“You already did,” he reminds me.
“Yes, but…” I lower my head, digging my fingers into my scalp. “I won’t do it again. Ever. That was just… he got me so angry…”
“The longer you go hungry,” he says softly, “the stronger the cravings will become. You’re not dangerous now because you’ve been sated. But if you go a few months without feeding, you’ll kill the first person who looks at you wrong.”
I shake my head weakly. “I won’t.”
Chas leans toward me, his dark eyes flashing. “You think I don’t know what I’m talking about, Tom? I’ve gone through the same thing you’re going through right now. I’ve been there. I’ve lived it for the last fifty years.”
“Fifty…?” I study my brother’s face—he can’t be more than twenty-five.
He grins at my confusion. “It slows the aging process. Another perk.”
I just shake my head. What he is telling me can’t possibly be true. This is the sort of fairy tale used to scare little children.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t felt the cravings, brother,” he says. “And believe me, they’ll only grow stronger. Overpowering.”
I sit there, trying to ignore the growing feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. “What are we?”
“We are human,” Chas says. “Just different from all other humans.”
“Are we vampires?” I ask. I read Bram Stoker’s book, Dracula, a few years ago. I found it fascinating, but it was very clearly a work of fiction.
Or so I thought.
“Vampires are not real,” Chas says. “But some of the legends have truth to them. Have you heard of Vlad the Impaler?”
I shake my head no.
“Killed tens of thousands by impalement in the fifteenth century.” He adjusts his dark cloak, which again conceals everything from his white neck to his knees. “He is the man that the legend of Dracula is based on.” He pauses and gives me a meaningful look. “Vlad is our great-grandfather. All the legends of vampires are based on our kind.”
I lean back against the couch, too shocked to ask any of the questions whirling around my brain. This can’t be. I’m just a butcher’s apprentice. Nothing more.
“We are not magical,” he says in that smooth, reassuring voice. “Just different. Your reflexes and strength will be greatly enhanced when you have fed, but you are still only a human being. You will age slower, but you will age. You will eventually die, just like everyone else.”
I swallow, which is difficult when my throat feels so dry. “Where is our father?”
Chas shrugs. “He comes and goes. I haven’t seen him in about fifteen years. He found me to tell me about you—that I should look out for you. And instruct you—when you were ready. So I’ve been watching you, waiting for you to be ready.”
So my father was thinking about me at some point. He was looking out for me. He didn’t just get my mother in trouble then forget all about me.
“Will I ever meet him?” I ask.
Chas shakes his head. “I don’t know, Tom. I think you will someday, but… not until he’s ready. He has a way of showing up when you need him the most.”
“I see,” I mumble, feeling disappointed by his answer.
Chas narrows his eyes at me. “Listen to me, Tom. The police will likely come by in the next day to question you—your stepfather will almost certainly be missed at his shop by tomorrow. When they speak to you, tell them George Blake went out Sunday night and never came home. Nothing more.”
I nod. “I understand.”
I know by now I must agree to everything Chas asks of me. If I refuse him, he will threaten me. And I believe he has every intention of making good on his threats. If anyone hangs for the death of George Blake, it will be me—I was the one holding the knife. Chas will simply disappear into the night.
Or worse.
Despite everything, I keep thinking about my father. Not George Blake, a man who makes a mockery of the word. I am thinking about my real father. The handsome, charming man who my mother fell in love with all those years ago. Stephen.
I wonder if I’ll ever see him. I want to believe that eventually he’ll show up. Wouldn’t he want to meet his son?
_____
The next day, I’m in the back at Sullivan’s when I hear Mr. Sullivan calling out my name. I drop the meat I’m slicing, wipe my hands on my apron, and come out to the front. When I see Sheriff Eckley standing there with his badge plastered on his chest, my heart sinks in my chest, but I keep a smile frozen on my face.
“What do you need, Sheriff?” I ask politely.
The sheriff doesn’t look upset. Maybe he’s just ordering some meat. Except I know he’s not.
