice now. “Even if I didn’t have a romantic interest in you, I’d ask them to watch out for you—just as I asked them to find Teresa Morris and take her into protective custody. You’re lucky you aren’t in protective custody right now.”
I sigh and pointedly ignore the romantic interest remark. Instead, I ask, “Protective custody? Really? That’s where we are, Henry?”
For the first time since he arrived, Henry obviously decides to ignore all of the very reasonable objections and requests I’ve put in his way for years. He reaches out and takes both of my hands in his. “Even if you never spoke to me again, I’d make that call if I thought it would keep you safe.”
I bow my head. Knowing he means well—hell, knowing he’s likely right—doesn’t change the way it feels to think about being trapped, being in anyone’s custody. I don’t want to be trapped, not even for my own safety.
“Are you heading home?”
“Eager to get rid of me?”
“No.” I’m not sure which of us is more surprised by the admission. “I like being here with you . . . despite everything. No one watching. No one judging. Away from work. It’s easier than I remember. I wouldn't have imagined this would feel so . . . natural.”
Henry stares at me as if I’m a puzzle that suddenly became less confusing. Maybe he realizes that this is about as much intimacy as I can rightly handle, though, because he grins suddenly. “You imagined it, then?”
I flip him off.
“Maybe kissing is easier, too. Should we try that? Just to check?"
“Don’t overstep, Henry.” I’m smiling, maybe because I know he’s half-joking. Henry wouldn’t kiss me while I’m still dating someone else. "Kissing wasn't the problem for us."
“True. I don't think I had any problems."
I open my mouth to reply, but Henry holds up a hand.
"I know. Forbidden to discuss by order of Juliana Campbell."
"I'm sorry."
"And I'm patient, Jules. I’m still here. I still . . . I’m not giving up on us."
After a moment that's more charged than I know what to do with, we relax and enjoy our meal. It’s something I need more than I’d like right now. A few bites of food, even at an average place in New Orleans, makes it very clear that this is a city for the sensory in every way. The music of at least a dozen artists rises and falls in the streets. The scents and sounds of the city are no less impressive than the sights. And there is nothing quite like the savory dishes that are staple foods at every restaurant.
I’ve known Henry in some way or another most of my life. He’s only a couple of years older than me, but as kids, a few years is the same as decades sometimes. We’d met when I’d been in North Carolina to visit Uncle Micky, but even as a kid, Henry was serious and silent. Our first encounter was when he saw me punch a boy. My “mind yourself or I’ll deck you too” wasn’t the response he’d expected to his chastisement that “girls don’t need to do that.” Thirteen-year-old me was confused that he thought I needed protection. Thirty-two year me is still a little baffled.
“Why are we doing this?” I ask after the drinks and food are ordered.
“Eating?”
“No. Dredging up the past.”
“Don’t overthink it, Jules,” he says lightly. “I liked you when you were a kid, and I like you now. It’s not that complicated. You’re smart, funny, and not hard to look at . . . even with those purple crime scene gloves.”
I flip him off again.
“I learned to cook because you were lousy at it, you know.” He glances at me briefly, and I know he’s not joking.
“I make coffee. I know how to order take-out. What else do you need?”
“Next time we have breakfast, I’ll show you.” Henry, the police officer I know and respect, is briefly replaced with the man I cannot help but want. There is something inherently sexy about men who respect your strength but still want to take care of you. However, there is still reality to face, and the reality is that I am not looking to be a wife. A woman who dates Henry Revill has to accept that there is either a time limit or a trap in the end.
“Don’t make it weirder than it has to be, Henry,” I say in the same tone he used.
“It wouldn’t have to be weird.”
“Are we really going to talk about this?” I wrap my hand around the glass of water the server dropped off.
He leans back, legs extended so that they are to the side of the small round table instead of under it. Everything in his body language says he’s calm and in control of this moment. He is every bit the interrogating detective suddenly. “Yes” is all he says.
“Why now?”
“Maybe thinking I might have lost you made me a little less patient.” He doesn’t look away. “The Creeper—”
“Just for a few hours, I don’t want to think about him.”
“Fair enough.”
“You know me Revill”—I hold his gaze, half daring him to call me out on trying to make everything less familiar, but he simply smiles as I continue—“and I’m never going to be the sort of woman you need.”
