Skin and Bone: A Psychological Thriller

by T. L. Keary

  Davis nods and puts the car back into drive. We pull ahead and then turn right onto the next street. These houses are old, ones that are original to the early settlers of the town. We hook a right when we reach the end of the road, and Davis drives slow as we roll past the first and then the second property.

  We’re barely crawling when we pass the fence that divides properties. And then there it is—the Milton parcel.

  Thick, thick trees dot almost the entire property. Most of these other houses have been somewhat cleared, forming at least some degree of a yard.

  But this property is still absolutely wild.

  Soon it changes from evergreens to huge, wide maple trees, which opens our view toward the house.

  The house is drab and neglected. It’s a color that’s somewhere between blue and gray with shutters that were probably once black, but now just look washed out. The porch sags and I don’t know that I would be confident to walk up those stairs. A screen door hangs broken, barely holding on with two screws. The shingles on the roof need to be replaced.

  The gravel driveway is mostly covered in decaying leaves and needles. It’s empty.

  “It doesn’t look like anyone has been here in years,” I observe. There are two garbage cans on the side of the house, but they must be empty, because they’re still standing with the lids on.

  “This looks exactly like a murder house,” Davis says, his eyes taking it all in. “Hate to say it, but the house fits the man. I told you Brad Milton was a creep.”

  “Did he have any family members?” I ask. I’ve got goosebumps just at the thought of walking through that property. “Anyone who he would have willed this dump to?”

  Davis shakes his head. “I didn’t really know the guy. He could have had a wife and ten kids for all I know.”

  I sit back in my seat, my mind racing. And suddenly I find something to grasp at. “Does Ezra have security cameras at his house? Do you have a key?”

  Davis’ eyes slide over to meet my eyes. “Yes and yes.”

  I nod, thinking through it all. “Call Ezra just to see if he has any cell reception. If the security cameras alert him when we go in, we’ll have to do this a little different.”

  Davis’ brows furrow, but he doesn’t question me further. He pulls his cell phone out and hits Ezra’s name.

  “Straight to voicemail,” he says, ending the call. “He’s out of range.”

  I nod. “Perfect. Head back to your house. As comfortable as your workout clothes are, I’m tired of feeling like the grubby girlfriend who’s given up. I need to change and then we can go to Ezra’s house.”

  Davis looks over as he pulls back onto the road and points the car back toward his house. “Girlfriend, huh?”

  My eyes slide over to him and I see a bit of a smile trying to pull on his face.

  “I’m wearing your clothes from head to ankles. What else would people think?”

  He just chuckles once and lays harder on the gas.

  An hour later, I’ve showered again, because I still didn’t feel clean, done my hair for real, put on a little make up, and am wearing clothes that actually fit and feel like me. I step out of the guest bedroom and make my way through the house.

  I find Davis in the kitchen, putting lunch together.

  When he hears me, he turns, and I don’t hate it when his eyes run from my head to toes.

  “I need to go to the store later,” he says, setting a plate out with some food. “I don’t have many gluten-free options, but this should get you by until then.”

  I’m really grateful he turns away just then, because my face flushes. “Thanks.”

  I eat quickly, as does he, without saying anything. Three minutes later, we’re in the car again, pointed toward Ezra’s house.

  It isn’t a far drive. The brothers only live four minutes apart.

  “Did Ezra build your house?” I ask as I see the farmhouse come into view.

  “He did,” Davis confirms. “And he hated every minute of it. Says it’s the ugliest thing he’s ever built.”

  I laugh, understanding completely as he pulls into Ezra’s driveway. The two homes couldn’t be more opposite in looks and style.

  The houses are completely fitting of the men they belong to.

  Ezra was always the traditional good guy next door. Davis was always a little aloof and dark.

  We park at the end of the driveway and I follow Davis up to the front door. He simply enters a code into the keypad and when it beeps, he opens it.