“Tom,” he says. “One of your father’s customers came to my office today because he’s been looking to pick up some items he purchased, but the blacksmith shop has been closed for the last two days.”
“Oh,” is all I can come up with.
“So I went and knocked on your door, but nobody answered,” the sheriff continues. He’s studying me with cool green eyes that remind me of Mary’s.
“My mother has gone to visit her sister,” I explain.
“Right, I heard that,” he says, and I wonder who he’s been talking to. He’s trying to be casual, but the sheriff is always a professional. And he’s good at what he does. “But we’re trying to track down your father. Has he been sick? Was he home this morning?”
I hesitate, quickly rehearsing in my head the lies that Chas instructed me to tell. “Actually,” I say, “I haven’t seen him since Sunday night, I don’t think. He went out to the saloon after dinner then came back real late.”
Sheriff Eckley blinks in surprise. “You haven’t seen him in two days then?”
I shrug. “It’s not unusual. He goes to the saloon a lot, especially when my mother is out of town. Sometimes I might not see him for a week.”
I’m startled by how easily the lies roll off my tongue.
To my relief, the sheriff smiles. “Yeah, he’s probably gone on a drinking bash. Or maybe he’s gone off to see your mother without letting you know. When will she be home?”
“She’s due back tomorrow,” I tell him.
He nods. “I’ll check in with you again tomorrow. If he hasn’t turned up by then…”
“I’m sure he will,” I say quickly, of course knowing he won’t.
Sheriff Eckley looks around the shop appraisingly then over at Mr. Sullivan. “I hope you’re not working my future son-in-law too hard,” he says.
“You kidding me, Bill?” Mr. Sullivan laughs. “I have to shove the boy out the door to get him to go home at night. Best employee I’ll ever get.”
I smile gratefully at my boss. Mr. Sullivan is really good to me. Why can’t I have a man like him as a father? If Mr. Sullivan had married my mother, I wouldn’t be standing here, wondering where the hell my brother hid the body of my stepfather, and if I’ll hang for his murder.
_____
I meet Ma at the train station today to help carry her trunk back home. George is supposed to meet her, but it’s clear that isn’t going to happen. I’m ready at the station when her train arrives, just in time to see her stepping from the locomotive, her golden hair piled on top of her head, her usually pale face flushed pink from a week away from the miserable man she married.
“Tom!” She throws her arms around me when I walk over to where she is struggling with her trunk. “I didn’t expect to see you here! Where’s your father?”
“He’s been busy,” I lie, “so I thought I would fetch you.”
Ma pulls away to look at me, brushing a piece of lint from my collar. “Honestly, Tom, you get more handsome every week. Mary is a lucky girl.”
I avert my eyes. “Let’s go home.”
I carry Ma’s trunk, while she scolds me for not borrowing our neighbor’s horse and buggy to manage the load. But I can carry a trunk easily. I could have carried it over my head the entire way, but that would have made her
suspicious.
It is still daylight when we get back to the house. Ma smiles when she walks in—I haven’t seen her so happy in a long time. It is as if she sensed I’ve gotten rid of her husband. She touches every surface in the parlor, finally collapsing onto the sofa.
“It’s good to be home,” she sighs.
“Was Aunt Helen a bother?” I ask.
“Oh, the usual.” She shakes her head. “Her husband is such a louse. He drinks away half their money!”
Sounds familiar. Of course, Aunt Helen has six children to support and Ma just has me.
Ma is quiet for a moment, her brows knitted together. “Tom?”
“Yes?”
“What happened to my vase?”
My eyes go to the end table that contained the vase that broke when I pushed George against the wall, moments before I cut his throat. I told Chas that Ma would notice its absence, but I hadn’t prepared for the question.
“It broke,” I finally say. “It was my fault. I’m sorry, Ma.”
“Oh, too bad.” She frowns. “It was one of my favorites. What did you do with the pieces?”
“I… I threw them out.”