“Oh? Did I have a list I forgot about?”
“You want kids.” I say it more like an accusation than I mean to. “I’ll never be a mother.”
He nods. For all of my independence, he’s seen me break down over my memories of holding my nephew in my arms, of watching him, of wishing I could get custody of him.
“What if I didn’t w—”
“Don’t,” I cut him off. “I like the way we are now. Can we just . . . not do this?”
“Ignoring it won’t change it. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to deal with the number of times you’ve kissed me—and the fact that you want to do it again.” He stares at me, challenging me to deny it. When I don’t say anything, he adds, “I like it, too, you know.”
“Ignoring it has worked for me the last two years.”
Henry sighs. He’s not pushed this hard since we were barely legal. I wonder how different things would be in my life if he had.
Fortunately, he lets it drop, but when he speaks again, I almost wish we’d stayed on the last argument: “I ran Andrew’s fingerprints. You ought to know that.”
“You what?”
“Not because of wanting to date you and see what comes of this.” He motions between us. “Because you vanished. I don’t trust him. Never have. I took his prints and DNA. Not legally. Not in any way that will stand in court.”
I close my eyes.
“I’m not going to lie to you, Jules.” Henry reaches out and touches my wrist. It’s just the tip of his fingers, a barely there brush of skin, but it makes me jump. “If he’d have hurt you . . .”
“He didn’t.”
“You vanished. No word other than a terse text message. How was I to know that you weren’t in danger?”
I shake my head. “Ask Uncle Micky? Call me?”
“I did.”
“I don’t know, but . . . really? His DNA? His prints?” I pause as the server brings our food.
“He’s not in the system, but there’s something not right about him. People don’t just appear out of thin air. He has no school records before college.”
“Homeschool.”
“No medical insurance. No records of existing at all. He’s hiding something.”
I can’t argue. Sometimes I think that whatever Andrew is hiding is something I’d rather not know. He’s been good to me, and I don’t think he’s a bad person. He loves me. Maybe we’re not forever, but he loves me.
“I wish you wouldn’t worry,” I tell Henry. “His family is odd. I know that much, but odd isn’t a crime.”
Henry sips the chicory flavored coffee, savoring it. “It might be. Either way, I want answers because he’s with you. And things don’t add up with Andrew. You know that.”
We slip into silence after that, not the com
fortable either. It’s a silence as heavy as the ones that fill the funeral home where I work. There’s a weight to it that I can’t quite shake off. Small talk fails. We eat without words because the alternative is admitting that Henry has never once been wrong in my experience when it comes to matters of law.
After our meal, he takes me back to the apartment I’ve been renting and goes to the N.O.P.D. without me. I’d object, but they’ll talk to Henry more openly without me there.
I’m not very good at waiting, so I go out again, walking through the French Quarter into the Central Business District toward the Garden District. The city has myriad ways to get around—the streetcar, horse drawn carriages, pedicabs, Uber, taxi, or Lyft. None of those let me set my own pace or pop into stores to ask if anyone’s seen Teresa. Henry can go through the proper channels; I’ll ask the people who are still annoyingly resistant to sharing answers.
32
Michael
Tess closes her eyes often as she tells me things that are either truth or lies shaded by the drugs she takes constantly. There are moments when she opens her eyes and stares at me, as if the anchor of seeing where and when she is tethers her.
If I were writing a different story, I’d include that detail. I’d include the now version of the woman who stretches out naked in this rented bed, sharing things that would be too graphic for the film I’m hoping to have made of this novel. I see it sometimes as I write, the cameras trying to capture the elusive fluctuations of reality and memory that comprise the woman whose voice lilts like a lullaby: “The smell of blood never gets better, or maybe it's the things that follow when a body stops. With no muscles, they let go. Blood, and shit, and piss. Death smells bad.”
She stares at me as she pauses, and I nod.
I wanted this, her story. It’s the first time I write the details of her life as she watches me. I’ve been revising A Girl with No Past as I learn more. My pages, so far, are a mix of imagination and the slivers of reality I gleaned from her. Tessa, the character, is much more . . . appealing than the real Tess in front of me. Her fictional doppelganger is appropriately broken, meek, submissive—whereas the Tess in my bed is something else. The more I know Tess, the more I realize that she’s smarter than anyone might notice at first when they meet her.
