The Art of Fear (The Little Things That Kill Series Book 1)

by Pamela Crane

  “Eduardo wants Josef out of the house. That’s his motivation for his decision. I actually care what happens to you both—that you both find happiness. Do you think you and Josef can give that to each other?”

  Silence reigned for several moments, until Mercedes lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. Then standing above Rosalita, she looked down on her with a face twisted into ugliness by contempt.

  “Mrs. Alvarez, I’m only going to warn you once. Do not attempt to sabotage our wedding or else you will regret it. I would hate for your husband and Josef to hear about your ravings and delusions in graphic detail. We both know what will happen to you if you can’t keep your sanity in check.”

  The question of her sanity was the last thing Rosalita wanted to revisit.

  If they wanted misery, that’s what they’d get.

  She could be sure of that.

  Flipping her hands up, she rose, shaking her head. “You win. I’ve said my piece. No need to threaten me with hospitalization or medicine or treatments. It’s your funeral. Go ahead, take him. Mark my words: You may come to find that having him is not so pleasant a thing as wanting him!”

  With that she stormed out of the room, bustling toward the kitchen where she needed to busy her hands with preparing pollo con arroz for dinner.

  To hell with them all, she fumed as she wiped down her prep table. Let them ruin each other. I just hope I can protect my grandbabies from the nightmare they’re sure to be born into.

  And that’s the moment when Rosalita Alvarez wished she had never brought baby Josef back to life.

  Chapter 16

  Ari

  Nine days until dead

  The vacuum of silence after my announcement popped like a bubble as the questions pelted me:

  “Is Tina still on suicide watch?”

  “Is she recovering okay?”

  “Does she need anything?”

  “How long will she be in the hospital?”

  “How can we help?”

  The floodgates were opened, and the compassion was pouring in. It was unreal, unexpected.

  It wasn’t an easy discovery, though.

  Earlier that morning, dawn had tucked away the night’s black edges, awakening me next to Tina’s hospital bed. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I had suddenly remembered the group meeting today. And whether Tina believed it or not—and she certainly did not—she needed help. She needed support. Two things I had never experienced, but something told me the suicide support group was different from the callous world I was used to. I needed to share, yearned to break free from yet another secret that held me captive.

  So after arguing with Tina that it was the right thing to do, that it must be done, I stood before the group and explained in brief detail that Tina had attempted suicide the night before and needed their prayers. No one asked why; they didn’t need to.

  There often wasn’t a why worth dying for. Sometimes it was an abundance of whys. Sometimes it was the lack of why that was reason enough. The group didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell. And it was a relief.

  “She’ll be under observation for a few days, but it’s for the best,” I explained. “And if you want to visit her, she’d appreciate it. For those of you who don’t know what it’s like after a suicide attempt, it’s awful. It’s lonely and yet invasive. It’s demeaning and humiliating. All in all, it just sucks a bag of dicks. Any emotional support you can offer in person would be awesome. Thanks, guys.”

  A gaggle of voices planned out who would visit which day until it was time to head home. Tina would scold me later about the horde of visitors, but I knew she’d be genuinely glad to see them, no matter how many cuss words she lobbed at me.

  Exhausted from today’s events and the stabbing pinched nerve in my neck from sleeping crookedly in a hospital chair all night, I stifled a yawn as I began folding chairs. Mid-yawn, a warm hand rested on my shoulder. I turned as Tristan pulled the metal chair from my fingers, and he gestured for me to let go.

  “You look like you could use a break,” he said, then carefully added, “And maybe a coffee after this?”

  “More like a massage and a nap,” I said, smiling grimly.

  “Long day, huh?”

  “Yeah, too much emotion per hour today. Don’t know how other chicks do it. I’m spent.”

  “Well, maybe some food will recharge you … or at least help you sleep better.”

  I knew something that would help me sleep better tonight. I heard a hum come out of my mouth, as if I was actually considering it.