“Oh, Tom!” She shakes her head. “You should have saved them. I could have brought it to John Pollard at the pottery shop to have it patched back together.”
“Sorry,” I mumble. I can’t very well tell her that the pieces were soaked in her husband’s blood. “Why don’t you relax and I’ll put together dinner for us?”
Ma smiles gratefully. “That would be lovely, Tom. Um, do you… do you know when your father is due to come home?”
I flinch at the way she still refers to him as my father. “No.”
I have barely made it to the kitchen when I hear a knock at the front door. I freeze, waiting for my mother to get off the sofa and answer the door. I already know who it will be, even though I desperately hope it is someone else.
“Hello, Meg!” It is, as I expected, Sheriff Eckley’s voice. “Welcome back. How was your trip?”
“Very well, thank you,” Ma’s voice says. “But I’m glad to be home.”
“Wonderful,” the sheriff says. “And I’m just wondering if George has turned up yet? Did he come out to see you?”
There’s a long pause. I stand in the kitchen, feeling a sweat break out on my forehead. I have to keep it together. I can’t let Sheriff Eckley see my nervousness.
“Turned up?” Ma finally says.
“Tom didn’t tell you?” He sounds surprised. “Nobody’s seen George since Sunday night. He’s not here, is he?”
I hold my breath as my mother shouts my name. I look down at my hands and see they are shaking. For a moment, I can’t get myself to move. I know the conversation I’m about to have won’t be pleasant, but I can’t avoid it. I had hoped to at least make it through a meal without having to deal with this.
And I hope Chas is right that this will eventually blow over.
“Hi, Tom.” Sheriff Eckley is smiling again when I come into the hallway, but the smile is strained this time. “It looks like your father hasn’t come back yet, has he?”
“No,” I admit.
“Tom,” Ma murmurs, “why didn’t you tell me? I thought…”
“I didn’t want to upset you,” I say. “It’s not like Pa hasn’t disappeared for short times before.”
The sheriff raises his eyebrows. “For four days?”
“Four days?” Ma repeats, her blue eyes turning glassy. “George has been gone for four days?”
“Well, Tom here says he last saw him Sunday night,” Sheriff Eckley says. “Isn’t that right, Tom?”
I nod mutely.
“And you said you thought he was going to the saloon,” he continues, “but the bartender there says he never saw ol’ George turn up on Sunday night. Now, just to be clear, Tom, did you hear your father come home from wherever he went on Sunday night?”
“I… I’m not sure,” I stammer. “I thought I did. But I was in my room, so I could be mistaken.”
Sheriff Eckley nods thoughtfully. “And you were home all night that night?”
“I may have stepped out for a bit,” I say. “I don’t remember.”
He looks over my shoulder. “And you didn’t see any signs of a struggle in the house on Sunday night?”
Ma stares at me, her blue eyes filling with horror. I know what she is thinking about—the broken vase.
“No, sir,” I say quietly.
He raises his eyebrows at my mother. “Do you mind if I take a look around, Meg?”
She shakes her head no. I watch the sheriff mosey into our home, looking around at our furniture that is newer and better made than his own. We are well-off compared with the Eckleys, but it isn’t something that seems to bother them. They are nice people—well-liked by everyone in town. Then again, most people liked George too, except when he was drunk.
I don’t know what the sheriff is looking for, although I nearly fall into a panic when he stands over the exact spot where George bled all over the floor. I see him looking down at the floorboards and I’m terrified he can see the blood. But there is no chance of that. I’ve gone over it twice more since that first night—there is no trace of crimson left.
Still, I breathe a sigh of relief when he lifts his head without examining the floor further.
“By the way, Tom,” Sheriff Eckley says to me, “have you seen Mrs. Perkins recently?”
I frown and shake my head.
The sheriff shrugs but his eyes are staring straight at me. “Since she’s right across the road, I went over there yesterday to ask if she’d seen George the last few days. But she didn’t answer her door. I asked around at the grocer and he said she didn’t show up for her weekly visit on Monday like she usually does.”