  I might personally prefer Davis’ house, but I do have to appreciate Ezra’s. It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful and light and airy.

  “I saw some bookcases in the living room, when She came here,” I say, slipping my shoes off and letting myself inside. It’s all familiar now. She showed me most of her visit here, and several after. I’ve never stepped foot inside personally, but I well know my way around. “I’m thinking they’ll be there maybe.”

  Davis doesn’t say anything but follows me inside. We step into the living room and just where I remember, there are four bookshelves, two on either side of the giant fireplace.

  They’re mostly for décor. There are really only maybe four shelves worth of books. Knickknacks are spread throughout each one, even empty picture frames just waiting for future family pictures or baby photos.

  “How much did Ezra spend on an interior decorator?” I ask, a hint of amusement in my voice.

  “Way too much,” Davis says, standing in front of one of the bookshelves, his eyes scanning the shelves.

  I chuckle, even though a pang of sadness hits me.

  Ezra just wants to move on with his life. He wants a family. He wants a wife.

  But why did he have to be so desperate for it to be me? Why after all this time, hasn’t he moved on?

  I push those thoughts away. This isn’t my fault. I had my own life to live.

  Ezra should have moved on with his.

  Obsession is the downfall of a lot of people.

  I scan, looking through the titles, all the spines.

  One by one, I eliminate possibilities.

  “They’re not over here,” Davis announces as I finish my scan.

  “Not here either,” I say, disappointment seeping through me.

  “I got one more place to check,” Davis says, annoyance and impatience creeping through his tone. “Back here.”

  I follow him down the hall, past the office, past the laundry room. Back into the master bedroom. It’s all so put together. But it’s not so meticulously organized like Davis’ house is. There’s more hints of a man living here. Clothes thrown into that corner. A towel thrown over that chair.

  A discarded bra to the side of the bed…

  We both choose to ignore it as I follow Davis into the closet.

  He rummages around, though he’s careful not to leave anything disturbed. He checks the upper shelf, behind the door.

  And then, in the far back, on the floor, behind the long coats and dress pants, Davis produces a box with a lid.

  He raises an eyebrow at me as he steps out of the closet with it and sets it on the bed.

  I don’t really want to open that box. My stomach is full of knots and snakes.

  But I have to have my answers, so I lean over and watch as Davis removes the lid.

  A dozen pictures lay on top of the books we were looking for. There’s also a small box with an array of random items. Ticket stubs, a silver necklace, a dried-up boutonniere, a handwritten note with lipstick lips pressed into the paper.

  The pictures are all of Ezra and I, our senior year. There’s one from the school fair. One at a football game. One from homecoming. Another random few. One of us at prom with crowns on our heads.

  “Shit, Ez,” Davis swears, looking through the pictures one by one.

  “Has Ezra never dated anyone else?” I ask, my stomach feeling sick. I’m horrified and disgusted at the same time.

  It’s been thirteen years.

  “There�
��s been a few women, some that were serious even,” Davis says. “But you could always tell Ezra was holding back. Hesitating. I had no idea he was still this hung up on you.”

  I shake my head and the meal Davis made is threatening to come up now. “Why? Why…I mean, I’m not that amazing. I was just some girl back then. There had to be dozens better than me. Why…” I shake my head, taking just one step back from that box.

  Davis looks back over his shoulder, and I see in his eyes that he understands why this disturbs me so much. He lets out a sigh. “I don’t know. He…Ezra doesn’t talk about this kind of stuff. I mean, it’s been pretty obvious he’s been stuck on you. But this…” He shakes his head.

  I shake my head, sick and full of pity. “He…Davis, I think Ezra needs to talk to a psychologist or something. This isn’t normal. This is…this is obsessive reflection. People can’t be happy when they’re stuck living in the past.”

  “Yeah, well, after we tell him the woman who isn’t you made him think all his hopes and dreams came true and he was lied to, he’s going to need more than just a little bit of therapy,” Davis says as he lays the pictures to the side and pulls out the four books.

