She remembered how it felt after slashing her wrists in the lukewarm water of the bathtub a year after her mother’s death. It hurt worse than the pain leading her to that selfish act in the first place.
She remembered how her father responded at her bedside in the ER. The tears that glistened in his eyes shattered her heart like fragile china. She had never seen him cry before. Not even at her mother’s funeral.
“I already lost your mother,” he said that night at the hospital, leaning in with her small chin cupped in his large hand. “And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna lose you, too.”
Amy shook the thought away, closed her eyes, and let the music take her to a place far better than where her memories dragged her.
It was a place in her mind where she always went when that ugly black hole in her soul opened wider and wider until…
Scratch, scratch.
Her fingers froze over the keyboard.
What the hell was that?
She glanced over at the bedroom door and listened for what sounded like tiny claws scratching eagerly at a wooden surface.
My imagination?
The house was old and always making strange noises. So perhaps it was just the foundation shifting, or some rodent rustling around in the walls. The very thought made her shudder. She hated rats.
Scratch, scratch.
Her heart quickened its pace as a cold chill spilled down her back.
She remembered the Robert Frost poem she read in English class. She remembered the skeleton scratching its skull as it stood behind a locked door. She remembered the sound.
Scratch, scratch.
Biting her lower lip, she rose to her feet and moved cautiously out of her room and into the hall.
Turning to the closed door at the end of the darkened corridor, she took a deep breath and waited.
Scratch, scratch.
She leapt back, holding a hand to her chest as her heart flapped around like a caged canary.
Again she thought of the poem, remembered reading how the bones didn’t attempt to open the door but:
“Halted helpless on the landing, / waiting for things to happen in their favor.”
Another chill spread from Amy’s scalp to her shoulders.
Shaking her head with a nervous shudder, she told herself that she was being ridiculous— that there was nothing threatening behind that door but a rat. A fat, filthy, disease-ridden rat. Nothing more.
Still, she waited a little longer and listened.
The small hairs on the back of her neck stiffened as she waited for another sound to come from behind the closed door.
She waited with a body filled with cold tension. She felt her muscles grow taut and tight.
The house phone rang.
Amy’s heart leapt into her throat. “Freakin’ phone.” She stomped back into her room, snatching it from her desk. She viewed the Caller ID screen. “Crap.”
It was Richard Barrett, her estranged grandfather. He was likely calling to wish her happy birthday as he did every year.
But she didn’t answer. The bitter feelings that emerged whenever she thought about him kept her from doing so. Her father also didn’t want her speaking to him and she understood why— her grandfather was not to be trusted.
She placed the phone back down on her desk and stared at it until it stopped ringing.
The sound of the kitchen door slamming shut made her jump. “Amy,” her father called out. “Where you at?” Footsteps creaked along the hallway and stopped in front of her room.
She turned to see him standing in the doorway and holding up a stylish black leather jacket.
“Got somethin’ for ya,” he said, extending out to her.
“Wow.” She slipped into the sleeves. “It’s awesome.”
“Glad you like it.” He stood behind her as she modeled the jacket in front of the mirror. His massive physique filled the entire frame dwarfing her five-foot-three figure.
Amy slid her hands down the folds. The leather felt nice and smooth. “I love it.”
“And I love you.” Caressing her hair, he kissed the top of her head. “Damn, it’s amazing how much you favor your mother. Scary, almost.”
She looked over her shoulder and smiled. This was how she wished it always was between them— warm and comforting. It was a shame he couldn’t have been like this when her mother was alive. It was a shame he couldn’t lay off the booze.
“So,” she said, “ready to eat?”
“Let me jump in the shower first,” Hank said.
“Oh, wait. I think there’s a rat in Grandma’s old room.”
Hank glanced down at her curiously. “Did you go in?”
“Not if it’s a rat. No, sir.”
“All right,” he smiled, giving her cheek a gentle pat. “I’ll check it out for you.”
Chapter 8
Joe MacCallum was gone for the evening, so Patrick Keene dropped the stack of case files Joe had requested on his desk, and returned to his own office. He felt conflicted about what he had done an hour ago.
After sifting through the archives at the Azalea County Sheriff’s Office in Mobile, he happened upon a manila folder titled HANK SNOW, CLASSIFIED WITNESS. It piqued his interest.
After reading the case file, his first feeling was disbelief. How could he not have known about this? How could anyone not have known?
His astonishment morphed into hatred and bitterness. He had harbored strong feelings toward Hank Snow for years. Those feelings were what drove him to the doorstep of Hank’s ex-father-in-law.
Richard Barrett wasn’t home, however, so Patrick slipped a copy of Hank’s file halfway beneath the welcome mat and headed back to the Sheriff’s Office substation in Pine Run.
At the time he was running on adrenaline, his long-held hatred of Hank Snow clouding his better judgment. But now he felt regret.
By handing over classified documents to a civilian he violated his core professional ethics, and a man who betrays his ethics is a despicable human being in Patrick’s book.
But these were extreme circumstances, or at least he kept telling himself that.
