Pretty Broken Things

by Melissa Marr

  When they left, I cleaned. The tub. The floor. The walls. I threw out the shower curtain, towels, rags. I bought them in bulk. These—as usual—would be burned. Edward didn’t like to see proof that any of the pretty things had been here after they were gone.

  Tomorrow, he’d light candles and draw me a bath. He liked to see me soaking in the tub after one of the pretty things left. He always made love to me once they were gone, treated me with softness that only came after they had taken the edges off his moods and I’d removed evidence that one of them was here.

  The blood bothered him when they were gone.

  The smell bothered him once they left.

  I cleaned, and I lit candles.

  I dressed in one of the night dresses he liked—and I waited.

  Later, the light came into the room as he opened the door.

  “Tess?”

  “I try to be good,” I whispered.

  “I know you do.” Edward stood in the doorway. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you. If you . . . maybe if you help me with them more . . .”

  When he sounded like this, lost and small, I was afraid. Edward wasn’t often afraid, but sometimes the thing that most scared him was what lived inside his skin. We both knew there was a darkness in him that he couldn’t always contain.

  “You killed her,” he whispered. “No one has ever done that for me, with me. Only you, Tessie.”

  “She needed to go home.”

  I thought maybe that would be what saved me, saved all of the pretty things. Maybe she would be the last one. Maybe I was finally good enough to save them—and myself.

  34

  Tess

  I leave a note with an excuse for Michael, and I slip away in the night while he sleeps. I'll see him in New Orleans unless I die in the next few hours. I can't take him where I'm going.

  The flight to Raleigh Durham International Airport isn't long. In less than two hours, I'm on the ground in North Carolina, the one state where I really don't want to be. Reid's state. Reid's hunting ground. I am here where he is, where Buddy is, where Eddie is . . . where the pretty things died and were buried.

  Before the next morning, I'll be back in New Orleans. I just need to get through this one day.

  I fumble for pills. It's hard with gloves, but I put the gloves on in New York, and I'm not taking them off until I'm on the next flight. It's not that I'm afraid, that's far too simple. I am terrified. If he sees me, he will kill me. That's been the truth I've held onto for years.

  A part of me thinks he has moved on—or maybe that’s just hope.

  I feel arrogant for thinking I still matter, except that I know I do. There were victims before me, and there were victims after me. I know that now. I might not have a computer in my house, but I've used ones at the library. I've read about my husband. I didn't mean to, not at first. I knew Reid killed people, but not that he'd been so public about where he left the bodies these days.

  The flower buds were the clue. I looked up "dead women with flower bud tattoos," and there it all was.

  It's not that I didn't realize he was a serial killer during our marriage. I just didn't realize he'd been one before me, and I didn't realize he'd been so sloppy that he left enough bodies that they'd given him a name. People keep saying things about him wanting to be caught. He doesn't. I know that.

  Reid isn't trying to get caught. He just doesn't think anyone is clever enough to catch him.

  Some people kill. It's just who they are. It's who Reid is.

  He wants to survive, and he's taught me how much I want the same. We'd both do anything to survive. I didn't think that way until he rebuilt me, but it's who I am now.

  Kill others. Leave him. Turn on him. Kill him.

  My husband taught me that no one, no matter how much they think they're special, can resist being remade if they want to survive. When it was death or murder, I chose not to die. When it was die or live knowing you will be abused, Reid chose not to die. I think the pretty things would've chosen to murder me if it saved them.

  Or maybe they're better than me, and that's why he kills them in the end. I am like him, broken and bloodied. I chose murder. I am more like Reid than like they are.

  I am alive.

  The year after I left, I added to my flower tattoo. Much like the changes I've made since then, the new pieces don't entirely blot out the past. If someone knows where to look, they can still see the proof that I belonged to Reid.

  I thought dying was the only way out—until I ran. Since then, I've been waiting. Hiding. Expecting him to come and kill me. Telling Michael was the first time I realized that I was done hiding.

