Mind Games

by Heather W. Petty

  She glared at me and hissed, “This is your fault. You should have just admitted what you’d done.”

  “Is that your son?” I asked, gesturing toward the picture affixed to our door.

  “No one cared about my Mickey. Son of a whore. Lost while I was out with my tricks. No one cared but our sergeant.”

  “And then he found the killer.”

  “No. I found him and killed him. And Sergeant found me. Papers said there weren’t justice, but I got my justice. I got to stand over the body of that animal and spit on it for my Mickey.”

  I huffed out a laugh. “Fine, then. So you think my father is innocent. Why in the world would you come after me?”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits and her lip twitched. “You killed all those people in the park.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You killed them and blamed him!” She reached her hands for me, her nails extended like she wanted to tear me apart. But I pressed my weapon against her neck until she gave up.

  I loosened my hold a little, to make sure she could breathe. “I didn’t kill anyone. You have it all wrong.”

  Mrs. Greeves’s voice was thin and tight when she said, “You were seen. Connie told me she saw you—”

  “I was hiding the weapon from my father! I was trying to stop him.”

  “No! You threatened him too! I saw that with my own eyes.”

  “What are you talking about?” I loosened the crook from her neck just a little bit more, hoping she’d calm down now that we were talking. But I still held it against her skin in warning.

  “I came here the night they took him away,” she pointed toward the kitchen. “I saw you through the window, standing in that room there, holding a knife to Sergeant’s throat.”

  “You don’t know what you saw.” I shook my head and looked around at the room. All that rage and damage over nothing. I’d wasted all that time trying to figure out who she was for nothing—for what amounted to the misinformed rantings of the neighborhood gossip and her misdirected loyalty. She’d killed the man who killed her son and this is what she’d turned into all these years later. Is this what Lock was afraid I’d become? “I was trying to make him stop killing people.”

  “Liar.”

  “I wanted him to leave London. I was going to pay him money to leave so I could protect my brothers.”

  “Liar!”

  Mrs. Greeves knocked the umbrella aside, and in the next moment we were on the floor, shards of glass cutting through my shirt to embed in the skin of my back. She pushed up to face me only to punch me as hard as she could and fall on top of me again, pressing the glass still deeper into my back. “And then you killed Charlie!”

  I grabbed her wrists to keep her from hitting me again, but there was already blood in my mouth when I said, “I didn’t. I didn’t kill anybody.”

  “You killed him and cut him up! But I found the piece you left. I found his hand and put it where the coppers would find it.” She ripped an arm from my grip and hit me over and over as she screamed, “Why didn’t they lock you up!”

  I managed to deflect only half the blows, and the one that smacked against my temple made me dizzy. She suddenly stopped hitting me, staring at me through her hateful mask, her cheeks wet with tears.

  “Do you know how lost Connie was without her Lord Charles? You didn’t have to kill him. He was on your side—said Sergeant killed your friend. But I knew better. Then I found his hand.”

  Mrs. Greeves connected another blow to my temple before I could grab her hand again. “Then you killed Connie!”

  She was practically sobbing at that point but was still stronger than I would ever have guessed. And even though my back screamed in protest, I shifted my body under her as I was taught, turning all the simple punctures into slices along my skin. Then, when she pushed up her body to free her hand again, I brought my knees up to my chest and kicked her stomach as hard as I could so that she launched into the rubble.

  I spun over and, quickly as I could, crawled toward the knife. My fingers brushed against the hilt just as she jumped onto my back to stop me. I inched forward and she grabbed my hair, pulling back to limit my reach. But it didn’t work. My hand closed around the hilt and I swung my arm back, stabbing the knife behind me with as much strength as I could at that awkward angle.

  I didn’t even know where I’d hit her until she rolled off me and I was able to sit up on my knees. She seemed a lot more delicate with blood pouring out her side. I must have punctured a lung, because she was gargling when she coughed, and her chest was moving in an uneven way when she breathed.

  “I didn’t kill your friend,” I said while trying to catch my breath. “I don’t know who did, but I know one thing for sure. My father is a serial killer. What you saw through the window that night was me trying to stop him.”

  She swallowed a few times and managed to growl out a “No!”

  “You and I are just two more of his victims now.” I looked down at her tiny frame, which had still managed to toss me around, and I knew she’d probably survive this. She’d probably survived worse.

  “You killed her and if—” Mrs. Greeves coughed into her fist and I saw blood on her skin and lips when she glared back up at me. “If they don’t get you on that, you’ll go to jail for trying to kill me.”

  Maybe I would. She was obviously the X I’d spoken to Mallory about just hours ago at the station. I think that person may be in trouble. Even the inspector would have to see a threat in my words. Or maybe Mallory would see her for the home invader that she was and let me off. But in the meantime, I’d most likely be held in custody. Alice was no longer here to come to my rescue. And every hour I was in that station would be another hour closer to my father’s release. I couldn’t afford to let him run off somewhere out of my reach. I had to be prepared.

  I gripped the knife hilt that was still in my hand and slowly brought the blade up to her neck. Just a nick and I could ensure she wasn’t around to accuse me of anything. But I could barely keep the blade held to her skin. She really was just another victim of my father, and just like me, she had become like him to get her revenge.