Sitting at his desk, Patrick stroked his short goatee and stared out his office window. He gazed passed the dense screen of shrubbery behind the office building, his thoughts on Ellen Barrett Snow. He thought about her often.
He was one of the lead investigators on her murder case but long before that— as far back as high school— he had a maddening crush on her, one that never truly went away.
Why she had been with Hank was far beyond him. It didn’t make sense. Ellen was a high-class girl, so delicate and sweet. A butterfly like her could only be crushed in the rough, meaty paws of a behemoth like Hank. And so she was.
Hank was nothing but a low-class, macho thug who used to make his living wrestling in a cage at a seedy bar. Ellen should have been out of his league entirely.
So what was she doing with him? Their marriage had been a mistake. One he knew she’d regret. She deserved someone better.
Ellen was an angel, a goddess. Hank was a devil, a beast. But he managed to snatch her up anyway. How? Why?
Patrick stopped stroking his goatee. He clenched a fist. Resentment clung to his heart. He sighed deeply.
Back in high school, he was so afraid of rejection that he only coveted Ellen from afar, fantasizing what it’d be like to touch her skin, to feel her hair, to kiss her lips. He never stopped fantasizing about her.
Patrick unclenched his fist. His anger abated somewhat, but his resentment lingered as he remembered Ellen.
She was the one true object of his desire. He used to stuff secret admirer letters and love poems in her locker when no one was looking. But he could never muster the courage talk to her. He wondered if she even knew he existed.
So what happened after graduation? He joined the military and learned to overcome his fear of rejection. Boot camp made him strong and confident. He became a different person. A better person.
When he later return
ed home to Mobile, he learned from a friend that Ellen was a different person as well, and not for the better.
It broke his heart to learn about her relationship with a backwoods redneck like Hank. It baffled his mind. She picked the wrong guy
What happened to her after graduation? Did she somehow get caught up in the wrong crowd? What made her change?
His source couldn’t tell him.
Shortly after his military service, he joined the Sheriff’s Office. Not long after, Hank did too. It added insult to injury, working side by side with the man who stole Ellen away.
Jealousy joined resentment. They were old friends.
Patrick still suspected Hank in Ellen’s murder, even if Joe and the others didn’t. He wondered if the case file he found on Hank would change their minds. For Patrick, it added context.
It told him Hank was raised to hate women and treat them like dirt. Patrick learned he had treated Ellen that way, too. It infuriated him.
He gnashed his teeth together. Anger once again flared in his chest.
And to hell with his so-called alibi. Hank could have easily hired a hit man to do the job on Ellen. His motive?
After one too many beatings, Ellen had enough. She called the cops, and they forced Hank out of the house. Ellen had filed for divorce.
All of that of course would have humiliated and enraged someone as chauvinistic, arrogant, and proud as Hank; he wouldn’t let her get away with it.
He’d make her pay. He’d punish her.
He’d see her dead.
Patrick was certain that was what happened. Richard and Jane Barrett believed it, too.
Hank had Ellen murdered.
But would he really do something to put his daughter in danger? The little girl had suffered during the tragedy. Did Hank hate women that much? Would he harm Ellen if that meant harming their only daughter as well?
Patrick couldn’t say for sure, but anger could definitely drive a man to unspeakable acts. He had seen that proven time and time again. Anything was possible.
Outside the window the light of day was dying, and twilight was settling in.
Patrick looked at his wristwatch. It was past time to head home to the wife and kids. He’d just have to tell Meghan he was working late. He was always working late.
He hated going home. Hated his life with Meghan. Hated that he had to settle for it after hope of a relationship with Ellen was shattered.
Patrick wondered if Richard had already looked at the file. He wondered what the poor man was thinking. What he had on his mind. Revenge?
That had been on Patrick’s for mind quite some time, but he had never let his anger reign supreme over his ethics.
Until today.
Chapter 9
Hank was watching the local news when he heard a knocked at the living room door.
“It’s Layne,” Amy called from her room. “I’ll get it.”
Sitting back in his recliner with a bag of Doritos, Hank watched his daughter scurry to the door. Reaching for his beer on the side table, he glowered at the outfit she wore.
Tight blue jeans and a black blouse that showed off too much cleavage. She looked almost identical to her mother the night he first met her.
Hank shuddered and took a swig of beer. He remembered what happened that night and cringed.
He remembered trying to get into Ellen’s pants. He remembered succeeding. And he remembered what it led to.
Amy opened the door for her friend, who looked like a grunge rock star from the 90s with his shaggy hair, loose-fitting flannel shirt and baggy cargo pants. Hank frowned as he thought about unprotected sex.
If his mother weren’t around to knock sense into his head with a frying pan, he would have abandoned Ellen the moment he found out she was pregnant. The prospect of fatherhood scared him shitless at the time.
What did he know about being a father? His own was a sorry excuse for one. He wanted nothing to do with being a parent. He didn’t want kids. But his mother would not give him peace about it. Neither would his conscience.
In the end, he was thankful for Amy. She was the light in the darkness of his life. He loved her so much.
But if she made the same mistakes as Ellen…
Thinking of the potential trouble having a pregnant teenage daughter might bring, Hank developed reservations about letting Amy go out tonight, and with a boy he hardly knew.