A cold, sick feeling washes over me. Widow Perkins is missing?
“So I got someone to open up the door, to make sure she was all right,” he goes on. “And she wasn’t to be found anywhere.”
“Maybe she went to visit a relative?” Ma suggests.
“Maybe,” Sheriff Eckley agrees, although his eyes are trained on my face. “It does sure seem like a lot of folks are disappearing in this neighborhood lately.”
Ma’s lower lip trembles. “What are you saying, Bill? You think something bad happened to my George?”
His eyes stay on my face. “I hope not, Meg.”
Before he leaves, the sheriff takes my mother’s hand and assures her he’ll come by if he hears any news at all. By the time he’s gone, I feel like my legs can barely support me anymore. It is clear as day the sheriff thinks I had something to do with George’s disappearance. And now there’s the matter of Widow Perkins. Where has she gone?
I hope she’s visiting relatives. I pray for that.
After the sheriff is gone, Ma just stands in the foyer, trembling slightly. She turns away from me, refusing to meet my eyes, leaning against the wall for support. She seems so small suddenly. Whenever my mother looked at me in the past, I’d always seen love in her eyes. Now all I see is fear.
“I think,” she manages, “that I’m not very hungry. I think… I’ll go to bed now.”
“Ma,” I begin, but I’m not sure what I will say next. I’m afraid she’ll ask me if I killed George. And if she does, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to lie.
Chapter 21: Brooke
I’m dressed in my blue scrubs for work and am standing in the kitchen, draining the last dregs of coffee from my mug, when I hear the pounding on my door. I know who it is even before I hear the voice yelling, “Brooky! Too loud!”
I put my mug in the sink and walk over to open my front door. I see Mr. Teitelman standing in front of me, wearing pants nearly up to his nipples, held up by suspenders. I haven’t seen a grown man wearing suspenders in I don’t know how long and the sight of it makes me smile.
“So much stomping!” he complains. He looks accusingly at my clogs. “It woke me up.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Teitelma
n,” I say. “I only put on my shoes a few minutes ago…”
“Eh?” he says. “When were you reading the news?”
“Not news,” I say. “Shoes.”
“Right,” he says. “Take off your shoes in the apartment. Otherwise, it’s too loud.”
Good thing I’m not having sex up here. That seems like just the sort of thing Mr. Teitelman would be able to hear perfectly, then come up to complain about it right in the middle. Too loud, Brooky, he’d say.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll be more quiet.”
He nods and waves his hand like he doesn’t care, even though he’s here complaining three or four times a week. But he never seems that angry about it. He’s certainly never reported me to the management. I sometimes wonder if he’s not even bothered by the sound, but he’s just lonely.
Poor Mr. Teitelman.
“By the way,” he says, “did your friend Gabrielle spend the night on your couch last night?”
I frown at him. “No…”
“Oh.” He looks confused. “I saw her in the stairwell when I was coming up here. I thought she stayed with you.”
My stomach sinks. Gabby was doing a walk of shame this morning. She spent the night with Jamie. They had sex.
Great. This day is starting out just wonderfully.
_____
I get to work a bit early because there’s something I need to do before I start seeing patients.
This morning, I carefully lower the bobby pin with the blond hair in it into a Ziploc sandwich bag. Then I search for the bobby pins that Syd left in my own bathroom. I locate the pile, and fortunately, it turns out one of them has a hair still stuck in it. Sydney’s hair.
I put the second bobby pin in a different baggie, which I label with a black sharpie so I won’t get them mixed up.
When I get to work, I’ve got both baggies in my scrub pocket. Instead of checking the list of requisitions we’ve got piling up, I go straight to the lab.
Jolene is one of the lab technicians who looks at samples under the microscope when the order calls for it. I wouldn’t say Jolene and I are best buddies, but we have a good relationship, where I ask her about her two little kids and she asks me about my dating life. I can ask her for a small favor and she’ll probably do it.
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