  They’re yearbooks, all four years’ worth, from Snohomish High School.

  “Come on,” Davis says. He takes all the yearbooks and walks out of the bedroom.

  Down the hall I follow him, to the big, handmade dining table.

  I sit next to Davis and he hands me two of them. With a glance at the years on the spine, they’re from my sophomore and senior years.

  Without saying anything, we both turn to the back, checking the last names.

  I scan past Marks, through McKenzie, and then onto Mordo in the oldest book.

  “No Milton in this one,” I say, setting it aside and pulling over my senior one.

  “Not in this one, either,” Davis says, setting aside the very oldest, from my freshman year.

  I flip to the back, my eyes immediately finding the M section.

  Matthews, Marks, Mordo.

  No Milton.

  “Nothing here either,” I say in frustration.

  “Here either,” Davis confirms.

  I take a deep breath, closing my eyes. I wrack my brain, combing through every detail, all the information we know.

  “The article said he had to take care of family matters,” I say. “We assume he had family here in Snohomish, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they had his same last name.”

  “That doesn’t help us much,” Davis says, resting his elbow on the table, his head propped between his thumb and two fingers.

  “Everything She’s said makes me think she knew us from back then,” I say, flipping to the first of the yearbook. “She looks about my same age, so if she lived here in town, which seems logical since the bunker she locked me in was here, she had to have gone to our high school.”

  Davis only raises an eyebrow and drags my junior yearbook back toward him. He, too, goes to the beginning and starts looking through it, seeing if anything jumps out.

  This is so weird. I haven’t looked at my yearbooks since my senior year of college. I’d been a little drunk and my roommates were laughing and telling stories about their exes. So ,I’d dragged mine out and shown them pictures of Ezra.

  I’m not even sure where my yearbooks are. I probably got rid of them along the way between the four moves I’ve done as an adult.

  Page after page, I see the faces of familiar teachers, many of whom I’ve forgotten. There are students I was once friends with and haven’t thought about in years. A few that I’m friends with on social media. None that I’ve stayed close with.

  It wasn’t a big school. It was bound to happen.

  Finally, I get to the senior section and start flipping through all the pages. Carefully, I study the face of each female, asking who could pull off something like this.

  “Did you know her?” Davis asks when I’ve just finished looking through the Bs.

  I lean over and look at the picture he points to. It’s a girl with long dark hair. Her brows are thick, her chin weak. She’s a little wild looking, maybe a little bit tomboy-ish, but could have been pretty with the right grooming.

  “Charity,” I say, the name coming back quicker than I expect. “Charity…” I can’t remember the last name, but my eyes shift to the side to the list of names. “Charity Cooper.”

  Davis looks up at me. “I remember her now,” he says. I can tell he’s not really seeing me. His mind is rolling through memories, trying to pick out the right ones. “Nothing that screams stalker. But…I do remember her running into Ezra over the years. Frequently. Always a little overly friendly, very smiley. Very flirtatious.”

  My eyes shift back to the senior yearbook and I find her on the next page. In this one, her eyebrows have been plucked and her hair more brushed. But there’s still that slightly untamed look to her.

  “Yeah,” I say, my brows furrowing. “I do remember her, though not well. She was kind of a loner. Either she didn’t know how to be a part of the crowd, or she liked it that way. But I do remember catching her looking at Ezra more than a few times. But every girl stared at Ezra.”

  My eyes slide over to meet Davis’. “It’s not a lot to go on,” he says, raising his eyebrows.

  “But it’s a start,” I say, my heart rate increasing.

  Just then, Davis’ phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and looks at the screen. “This is him.”

  My heart is instantly in my throat.

  Davis answers it and puts it on speakerphone.

  “I looked up that property you asked about,” the man says once the pleasantries are over with. “You’re right, it looks like Brad Milton passed away almost six years ago. The property was deeded to his next of kin, looks like two nieces he took care of.”