  “What if I brought you dinner to your place tonight? Then you can eat and crash.” As if that wasn’t convincing enough, he topped it with an extra dose of charm. “C’mon, give a guy a chance to do something nice for a pretty girl.”

  The offer was out there, hanging in limbo, waiting to be caught. And I wanted desperately to take it. Despite my longing for bed, I couldn’t turn this down. An attractive, thoughtful guy interested in me? It was revolutionary getting something more than a stranger’s whistle or a pat on the ass. But what did I really know about Tristan Cox? Nothing other than that he made skinny jeans look good. He could be a criminal in a hot guy’s clothing. And suicide survivors weren’t exactly known for being levelheaded and “normal.”

  Then I thought back over the two years I’d lived in my apartment. Not once had I invited a guy to my place. How was it even possible that at age twenty-four, I had yet to entertain a male in my home? Fear of commitment and a stubborn independent streak had turned me into a perennial wallflower in the dance of life. I skulked through my empty evenings and vacant social life while other girls my age were being wined and dined. It was time I joined in the fun—and damn the anxiety to hell. But dating someone from my support group … something warned me that it was a big no-no and only headed for heartbreak.

  Clearly sensing my hesitation, Tristan quickly added, “Not a date. Just food. We all gotta eat, right? If it makes you feel better, I’ll leave your food on the porch, knock, and then run away.”

  It seemed innocent enough … for now. At least until I could figure out the risks of getting involved with Tristan, and what kind of demons I’d eventually unearth.

  “Um, okay, yeah, that sounds good,” I agreed, barely able to push the words out. “But no funny business, got it?”

  He laughed, and only after I realized I sounded like an old fart did I join in.

  Despite Tristan’s casual coolness, my nerves were sizzling in frenzied panic, but I had to keep them at bay. I hated the idea of mood stabilizers—or “Mommy’s candy” as I remember my mother calling them—but when my anxiety crept into every corner of my life, ruining every good moment that I stumbled upon, a Xanax sounded pretty damn good.

  “What’re you in the mood for?” Tristan asked.

  Drugs, I thought to myself.

  “Options include Italian, Greek, Chinese, or burgers.”

  In typical girl fashion, I knew I wouldn’t be able to eat a bite in front of a hot guy, and my appetite would be kaput the second Tristan set foot in my apartment, so it was better to waste cheap food than good food.

  “How about burgers? Is that okay with you?”

  “Sure thing. Just give me your address and we’ll meet at your place after I pick up the food.”

  After we exchanged information, I noticed Mia Germaine, one of the women in our group, idling nearby, clearly waiting to speak to me. I told Tristan I’d see him in a bit and headed over to Mia.

  “Hey, Mia. How are you?”

  “I’m doing a lot better each day, thanks. I’m moving past the pain. Finally getting my life back on track after everything.”

  I remembered vague details about her past year—particularly her part in catching the “Triangle Terror” serial killer that plagued our humble town of Durham with a string of murders.[1] Knowing that Mia was behind the scenes of a major news event was cool … in a horrifying, scary way. Amid avenging several murdered young girls, Mia nearly lost the love of her life, her
job, and her friends as she faced down a killer. She redefined stress for me. But on top of all that, to lose someone you care about to suicide … I wondered how she was still standing. I doubted I would be.

  “I’m glad to hear you’re recovering. If you ever need anything, let me know.” And I meant it.

  “Well, I’m actually here to offer you something.”

  “Me?” I wondered aloud. I never asked for anything. I made it a point not to.

  “Earlier you were talking about having memories about your sister’s death. That isn’t unlike what I experienced—hazy memories of events, but too hazy to make sense of. Does that sound right?”

  I nodded feverishly. Finally someone who understood. “Yeah, exactly like what I’ve been having.”

  “So, I know this will sound crazy,” Mia began, and I could see her blushing with embarrassment, “but I went to a dream psychologist who helped me immensely. Dr. Avella Weaver. She’s not some voodoo psychic type of person. She’s an actual doctor,” Mia added hastily.

  “Huh,” I mumbled, curious but skeptical.

