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

by Pamela Crane

  “Tina? Why? Is it because of those … monsters who took you?”

  There was no other word to describe them.

  Tina shook her head. Clearly there were details between the lines that Rosalita sensed were best unspoken. Horrors that she couldn’t—and shouldn’t—imagine.

  Rosalita knew a little something about horrors. Their persistent vengeance. Their unwavering grip. Even now her decades-old nightmare taunted her. The splosh splosh splosh of water. Then an eerie nothing. A panicked rush of limbs. Then numbness slipping over her, slithering down her body, eating her whole. The unforgiveable sin was born. She shook away the memory.

  “Long story, abuela. Another time. How was your trip?”

  “Asi asi. I don’t want to talk about me, though. You’re in a hospital and the reason why worries me.” On the way here Rosalita had vowed to keep conversation pleasant, but there was nothing cheery about the situation. A niggling worry followed her to Durham: Was Sophia’s plight her fault? Was Sophia’s life a punishment for Rosalita’s past? With bony fingers the skeleton she had buried again and again continued to claw its way out of a mound of loose earth.

  Seeing her only granddaughter like this, knowing she had tried to kill herself, even God Himself couldn’t stop the outpouring of concern. It was a grandmother’s duty to tend to wounds.

  “You tried to hurt yourself. Is this because of your father?” Her nurturing tone grew stern at the mention of Josef.

  “No, it was not because of him,” Tina insisted.

  “Because if it was, he’s not worth it. He got what was coming to him.”

  “Abuela!” Tina chided. “That’s your son. Certainly you don’t feel that way about him.”

  “And you don’t—just because he’s your father? If you even want to call him that. A man who sold you as a child. A man that set your value at a meager few hundred pesos and cashed in on your suffering year after year. A man who—”

  “That’s enough!” Tina cut in. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore.” A strained silence passed before Tina spoke again. “Have you heard from Killian?”

  “Nothing more than a brief update. He’s as bad as your father. Won’t return my calls. You know he lives here in Durham, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t know that for sure, but I suspected it. Why hasn’t he tried to contact me?”

  “Because he’s selfish and he doesn’t value family. He was living with your father for a little while, so I can only imagine the bad influence Josef had on the boy. I fear he’s going to end up just like him.”

  From the moment of Killian’s birth the resemblance hadn’t escaped Rosalita’s attention. They shared the same brooding intensity and identical swaths of curls framing handsome faces. But what neighbors and friends counted as mischief in their eyes, Rosalita recognized as sinister intent. She saw it corrupt and destroy her own son, but how could she rescue her grandson from the same doom? Was it too late for his salvation?

  “You can’t trust Killian, dear,” Rosalita warned, patting Tina’s hand until her palm came to a rest on top. “Keep your distance. I don’t know if he had anything to do with your father’s death, but I wouldn’t put it past him. The boy was hung up on fame and fortune, and with greed as a guide, he’s capable of just about anything.”

  Rosalita imagined Josef as the disgruntled ferryman Charon transporting Killian’s soul deeper into the Underworld with steady paddles across the River Styx. It wasn’t stretching the imagination far enough.

  Tina sat silent, their hands a motionless connection. As Rosalita observed her, a sense of dread permeated the room. She saw her granddaughter’s unspoken pain—the tremble of her lips, the vacancy of her eyes, the tension in her limbs. Rosalita hoped she wasn’t broken beyond repair.

  Watching her granddaughter hide her pain, Rosalita was reminded of her own past. Her own buried secrets that kept uprooting from her psyche, tormenting her on a whim. There was no escaping one’s mind—especially when it was so damaged.

  The evening passed in pleasant chitchat, growing into a comfortable familiarity as they watched a group of attractive gringo handymen convert a back porch into a palace on TV. A home repair show Rosalita had never seen, nor cared to see again. They only looked up when a young woman walked in, blond ponytail swaying, Chiclet-white teeth greeting them.

