“It’s amazing,” Cyrus mumbled one night, as they sat in their dark living room, having hushed conversations.
On the table between them sat a letter, from the police, ordering Cyrus not to leave town. They were investigating him, it said. At the top of the page, standing out from the second paragraph, was the word suspect. His mood had turned bitter that day, ever since receiving the letter.
“What is?” Ophelia asked half-heartedly, petting the doll that sat on her lap. It was dressed in a sailor’s outfit, and she carried it with her every minute of the day.
“Lots of those adults that died… people didn’t even like them. They hated them! And yet… because they’re gone...” He shook his head. “Maybe I should just die, too. People like you a lot more when you’re dead.”
Ophelia chuckled, picking a piece of fuzz from the doll’s head. “I can’t believe they think you’re a suspect.”
“I know!” he exclaimed. “Pretty sure I would remember starting a fire and killing tons of people.”
“I think they’re just mad at you, because you used to be an alcoholic.” She groaned. “I’m going to put him to bed. I’m kind of tired myself.”
“Can you put him in the other room tonight?” Cyrus asked hopefully. “It’s uncomfortable with him in our bed.”
“He gets lonely when he’s not with me.” She pouted, threatening to cry again. “Please? Just one more night?”
He nodded, and she grinned, wiping tears away. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
“One more night,” he muttered under his breath as she ascended the stairs. “That’s what you said last night, too.”
His eyes caught the paper again, and he shook his head. It was madness. He would know if he’d done something like that. And he had no reason to, anyways? It had killed his son. Did they think he would kill his own son?
And even if he’d somehow done it, as an accident, like the letter suggested, he would’ve remembered it.
“Don’t leave town, huh?” He shook his head. “That’s exactly what I’ll do at the first opportunity.”
Chapter 35
Secrets
One half of the room was cut off by a large tapestry, draped over like the large veil in the Holy Temple of Jerusalem that he’d been taught so much about in Sunday School. Directly in front of him, with a view to the road, was a circular window. A large cross peered out, a stained-glass masterpiece of dark colors, swirling together.
The half of the room directly before him seemed like a normal study, for the most part. There was a small, intricately crafted wood desk with a very plain chair pushed up to it. While he expected to find pens and other items on top, there was only a small sheet of white paper and a newspaper unfolded to the side of it.
Stepping closer with caution, Will took a deep breath and tried to steady his nerves. He had to find something up here, some kind of answers. From the way Cyrus acted, he knew there had to be a big secret up here. The hardest part would be finding it before someone found him.
“Let’s see what we have here,” he murmured, bending over the newspaper.
One article was highlighted in its entirety, with bits and pieces cut out near the bottom and a large section scribbled over completely with a permanent marker. He started reading at the top:
It is with grief that we report today the tragedy of a former member of our community. Ophelia Streett, longtime resident of Werifesteria and alumni of Werifesteria High School, was found dead on the beachfront near her home.
The police have reportedly ruled it a suicide, pending further investigation. She was shot through the head, although no gun was found nearby, only a doll beside her, dressed up in sailor’s clothing. Her husband, Cyrus Streett, was not available for comment, having been hospitalized himself after an apparent suicide attempt, also pending further investigation.
Cyrus Streett has long been connected to the-
And then the words were covered by marker. A small section towards the end of the article was visible, after a quarter-page of words. It was marked out, but still legible.
Keep the family in your prayers, as we mourn alongside them. If you like to leave flowers at either of the Streett graves here in town, feel free to do so as an act of condolence for them, from afar. The grave marked by an upside-down cross, of their child who was killed in the church fire, is in the third row from the right at the town cemetery. The other grave, of Ophelia’s-
Then the remaining two lines were blanked.
Will shook his head, pulling out the chair and taking a seat roughly. She had killed herself? Why hadn’t Cyrus ever told him? It was long enough ago that Will thought he would have come to some kind of closure, as much as possible, and would have at least talked about it. Then again, he had no idea what it was like to lose your spouse in that way.
Cyrus’s words slurred in his brain, from the conversation when he’d revealed why he left town in the first place. “We were hesitant at first, but Ophelia started to… to change. I think it was getting to her. Having to restart our life, rebuild our dreams. It was just too much. So we left Werifesteria.”