  “Dr. Weaver was able to help me focus on the details of my dreams and break through the haze to see what was happening. It really helped clear things up for me, get me answers. I just thought I’d mention it in case you didn’t know where to turn.”

  “Hell, I’d be willing to try anything at this point. Thanks, Mia.”

  “No problem. I hope you get some answers.”

  As I headed home for my non-date with Tristan, I reflected on what had become of me. My brokenness. My crippling anxiety. My loneliness. I couldn’t put together the puzzle of events that got me here, but here I was. Was it my part in Carli’s death? Was it my parents’ fueled anger toward me? Or the foster homes? Juvie? Or the lack of healthy relationships? Where was the breaking point when I went from whole to shattered?

  I felt like a riddle I couldn’t solve.

  But today I was proven wrong about one thing. I wasn’t alone. I had support. I had a whole room of people who genuinely cared, who were reaching out to me. I felt like I had exchanged my bitterness at the world for the balm of friendship. They were my lighthouse in the storm—appearing out of the fog when I needed them. When Tina needed them.

  Closing in on my apartment, I barely remembered to breathe as my stomach turned somersaults. Tristan would be arriving at any moment. With his effortless cool. His smoldering sexiness. The way he slipped into my skull, overpowering my thoughts and emotions—dammit, he was like a bad drug I should stay the hell away from. But I wanted him. Wanted to do unspeakable things to him. And him to me.

  Tonight I would put my heart all in. Let myself fall.

  As I pulled into the parking lot, my cell phone rang, showing Tristan’s name.

  I knew when I saw it that he wasn’t lost. He wasn’t calling to reconfirm the menu. Before I picked up the phone, I already determined there was no point trying to win at life. I was destined to lose.

  Sure enough, I hung up two minutes later after his mysterious cancellation due to “something at work coming up” and a dozen apologies and promises to make it up to me. As fragile as my heart felt at the postponed non-date, I realized I had no idea what “work” entailed. Maybe I didn’t want to know. He was a virtual stranger. So why did I feel so shattered?

  I was tired of broken promises, being left behind, becoming forgotten. Screw him.

  Logically it shouldn’t have been a big deal. He cancelled, shit happens. No biggie. But to me it was a biggie. I had gotten excited about it. I shouldn’t have. I should have said no in the first place. No is stoic. No is impenetrable. No is tough. I am tough.

  That’s what I needed to be—cold to the world.

  Tristan got his chance and blew it. He was officially on my shit list.

  Chapter 17

  Ari

  April 2002

  The accident wasn’t the hardest part of losing Carli. After the car tossed her like a Raggedy Ann doll across the yard, the ensuing minutes had been a whirlwind of activity, of lingering hope that she’d make it through. The exact time when they confirmed her death wasn’t the hardest part either. I was too much in shock for it to register. I hung on a dream. Even the funeral I managed to get through, open casket and all, because I could see her, talk to her, plead with her not to leave me. She was still here, among us.

  Now it’s the night after Carli’s funeral—and this is the hardest part of losing my sister.

  The silence.

  My universe shifts.

  The sweet contemplation of bygone hide-and-seek games mixed with morbid thoughts of her dresser, her toys, our memories collecting dust. Dust that she is now part and parcel of.

  With her body buried beneath six feet of dirt, down with her went any chance that it had all been a nightmare I would wake up from. As I lay in bed, I watch frames from the past week flip by, like snippets from a filmstrip. I rehash every tear-stained moment of the funeral, the casket placed stoically up front beside a picture of my smiling dead sister, the sobbing congregation, the praiseworthy eulogy that can’t bring my sister back, the procession, the cars in a sad slow line to the cemetery, the rain pelting me as I watch them lower her in, the flowers falling on her, the salty tears mixed with raindrops, the firm grip of my parents dragging me away.

  I thought I would wake up to find it was all a bad dream, but it’s real. And it’s my fault.