  “Hey, Tina. Oh, you have a visitor. I just wanted to drop off the best damn chocolate-peanut butter milkshake you’ll ever have—from Cookout. I can come back tomorrow.” The girl inched closer, setting a tall Styrofoam cup down on the rolling food tray.

  “Thanks, but don’t leave, Ari. This is my abuela—my grandma, that is. Come meet her.” Tina reached out for the girl, as if tugging an invisible rope between them. “Abuela, this is Ari Wilburn, a friend who’s been taking care of me since Dad’s death.”

  “Any friend of Tina’s is a friend of mine,” Rosalita said, sidestepping Ari’s outstretched hand in favor of a hug instead. She’d always been a hugger among a family of non-huggers, and she loved that her touchy-feely nature drove them nuts. “Thank you for taking care of my nieta during this difficult time. If I wasn’t staying in a motel you know I’d insist on her staying with me.”

  “I’m happy to have her once she’s out of here,” Ari said. “And if you need a place to stay, we can make room at my place. There’s no reason you should be staying in a motel.”

  “Oh, that’s nice of you to offer, but I’m comfortable where I’m at. It’s not too far from here—out on 98.”

  “If you change your mind, I’ll be glad to have you. I’ve grown close to your granddaughter these past few days.”

  “At least she has someone looking after her until she’s well enough to be back on her own. Losing her father—my son … well, I’m just glad she got to say her goodbyes before he died. I wish I’d had the same opportunity. Though I would have given him a piece of my mind, so maybe he’s better off this way.”

  Ari stood there with a quizzical cock of her head. “Huh, I thought you didn’t get to say goodbye, Tina.” The challenge in her tone was crystal clear.

  “Did I say that?” Tina asked, her voice wavering. “I must have misspoke. It was all kind of a blur, you know.”

  “When did you see him?” Ari probed.

  “You saw him the day he died, didn’t you?” Rosalita interjected. “At least that’s what you told me.”

  Obviously it was the wrong thing to say as Rosalita caught a glare from Tina. Meanwhile, Ari stared at her like a laser beam marking its target.

  “Yes, I saw him before he died,” Tina caved with a sigh.

  “Wait, let me get this straight. You talked to him before he died. Then you found him dead and called the cops. It sounds awfully suspicious, Tina.”

  Rosalita’s eyebrows shot up. “Tina, what is she talking about? Is this true?”

  “I swear it’s not what it looks like,” Tina contended.

  “Then why the hell did you lie to me—again? Why cover it up?” Ari demanded.

  Tina’s breaths sounded weighty, as if the truth was heaped upon her chest. “Isn’t it obvious? I was the last one who saw him alive. That would make me a prime suspect. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you from the start. I needed to confront him about why he sold me. Why I was so worthless to him.”

  By now tears were trickling down Tina’s cheeks, drawing Rosalita in to offer comfort. It didn’t matter to her why she lied. All that mattered was that Josef was dead and gone.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to press,” Ari soothed. “I just don’t understand why you felt you had to lie. If you didn’t do it, there’s nothing to hide.”

  “Oh, like you didn’t hide from me what happened to your sister,” Tina muttered.

  Ari’s face crumpled, like she’d been slapped. “Maybe I should go.”

  “Please … don’t!” Tina’s hand shot out, grabbing Ari’s wrist. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. And I don’t know why I hid it from you. I guess when I late
r found him dead I was afraid to tell the cops about seeing him. I didn’t want them to think I had something to do with his death. So I just stuck with the same story for everyone.”

  “Even me—after I tried to help you?” Ari sounded wounded. “It makes me wonder if … never mind. I just wish you’d been honest with me. I have a hard enough time trusting people as it is. Being lied to doesn’t make it any easier for me.”

  “I know. I know because trust doesn’t come easy for me either. We’re alike, you know.” Tina clumsily pulled Ari toward her into a hug. “You know what he told me? He said he loved me, that he never meant to hurt me, but that they were broke—the brink of starvation broke—and this guy assured him I was being cared for. Do you think that’s the truth—that my dad cared about me?”

  “I don’t know what the hell to believe anymore,” Ari whispered, “but I’d like to believe it.”