  “What are their names?” Davis asks, pulling a pen out of his pocket. He holds it poised right over the yearbook. “Is there any contact information?”

  “Names are Faith and Charity Cooper,” he says.

  My heart drops into my stomach as Davis’ eyes rise up to meet mine.

  “There’s only a PO Box listed for Charity,” the man continues.

  “Out of where?” Davis probes.

  “Bellevue,” comes the answer, causing all the blood in my body to disappear. “But the contact for the sister, Faith, is the property address.”

  “I drove by it today,” Davis says, rubbing his hand over his forehead as if he’s got a headache. “No one has been by there in years, Tom.”

  “When you said the address, I thought it was familiar,” the man answers. “So, I did a little digging myself. The property tax payments have been made from that PO box for years. But I remembered that other name, Faith. She would have been about your age.”

  Once again, I meet Davis’ eyes, his brows furrowing together.

  “Don’t you remember what happened?” Tom asks. “She went to prison when she was nineteen for arson and attempted murder. Claimed with her very last breath she didn’t do it. But she’s still there. Serving out seven more years.”

  My brain is racing a million miles per second, trying to place all this information together.

  I pull my freshman yearbook toward me, flipping to the back. My finger scans down the page until I find Cooper, Faith, listed just below Charity.

  I turn to the page, and sure enough, there she is. She looks similar to her younger sister, though far more tamed, more traditionally pretty.

  “Thanks for this, Tom,” Davis says, looking at me, asking with his eyes if there’s anything else we should be asking. But I can’t think straight enough to come up with anything. “I owe you one.”

  “Pretty sure this is our eighth IOU,” he says with a laugh. “You can repay me by letting me know the next screaming deal you’re about to list. The wife wants to upgrade to more square footage.”

  “Done,” Davis says, and something in his voice tells me he means it, he’ll get it done. “Talk to you so
on.”

  He hangs up the phone and looks at me.

  For a full minute, we both just look at each other, stunned into absolute silence.

  “I remember it now,” I say, my stomach rolling. “When someone set the east end of the school on fire.”

  “With two cheerleaders locked inside,” Davis says. His voice is rough. Low. Hoarse.

  I shake my head. “They…” I trail off, struggling to remember the details. “They found all the supplies in her bedroom or something, didn’t they?”

  “I think so,” Davis says, his voice rough. “And I swear they had her prints and the squad said they saw her through the windows when the door was locked.”

  I flip through my sophomore yearbook until I find Charity’s picture, the year Faith supposedly did what she did. I lay it next to the book with Faith’s picture side by side.

  They very nearly could be twins.

  “Did you know Faith?” I ask, looking up at Davis.

  He runs his hands through his hair, though I notice somehow he doesn’t mess it up. “Kind of. You’re talking nearly twenty years ago. And she was actually a year younger than me. But… She was just this quiet girl. Kind of sad, but that’s no surprise if she was being raised by her creepy uncle. But she was nice. Not…not the kind to go back to her old high school and try to burn a couple of cheerleaders to death.”

  I shake my head and I feel all the color drain from my face. “When I was in the bunker, I asked her why not just kill me and get it over with.” My voice comes out rough and quiet. I wrap my arms around my waist, telling myself that I don’t have time to be sick.

  Davis reaches out and lays his hand on my thigh, a small show of comfort I barely process.

  “She said she may have been diagnosed as a psychopath, but she wasn’t a murderer. When I pointed out that I was still going to die because of her, she said she at least wasn’t getting her hands dirty.”

  Davis swears, looking away, though his hand on my thigh tightens.

  “It isn’t that hard to imagine,” I say, my voice growing even quieter. “Kids can say cruel things, and if those two girls went after Charity about…anything, maybe even Ezra, she could have locked them in the building and started that fire, believing she was innocent of their murders, but still getting her revenge.”