  Our bedroom—no, my bedroom—decorated in Pepto-Bismol pink ruffled curtains and flower petal bedding, is anything but cheerful now. Carli’s matching twin bed is barren, the covers stiff, as if mourning her. My room has become a mausoleum where my fond memories have gone to die.

  A voice like a foghorn breaks through my foggy thoughts. It travels down the hallway, through my open door. It’s Dad yelling at Mom. I can tell they’re in their bedroom with the door open.

  “It’s time we come clean, Winnie. It’s just not worth hiding anymore.”

  “Are you serious? You would go to jail, Burt.” Mom’s shrill voice pierces my eardrums like a siren. “Then how would I pay the bills? And Ari—would you expect me to raise her on my own? No, you know as well as I do that turning yourself in isn’t the answer.”

  “So instead you want our daughter to take the fall?” Dad thunders.

  “Yes, because she’s to blame. She was supposed to take care of her sister, but I saw them fighting. I know Ari pushed Carli into that oncoming car.”

  My heart spasms. Mom’s words shred the muscles of my heart as I taste my failure as a sister, a daughter, a human being.

  “You really believe Ari caused this? You don’t think it has anything to do with my … extracurricular activities?” By now Dad’s words become softer, but they’re still audible between the mere feet separating our rooms.

  “The whole thing was an accident, Burt, not someone out to send you a message. You’re getting paranoid. Just stick to the plan and let things smooth over.” When Mom insists something, we listen. Even Dad knows not to argue.

  “Fine. But promise me you won’t let Ari get caught up in this.”

  I don’t hear Mom’s reply as their door slams shut, but I already know my head is on the chopping block as far as she’s concerned. It always has been.

  Each breath becomes more strained, like a fish on the shore, gasping for life. I won’t be sleeping tonight, so I sit up in bed, gasping, and look out the window to center myself. I’m surprised to find the pink blush of morning kissing the landscape awake. Night’s starry party is over, until it’s time to come back out and play.

  I catch a puff of oxygen, hold it in, and release. Soon the panic wanes like the tide going out. I lay back down and curl up under the covers—a lost little girl in a big bad world. I wonder if I can sleep the rest of my life away and resolve to try …

  Chapter 18

  Rosalita

  Rosalita Alvarez felt like death warmed over. Her neck ached from the stiff, last-minute trip to Durham, North Carolina—the last place she should
be right now. Her feet were swollen with what felt like miles worth of walking from the Greyhound station through the dark streets, searching for a bus line that was still running and would take her to the nameless cheap motel with several slamming one-star reviews she’d found online. After dropping off her luggage, she Ubered her way to Duke Hospital and its labyrinthian stairwells—of course the elevator would be out of order when she needed it most—and at last she now wandered the halls in search of her granddaughter. She was exhausted, irritable, and worried. All she wanted was her bed.

  When she finally found room 402, she peeked around the door and saw a girl—no, a young woman—watching a home improvement show on a television perched high in the corner. Disheveled spikes of hair sprung up like a cave full of stalagmites. A tattoo crept out from under the neckline of her sagging hospital gown—a butterfly, perhaps? Was her little granddaughter already grown up? She couldn’t be.

  In her mind, she’d always be the six-year-old, curly-haired mischief-maker she’d never gotten to say goodbye to.

  “Sophia?” she asked as she entered. The lights were dim, shrouding the bedridden patient in a subtle gray. Her steps were tentative, uncertain that she had arrived at the right room.

  The girl turned at Rosalita’s voice.

  “Abuela!” Tina shrieked, arms outstretched for a hug.

  Rosalita scurried to her, drawing Tina to her pillowy bosom. How she had craved cradling a child to her chest!

  “Look at you,” she exclaimed, holding Tina out as she examined her with a doctor’s scrutiny. Despite the passage of years, time hadn’t stolen their familial bond. Blood never forgets. “You’re skin and bones, Sophia! I will get you some real food, yes?”

  “No, I’m fine. Sit, please. I’m so glad to see you.” Tina patted a chair next to the bed. “I go by Tina now, by the way.”