  From where Rosalita stood, it didn’t sound like the son she knew. But like an agreeable grandmother, and from years of practice, for now she’d keep her tongue in check.

  “Look,” Ari said, abruptly pulling back, “I’ll let you two catch up. I gotta get my ass to an appointment. I just wanted to check in on you. It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Alvarez.”

  “Nice meeting you, dear.”

  Ari waved a quick goodbye and left, the air softly rustling the curtains as the door swept shut behind her.

  In Ari’s absence was a calm as the strain of tension drained. Rosalita didn’t dislike Tina’s friend, but she didn’t like her either. Something about the girl’s brusque manner and emotional demands on Tina grated on her. And why was she so inquisitive about her family’s affairs?

  Rosalita Alvarez never took to nosey people sniffing around her family’s business. There were lines—and Ari was crossing a bold one.

  In what world was it unfair for Tina to keep her demons under wraps? And why was some fast friend trying so hard to exorcise them? Was Tina’s life really any of Ari’s concern? She wasn’t family.

  Family knew how to keep secrets.

  Ari shouldn’t have been invited in.

  “You better keep track of your stories, Tina,” Rosalita warned, “or else the lies are going to take you down with your father.”

  Chapter 19

  Ari

  Eight days until dead

  After my visit with Tina at the hospital the night before, I felt my brain splitting at its hem. Why the hell had she lied—twice now—about her father? First she hadn’t seen him at all. Then she saw him postmortem. Now she spoke to him? There was no escaping the possibility that she had something to do with his death. The motive was more than enough to push a girl over the edge. Then the lie—make it a double—on top of it aroused suspicion. Tina’s insistence to the cops that it was murder, not a suicide, was her only solid defense, as far as I was concerned. No one would purposefully dig her own grave. No one in her right mind, at least.

  Shaking my mind off this track, I glanced down at my GPS. I had taken Mia Germaine’s advice and called Dr. Avella Weaver to make an appointment. While the whole idea of dream therapy sounded like a crock of shit from a Ghost Whisperer episode, Mia swore by her results. Anything was worth trying once.

  When my GPS directed me between an antique shop and an upscale restaurant in downtown Hillsborough, I found a nondescript door with a brass plaque bearing Dr. Avella Weaver’s name. A bell chimed with a retro-sounding ding-dong as I entered an office teeming with unusual knickknacks and an overpowering perfume of incense. Sculptures of various exotic animals tempted me to knock them over—a compulsion toward chaos that I’d struggled with since childhood. The atmosphere felt mystical, like I was about to meet magic for the first time. What was I getting myself into?

  The vibrant fuchsia and teal fabric chairs caught my eye, and I wondered where she bought them. Rather than sit and wait, I perused the abstract artwork on the walls, admiring the woman’s taste. It certainly lacked the usual sterility doctor’s offices were known for.

  A moment later a woman in a purple silk dress appeared around the corner, her curly gray hair cut boy short—a “mom cut,” I called it.

  “You must be Ari?”

  “That’s me.”

  She offered her hand and I shook it, her grip surprisingly firm despite its boniness.

  “It’s wonderful to meet you. I’m Avella. If you’ll follow me, we can get started.”

  I trailed her down a hallway with wooden tribal masks hanging on the walls, and my thoughts immediately went to Tina hiding behind her lies. I couldn’t help but feel betrayed.

  At the end of the hallway we entered a candle-lit room where she pointed me to a burgundy sofa across from two beige chairs. Ocean waves crashed in the background, with an occasional sharp peal of a seagull—an ambient soundscape piped in from unseen speakers.

  “Have a seat over there and I’ll join you in a moment.”

  I sat on the sofa next to an end table holding more carved animal figures. I picked up a whimsical giraffe and toyed with it, keeping my compulsive fingers busy.

  “I have coffee, tea, water, and juice,” she offered, returning from the kitchenette.

  “Coffee, thanks,” I answered. She set down a tray with a steaming pot of coffee and water, creamer, and sugar packets on a beautiful little credenza. I dumped a handful of sugars in the mug she handed me, then added the coffee and creamer until it was a milky brown.