  I thought I'd made my peace with death, that if he came for me it was simply the way things had always been meant to end.

  Now? Something snapped or clicked or I don’t even know. I want a life. That means he needs to be in jail or dead. It’s his turn to hide.

  In Durham, I pick up a car. Technically, I steal it. I don't want to leave proof that I was here. The plane ticket was unavoidable. The ID I used isn't my real name. I think of the list of crimes that I will have to deny. I'll lie on the stand—or maybe it would be a different kind of truth if I say it right. Did I kill people? Technically, yes, but I killed them because it was an act of survival. Self-defense. Reid was in charge—has stayed in charge—but no more.

  I stop at a neighborhood I haven't visited in years. The young men on the streets aren't the same ones, but they might as well be. If the police wanted to clean up the streets, they would. They don't. Far better to contain them to neighborhoods, and then if the police or some candidate needs a PR boost, they can do a "round up." Easy day. Easy targets. It's bullshit.

  It's also convenient today.

  I cruise past the men selling crack until I find one who catches my attention. I roll up and tell him what I need. The car is in gear, and my foot is ready to slip off the brake. There's not anywhere to box me in. There's no way for anyone to get in my passenger door without me seeing, not with the rear and side windows tilted right. Is it safe? More so than my next steps.

  Aside from a too-long look at the gloves on my hands, the transaction goes smoothly. The seller calls a guy who brings a presumably clean gun. They wipe it down for prints and hand it over wrapped in a dirty shirt when they give it to me. I hope it has a ballistic history. Tying it to someone else's crimes isn't a bad thing.

  Gun in a bag on the seat next to me, I drive to Reid's house. Technically, it is our house. I am his legal wife. Still. His house, his things, I would own half of them if I filed for divorce—and thanks to our marriage, he'd get all of my inheritance if I died. He threatened that.

  I never threatened to divorce him. It’s the other reason why I stayed hidden. He does not deserve my money—not via divorce or my death.

  There are no cars in the drive. There are no lights. I debate thinking that means no one is home. It might mean that. It might not. I still park in the road.

  I check the 9millimeter that I just bought, slide the clip in, and make sure the safety is off. I'm not sure I can kill Reid, but it's either that or let the police handle it. I can't decide which is crueler.

  I get out of the car, leaving it unlocked, and walk toward the house. I swore I'd never come back here. I swore I'd run until I ran out of places to hide. I guess I lied about that, too.

  I don't ring the bell.

  I walk around the side of the house and smash a window. Fuck it. He'll know someone was here. I'm not trying to hide it.

  For a moment, I brace myself for him to come running at the sound of falling glass. The gun is out of the bag and in my hand. In that instant, I think I really could kill him.

  But Reid doesn't come.

  I climb inside, gun still held tightly, and walk to my bedroom. Our bed. The smell of it, of Reid, overwhelms me. Old memories wash over me.

  He'd kill me if he saw me.

  I'd kill him if I had to.

  Inside the bureau is a box, and i
n the box are mementos of every pretty thing. His tattoo machine is there, too. So is our marriage certificate. I take all of it, shove it in my bag, and leave the room. I don't touch the bed. I don't take any of his shirts to sleep in like I did when I first left.

  I walk through the house until I reach the bathroom. I'll grab the chains, too. I know about DNA. The chains will have DNA.

  But inside the tub is a woman. She stares up at me, and too many memories crash over me at once.

  "Help me. Please?" The words are more whisper than speech.

  If there's a woman, he'll be back soon.

  I pray to anyone actually out there that he won't come home and find me here with her. I’ll call the cops once I’m away from the house. I’ll— . . . there is a phone. I stare at it with a sort of remembered desperation. How many times had I prayed for that? How often had I wished there was a way to call for help?

  I pick it up, hands shaking.

  The phone works. I dial 911 as I walk back to the bathroom, and say, "Ambulance. Now."