  Mrs. Greeves coughed and made another gargling sound in the back of her throat, and then she gasped out, “Bitch.”

  “Yeah, I am. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. He’ll be out at the end of the week, your sergeant. All of your coming after me worked.”

  I’d maybe expected surprise or relief to filter somewhere into her expression, but instead she clenched her teeth and tried to hiss out another response that I couldn’t fathom.

  But I nodded anyway. “You’ve freed a murderer. And now, because of you, I have to become a murderer too, to protect the world from him.”

  In my imagination, I saw hands covered in blood, only this time, instead of my father’s body beyond, I saw Alice dead, and Freddie. I saw Michael and Seanie cowering as our father moved toward them. All of that and more would happen if I went to prison now. And all it would take was a slice to stop her from ruining everything.

  You would not be you anymore.

  I heard Lock’s voice so clearly in my mind right then, I half expected to hear his crunching steps behind me. I gritted my teeth against the sound of it and blinked away the hot, wet feeling in my eyes. I screamed in my mind that he was wrong, that I was already changed, that I had to do this!

  But a tremor in my hand moved the knife and nicked her skin, and the blood drop that formed over the wound made me toss the knife aside. I crawled off her and away, until I was sitting in a pile of feathers that used to be Alice’s duvet. I thought Mrs. Greeves might get up and run off when I did, but she just lay there, coughing more than she had when I’d been on top of her. She didn’t even move her hands. She coughed twice more and her eyes were closed. Maybe she was sleeping, I told myself. Maybe she’d fall into unconsciousness and stay there. Maybe I’d already killed her in the end.

  I covered my tremoring hand with the other and stood slowly. I s
tepped gingerly toward Alice’s room. Once there, I turned on the faucet in the powder room and washed my hands and face before the water could turn warm. Then, and only then, did I decide to face my own reflection. It wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be. There was a scratch along my cheekbone under one eye, and a bruise was forming at my temple. But for the most part, my wounds were all in places that could be hidden under my clothes and by my hair. I’d had worse. Much worse.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I ignored it.

  “You have to go,” I told my reflection. “Quickly now.”

  I reached under the bathroom vanity for the first-aid kit I knew was kept there. I hugged it to my chest, walked out into the room, and saw my bag behind the door, miraculously untouched in Mrs. Greeves’ destruction. I shoved the kit into it.

  It wasn’t until I was looking in Alice’s closet for an unshredded sweater that I heard another cough from out in the entry. My reminder that a woman was dying out there. I took a moment to close my eyes and squeeze my hands together again, and when I opened them, I found a wrap that would work perfectly. It was thick and long enough to hide the blood on my body.

  When I reached for my bag again, I winced at the pain in my shoulder, where a piece of glass still felt wedged into my skin. My hip wound ached from all the walking around and standing. I needed to get to a hotel as soon as possible, a thought that made me remember that I needed money. And I’d hidden the cash that Alice had given me in Piddinghoe. I hoisted up my bag, grabbed the wrap, and headed for the kitchen. I knocked along the wood panels of wainscoting in the kitchen until I heard the empty one, then kicked it free to grab the bag of cash.

  I shoved the cash bag into my bigger bag, then swung the wrap around my shoulders, making sure I could still use my hands without revealing the wounds at my shoulder and hip. A flare of pain went off in my injured shoulder, and I gritted my teeth against it. The ache in my shoulder set off a kind of ripple effect, bringing to life all the little pains in my back and making my hip pain worse. I needed to get to a hotel to clean up. I needed to lie down.

  I slung my bag up on my uninjured shoulder and made for the door. The picture of the little boy stopped me for a few seconds. I reached a hand up like I would touch it, but I never did.

  “I’ll call for help,” I whispered.

  Chapter 28

  I was halfway down Baker Street when I decided to call Alice. She answered before the connection could even ring on my side.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Safe. Near Battersea Park.”

  “You should be closer to Brighton by now.”

  “Yeah, we had to take a little detour. I thought I saw someone who was too interested in us, so we jumped off the train to make sure we weren’t being followed. I’ve booked tickets to take a more circuitous route for later tonight. And before you ask, Michael is safe as well. My friend will meet the transport.”

  For the slightest moment I thought about not telling Alice what had happened. She had enough drama on her plate just getting my brothers to her farm. But she had to know how toxic London would be from now on. What if she’d brought them back here tonight?

  “I was attacked when I got home. And the house is trashed.” The quiet on the other end of the line made me peek to see if the call had dropped. When I found it had not, I said, “I’m fine. But it was that protester woman who has been around the house. She’s the one who put the hand in the rubbish bin, and she’s been coming after me for weeks.”

  “And she’s been sending you threats.” There was something off about Alice’s tone, but I couldn’t say what it was. I suddenly wished I could see her face to figure out what she was thinking.

  “You knew about those?”

  “I saw one in your room when I was cleaning up.”

  “Well, she got pretty badly injured when I fought her off. Do you think you could find a phone to call someone to help her? Anonymously, of course.”