  After steeping herself a cup of tea, she sat across from me.

  “So,” she began after a sip, “tell me about yourself. What brings you here today?”

  “A friend referred me—Mia Germaine?”

  Avella nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes, Mia. I’ll have to thank her. So you’re friends?”

  “Yeah, I guess we are.” I was still smarting from the recent snag in my budding friendship with Tina, but I figured sharing the same psychiatrist with Mia counted toward intimacy.

  “And why did Mia refer you?” Avella set her teacup down and folded her hands on her lap.

  “I’ve been having dreams about something that happened when I was a child—a hit-and-run that killed my sister. For years I blamed myself for her death, but lately I have questions about what actually happened. I want answers. I want to know if there’s more than what I vaguely remember.”

  “You’ve come to the right place. And I want to reiterate that this is a safe place, and everything we discuss is confidential.” Avella patted my leg and smiled warmly.

  There was a trustworthy grandmotherly appeal to her. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  Avella leaned forward, placing her chin on her hands, intent on watching me. I felt oddly at ease.

  “To begin, tell me what you remember about the accident.”

  In the past I had always clenched up when therapists burrowed for information. I wasn’t trying to be difficult; I simply couldn’t break through my own barriers to access the memories. They had become untouchable to everyone but me. But lately I had reached a breaking point, and the past was endlessly flooding my psyche. Closing my eyes, I just needed to direct the flow toward Avella.

  “I remember having a fight with Carli about a Barbie earlier that morning. Then we headed outside to play and I think I pushed her into the street. And just as I did that a car drove by, hitting her. I was screaming for help and my mom came out. After that, I don’t remember much.”

  I opened my eyes to find her tender smile and gentle gaze.

  “Very good, Ari. I think you’re ready to find those answers you seek. First I need to know what details you’re looking for from the memory. I want to attempt to recreate the event with you so that we can siphon out what we need.”

  “I don’t really know what I’m looking for. Maybe the car that hit her? We never found her killer, but if I knew what the vehicle looked like, I could possibly find the driver.”

  She nodded encouragingly. “Perfect. That’s our focus—the car. So, here’s what I’m going to do. We’re going to practic
e what’s called wake induced lucid dreaming. It’s going to feel like a dream, but you’ll be awake and can control it. I’m going to help you recreate each detail until we can see the vehicle. Does that sound good?”

  “Yep.”

  She stood and guided me to lay back on the sofa, resting my head on a velvet down-filled pillow.

  “Close your eyes and breathe in … and out. In … and out.” Her voice was meditative above me, like an angel speaking down through the clouds. The relaxing sounds of crashing waves and chirping birds took me in their embrace.

  The melody of her words continued. “Imagine yourself at home in your bed. Allow yourself to surrender to sleep, but as your body relaxes, your mind will stay alert.”

  She talked me through releasing my body and embracing my subconscious awareness. I felt myself melting into her words. “As you inhale and exhale, you’ll begin to feel your limbs grow heavy and your mind chatter will fade. Allow the sound of my voice to transport you into a state of tranquility.”

  As I felt myself being swept into a deeper state of mental and physical relaxation, I noticed a subtle hovering sensation. My body drifted along freely, as if timeless and unguarded.

  “I want you to empty your mind and gaze into the blackness. If a thought comes into your mind, don’t focus on it. Allow it to pass. You may start to feel like your body is softening, or floating. As you soar, think of the dreamscape you want to envision. Detach yourself from the real world and visualize yourself stepping into your dream state—your past. The day of the accident.”

  The darkness enveloped me, its weight almost suffocating, until colors started filling in the blackness. The swirling patterns began to hypnotize me, drawing my awareness away from Avella, from her office, from Tina, from the present.

  “Imagine your childhood home. You’re looking down on it, hovering above that day. Now stop and descend into the front yard. Visualize your sister.”

  With her prompting, my flesh numbly sank into the sofa while my mental state let go. Soon my internal dream world evolved into what felt like a tangible place.