  I shove the phone into the woman’s hands, and I run. They're coming, or Reid will come first. Either way, I'm not ready. Death or prison. Neither sounds great.

  I shove the door open, bag of evidence in my arms, gun in my hands, and I run to my stolen car. The gun I didn’t get to use is a liability now. I toss it in the first body of water I see—a farmer's pond by the looks of it. Maybe the police will arrest Reid, and that will be that. If not, I still have what I came for.

  If he comes looking for me, I have proof—and our marriage certificate. It's probably not valid. The name on it isn't my real name, but it's proof that I was there. I don't want that in the police's hands. The evidence of my presence there is gone, and now they are coming to his house.

  I drive toward the airport, carefully, and ditch the car. I'll watch the news, and once I know they have arrested him, I'll decide if I need to give them some of the things I stashed in my suitcase. Once again, the presence of another woman has saved my life.

  35

  Juliana

  After I left Henry at the police department and headed back to the little apartment I'd rented, I tried not to think about the chemistry that’s buzzing between us since he arrived in New Orleans. Henry was putting it on the table, but it’s not who we are. It's not who we can be. I force the thoughts away, check my email, and stare at the window.

  When I step out of the taxi, I find Andrew there waiting. It’s weird enough that Henry had found me, but to see Andrew here is more than I can handle. I want to know how.

  And I don't want him here.

  “Jules . . .” He looks as if he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep since I left.

  The driver, who doesn’t look bulky enough to withstand a strong wind let alone a fight, looks from me to Andrew and scowls. “You okay, miss?”

  I hesitate before nodding. “Thank you.”

  Andrew has made me uncomfortable, but I’m not afraid he’ll hurt me. He hasn’t ever acted in a threatening way. The simple fact that he’s here, that’s he’s traveled, alarms me.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?” The driver asks as I hand him some cash.

  I look away from the taxi driver and study Andrew where he waits on the street. I don’t trust easily, but I should trust him. He’s been in my life long enough that he’s earned it.

  “I’m sure.”

  The driver shakes his head. “Do you want me to wait for you to get inside?”

  “I’m good.” I take my receipt and get out.

  The car drives away.

  Andrew and I are standing on the sidewalk, as awkward as if we’re strangers. This is a man who’s touched every inch of my body, a man who has shared my meals, a man whose bed I’ve slept in regularly. We shouldn’t feel like this.

  Still, Andrew says nothing. I want him to speak, to give me an answer that would explain why he’s here. He shifts on his feet.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Micky.”

  I nod. It hadn’t occurred to me not to send my uncle my address. Henry already knew where I was, and Andrew knew I was in New Orleans. I guess I’d assumed Uncle Micky wouldn’t share the specifics. It seemed out of character. “He told you?”

  “I looked on his phone.”

  I close my eyes and push my temper away. “Why?”

  “You need to understand. If I thought you’d actually find Tess, I’d have obstructed you more. Let this go, Juliana. Let her go. She’s safer this way.” He stares at me as he speaks, and fear starts to fill me. Fear of Andrew. “Right now, she’s alive, but if you lead him to her—”

  “You know her. Teresa. You know the woman who could help me catch the Creeper.”

  Andrew nods.

  “And the Creeper watches me, you know that more than because of the letter, don’t you?”

  Andrew holds my gaze. “I tried to stop it.”

  He steps toward me.

  I back up. I can’t help it. The secret Andrew has been keeping, apparently, is that he knows more than he’s admitted about the monster who’s killing women and leaving their bodies for me to tend.

  “I’m not him. I wouldn’t do those things, Jules. You know me. You may not love me, but you know me.”

  “I thought I did.” I fold my arms over my chest. “You know Teresa.”

  “It always feels weird to call her Teresa. She hates that name. She went by Tess when we met.”