  “Where is she?” Again, her tone made me wary. It was like her words were clipped. Was she angry? Angry with me?

  “She’s in the house, bleeding pretty badly. I just know if I call it in, it’ll be worse for me in the end. But she’s really hurt.”

  “I’ll take care of it. Where are you right now?”

  “I’m going to find somewhere to lay low for a bit. Figure out what comes next.”

  “Text me where you end up.”

  She was definitely angry. Not that I could blame her. I’d tricked her into leaving town without me and then made a huge mess of things. And now I was involving her. Like she wasn’t already doing enough for us. Still, I wasn’t going to text her. I knew that.

  “I’d better go.”

  “Yeah. Go find a nice place. Text me and I’ll take care of the bill.”

  I paused just a second before ending the call. “Thanks, Alice.”

  I thought I heard an amused grunt before she hung up. And for some reason her insistence that I text her made me think of the way Alice snatched my phone from the officer’s hand in the police station lobby the day before.

  This phone is in my name, she’d said.

  Which meant she could probably find it using my GPS if she was really determined. I tapped into my settings and turned off the GPS. Just to be safe. Then I took one last look back at our house, sure that I’d never see it again, and I forced myself to turn the corner away from Baker Street.

  • • •

  By the time I got to Gloucester Place, my whole body ached so badly I was ready to stay at the first hotel I could find. I tripped up a set of stairs into an inn with a white and gold entryway. It looked posh enough for the staff to mind its own business, but was still a retrofitted town house, so not a place that would have too many expectations of me. I managed a smile as I paid for three nights in cash and somehow made it to my room without faltering on the steps.

  All I wanted was to fall face-first onto the white and silver linens of the bed, but I knew I would regret not taking care of my wounds. I undressed completely, bagging up my ruined, bloody clothes, then started a bath. While I waited for the tub to fill, I got the tweezers from the first-aid kit and reached back to pull out one off the embedded glass shards I could feel at my neck. The pain was so intense, I couldn’t help but whimper, and my plastic tweezers kept slipping on the blood.

  I was out of breath by the time I pulled it free and wondered how in the world I’d manage the rest when a knock at the door made me freeze in place. I turned off the bath faucet and waited silently, thinking whoever it was would move along when they realized they had the wrong door. Then they knocked again.

  I pulled a towel around me and crept toward the door.

  “Mori. Let me in!”

  I slid the chain lock into place and opened the door just far enough to see Sherlock out in the hall. “How in the world are you here?” I asked in a loudish whisper.

  “Let me in and I’ll tell you.” He looked over both shoulders, scanning the hall.

  “Tell me and I’ll let you in,” I countered.

  Lock made a face and crossed his arms. “The longer I am out in the hall, the more likely someone will recognize me.”

  I clenched my jaw as I closed the door to undo the chain for him. The minute I opened the door, his arms were around my neck. Thankfully, he was gentle in his embrace.

  “I told you what would happen if you didn’t answer your phone.”

  I maybe should have pushed him off me and out the door, but it felt so good to be held by someone, I didn’t want to move. Not until I remembered that he shouldn’t have known where I was. I pushed against his chest to face him, despite the aching protest of my entire body. “How did you find me?”

  He smiled in that way that meant he was about to describe how clever he’d been. “I called Jason Kim to track your phone.”

  “But I turned off the GPS.”

  Lock nodded. “Yes, but Jason’s app meant he was able to turn it back on remotely.”


  I cursed, and rushed over to where I’d set my phone on the bedside table. I disabled the GPS again and then deleted Jason’s bloody app off my phone for good. I stared down at the bedside table and sighed. “You’re not the only one who’ll think to use that, Sherlock—”

  Before I could finish his name, his arm slid around my middle, to hold me still. His other hand brushed gently over the still-bleeding wound at my neck.

  I tried to wave him off me and break free of his hold. “I’ll be fine.”

  Sherlock held me tighter to him, pressing his hand over my hip, so that my legs gave way and I winced at the pain of it. He quickly adjusted his grip, and held his now bloodstained fingers out in front of me.

  “Don’t speak.” He paused, as though he was trying to compose himself, then said, “I’m not asking for the story of how you got this way. I’m not asking why you are here instead of at your home or at the hospital. And I’m not asking if I can stay or not.”

  “Lock . . .” I turned to face him, but even the barest glance at his expression and all my protests withered away. I’d seen Sherlock full of passion and determination, facing down adventure and even a bit of danger, but I’d never seen him as resolute as he was right then.

  “I’m staying,” he said. And all I could do was nod and keep very still, as he painted me with his gaze, taking in every injury he could see. His hand brushed over my hip, where blood was staining through the towel. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  I let him lead me over to sit on the edge of the bathtub while he prepared all the supplies. I didn’t make any noise when he started plucking glass shards from my back, not even when it hurt so bad I thought I might bite through my lip.

  “This one may scar,” he muttered, when he reached the last of them, this one right above my left hip.

  The relief I felt having the object removed overshadowed any talk of scars. But I reached back all the same. Sherlock stopped my fingers before I could touch the spot.

  “I just cleaned that.”