A boy who looked up to no good. Hank could see the mischief in his eyes.
“Bye, Dad.” Amy waved to him before stepping out.
Hank had nothing to worry about. Amy had said Catherine’s parents would be at the house during the party.
At least he hoped.
After dinner, he’d tried calling the Adairs for more details on the party but no one answered the phone. He’d call again later.
“Don’t be late gettin’ home, now,” he said before Amy closed the door.
Hank returned his attention to the local news. There was a story on about the three missing teenage girls. He hoped Joe took him seriously about what was happening in the county and was checking on his crazy theory.
Feeling a swell of dread in his stomach, he thought about the killer from years ago named Bubba Ray Busby and a cult of religious fanatics. He hoped his suspicions about a reemergence were unfounded.
He hoped his gut was wrong this time, and that his theory was indeed crazy.
He hoped Joe found nothing at the old, abandoned compound, and that his daughter would be safe from a past he had tried his damnedest to keep buried. A past he had tried to forget.
But the ghosts wouldn’t let him forget. They reminded him every chance they got, and they never let up on their torment.
Hank sensed a couple of them lingering about the shadows. They were in the room with him right now, watching. Waiting.
He felt Ellen among them. She was always there.
So was the guilt.
Keeping his eyes away from the dark corners of the dimly lit room, Hank finished off his beer and crumpled the can. He needed another.
Alcohol had an amazing tendency to chase those nagging spirits away.
Chapter 10
As Layne turned onto Catherine’s street, Amy rolled her eyes and groaned in irritation.
There were cars lining both sides of the street. “So much for the last time being the last time,” she said.
“You’re surprised?” Layne parallel parked between a Honda Civic and a Dodge Ram.
“I shouldn’t be, should I?”
Once Layne killed the engine, she popped the passenger door open and climbed out.
Unlike Amy, Catherine lived in an upper-middle class suburb where street lamps beamed brightly on every manicured lawn, and all the fancy brick houses were lit up like jack-o-lanterns.
Amy looked nervously up and down the street. The lie she told her father weighed on her mind. So much so that she even wondered if he followed them to the party.
“Everything all right?” Layne asked.
She didn’t see her father’s truck anywhere. She decided she was just being paranoid. “Yeah, come on.”
The sidewalk was strewn with fallen leaves. They crunched beneath their feet as they made their way to the front of Catherine’s house. Amy noted two round pumpkins with wickedly painted faces arranged on both sides of the green door. An autumn reef hung from the brass knocker. She smiled, glad to see someone else still got into the Halloween spirit. Not many of the neighboring houses were decorated. .
What was wrong with these people? Didn’t the holiday excite anybody anymore?
Amy shrugged, opened the door, and was assaulted by a heavy blast of hard rock music. Above the din, she heard Catherine call out, “Birthday girl’s here!”
Amy maneuvered through the crowd of unfamiliar bodies and approached her friend. “Even at the last minute, you’re still able to invite everybody under the moon,” Amy said.
“Yeah, sorry.” Catherine shrugged. “Once word got out, there wasn’t
much I could do. Is that a new jacket? Very nice. Hey, we got drinks in the kitchen. Come on!”
Amy slipped out of her jacket and handed it to Layne. “Can you take this up to Cat’s room for me?”
“Sure thing, your highness,” Layne said with a bow.
“Thanks, dear servant.”
Layne headed upstairs. Catherine leaned in to Amy and said, “I swear, you two should go to Homecoming together. It’s your last chance to go.”
“No.” Amy allowed herself be taken by the wrist and pulled through the dining room and into the kitchen. “Going with Layne would be like going with my brother.”
“Don’t be silly. Oh, speaking of brothers, mine’s staying over with a friend tonight. Thank God for small favors, right? And Layne came through with the booze.”
“Of course he did.” In the kitchen Amy bypassed the booze. Given her father’s drinking problem, alcohol didn’t interest her.
Instead, she grabbed a Coke and followed Catherine down a short hallway that led into the den. A hard rock song tore through the air, and a girl in high heels danced on a pool table. Drunken idiots cheered her on.
“Kari!” Catherine hollered, pushing her way through the gyrating mass of bodies. “You’re going to fuck up the felt and my Dad’s going to kill me!”
Looking for a place to sit among the smoky, smelly throng of strangers and mere acquaintances, Amy found a spot on the L-shaped leather sofa next to a portly, pimple-faced skinhead who wore a heavy metal T-shirt and raggedy camouflage pants. Warily, she wedged herself between him and the armrest.
There was something disturbingly familiar about the skinhead, but she couldn’t place her finger on just what.
He flashed a crooked grin. His teeth were yellow and his breath reeked of stale chewing tobacco and liquor. “S’up?” he said, tilting his chin. His eyes were flat and lifeless.
“Hi.” Amy offered the best smile she could and shifted uncomfortably. She averted her gaze to the big screen TV.
It was tuned to professional wrestling. Taking a sip of her drink, she watched two beefy titans pound the mess out of each other.
“This here’s the shit,” the skinhead shouted over the blaring music. “You watch wrestlin’?”
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