  He smiles in a way that’s more revealing even than his words. Whatever she was to him, it wasn’t simple friendship. There’s love in his eyes. It’s painfully obvious that Teresa matters to him enough that he’s known where she was and hidden it, hidden her, even as other women died. He did so even when he knew the killer was watching me. For now, that’s all my mind can process. The bigger thing—the fact that he knows more about the killer—is too much.

  “You don’t understand, Jules. If I told you, if we went to Tess, he’d find her. He’s watching you—”

  “Because of you.” I step backward again, moving closer to the building.

  I scan the street, looking for the killer. I don’t know what he looks like. I’m not sure I’d even be able to tell if he were here, watching me. I clutch the keys in one hand and reach into my jacket pocket to grip my phone with the other. “He found me because he was watching you.”

  Andrew sighs, but his gaze doesn’t falter. He doesn’t look away. “Yes.”

  I don’t know whether to run or lock myself in the rental or call Henry. I don’t know what to think or do. I trust Andrew, or rather, I used to trust Andrew. Right now, I’m somewhere between furious and terrified.

  “He thought I knew where Tess was,” Andrew adds, as if that explains anything.

  I exhale, watching cars as they drive past us on Esplanade. Even if the Creeper isn’t on the street, he could be in any one of those cars. I’m assailed by memories of graves, of bodies, of cataloguing the injuries that were obviously pre-mortem.

  I look away from traffic to fix Andrew in my gaze. “You knew where she was and did nothing.”

  “I know,” Andrew says gently. “You have to understand, though. Tess can’t be found. She shouldn’t be. She’s lived here for years, and the best thing I could do was to hide her. I don’t go anywhere because I didn’t want him to think that was where she was. I haven’t visited her, but I know she’s not well.”

  I can’t help but ask, “Physically?”

  He shrugs. “She’s an addict, but she’s not sick in other ways. No cancer. Nothing like that.” He steps toward me and lowers his already quiet voice. “She survived some horrible things, Jules. She’s would not do well testifying or anything. She’s . . . just not well. I had to protect her.”

  I push away the very real fact that he chose to protect Teresa at the risk of my safety. I don’t discount the things she undoubtedly suffered. I’ve seen the bodies of the women who didn’t escape. I don’t want Teresa to suffer more, but the police could’ve protected her. Th
ere are victim support programs. Hell, there’s Witness Protection. He had information to stop a killer, to save lives, to protect me too, and he chose to withhold it.

  “Tell me why you know her. Tell me you’re not . . . tell me you’re not a killer, Andrew.”

  “Jules . . .” He shakes his head. “Do you honestly think I could do those things? I’ve seen the pictures, too. Do you think I’m capable of that?”

  “Yesterday? No. Today? I’m not sure.” I scan the street again. If the Creeper was watching him, watching me, he knows we’re here. I pull out my cell phone. “I need to call Henry.”

  Andrew lurches at me and grabs my phone. “I’m sorry, but you can’t do that.”

  I fight for it, grab his wrist and twist it away from him. The phone drops, and I dive toward it. Andrew shoves me aside with one hand and stomps on my phone, shattering the screen.

  “I can take you to her, Jules. If that’s what you want, I’ll take you to see Tess.” Andrew stares down at me. “You can come with me, or you can walk away.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m going to her. I helped her disappear once, and I can do it again. If you want to talk to her before she goes, you can, but that’s it.” He holds a hand out to me.

  “What about . . .” I can’t make myself finish that sentence though.

  “Us?” Andrew laughs in a way that I’d rather have not heard. “You’re not the first woman who didn’t think I was good enough. Tess never loved me. She just needed me to think she did so she could use me.” He squats down in front of me. “I forgave her, and I forgive you. It’s okay, Jules. I enjoyed what we had, even though I knew I was never really the man you wanted. I do love you. I love her still, too.”

  I can’t move as Andrew reaches out and cups my face in his hands. He leans in and kisses me, and for a moment, I don’t pull away. That passes quickly, and I crabwalk backward.

  Andrew stands and holds out a hand again. “Come with me to meet her. You can ask your questions before I take her away.”