Gingerly, he reached down the piece of white paper. It was ripped down the center in a crooked, jagged line, but the words on both sides were clear. On the left, it said: alcoholic fire madness. And on the right: my pain is your heartbreak is my pain my fire is your death is your fire is my death
He shook his head, trying to sort through everything in his brain. Cyrus had lived here. The fire burned down the church, killed their son, and they left. His wife went mad from grief and killed herself. Apparently, they had another child that died before the fire, or maybe after it. It was unclear. Most of all, though, he still had no idea who started that first fire, or who was killing people now. Who started the second one? Was it same as the first and the murders? Where was Cyrus?
Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, Will stood up from the chair and turned to face the curtain, acting as a barrier to the hidden part of the attic. He approached it, eyeing the thin fabric, the homemade bar that hung across the top.
Sticking out a hand, he grabbed a handful of it. Part of him wanted to leave now. He’d found out some things, after all. He could ask Cyrus when he returned.
But the other part said that maybe Cyrus wouldn’t come back, and maybe the reason why was behind here.
“Three people bound, dead, and their hands cut off. Dozens of others killed in the fire, many more in the first one.” Will clenched his teeth. “Why has it come to this?”
He ripped back the curtain and quickly drew a gasp. His heart immediately began to thunder, his brain ripping apart every note he’d taken and giving up. The problem had made no sense before. The solution seemed impossible. And yet here he was, staring at an answer that made very good sense.
Three hands lay on a table, their thumbs all touching in the middle. Words were written above them: I’m sure now. It was me.
He stumbled back away, resting a hand on the wall. Feeling the urge to throw up, he leaned over, steadying his elbows with his knees. Slowly, Will’s eyes ran across the wall, mentally marking all the patterns, until his scope reached the window and the sidewalk outside.
There was a man standing there, with his hand raised towards Will in the shape of a finger-gun. Two forward, with his thumb up. He shot once, grinned widely, and strolled away down the sidewalk.
Will dropped to his knees, images playing in his mind. Cyrus and him on the couch. Cyrus talking to him about Ophelia. Was it all a lie? Was it a mask the whole time?
Laying down on the floor, his body going limp, Will saw a cardboard box under the gruesome table. There were more newspapers sticking out from the top, and other loose papers, a notebook that looked like a diary. On the side of the box, written in small letters, was: For Inspection
Chapter 35
Cyrus and the Beach
*Years Ago*
Sand, crunching against the side of his face, and the sun beating down on his head. C
yrus groaned, his body more frail and old with every day. In his view was the doll, perfect and flawless, except for the single bullet hole through its chest. The air wreaked of decay and death, but that wasn’t from the cloth figure.
Marred by the bullet, bleached by the sun, the doll’s figure stared lifeless, expressionless, at the two bodies on the sand. There wasn’t a gun anywhere to be found, but lots of blood. The beachfront was quiet, no motion, only police sirens in the distance signaling that it wouldn’t stay that way for very long. Glistening water lapped at the bodies, stretching out to the horizon, meeting the sky in a place where no human could ever go.
Her body was peaceful and still forever, beside the doll, close to Cyrus. Blood soaked her head, guts and brains spilling onto the sand. Her eyes were a dead white, rolled back into her head. She was a grizzly picture, nothing like the beautiful front she’d always maintained.
It would have made a good painting, if she’d still been alive. The perfect image to finish her album of grief, encompassing all her talent.
Cyrus lay beside her, feeling the sun on one side and the sand on the other. His tears were falling into the red beach, mixing. His own blood pooled near hers, seeping from his wrists. That doll, that terrible doll, watching them. It refused to go away, just as it had during their marriage.
This beach had once been a beautiful memory. When he envisioned it, images popped up in his head of white chairs set in rows, a small stage with all decorations and flowers arranged strategically. A gleaming sunset, and two figures on the stage, embracing each other. A flowing wedding dress sweeping across those tiny grains of sand, an enthusiastic groom waiting.
Cold, ocean water lapped at his ankles, wakening him from that stupor. He was thrust from the dream directly into the nightmare. Beside him, her body grew more rigid by the second. Somebody had seen them, or heard the gunshots. The ambulances, cops, and all the crowds would arrive soon. It was too late for her.
She knew there was no chance to save her when she chose this route. This wasn’t a call of help, a plea for peace. He’d missed all those signs before. This was an escape for her. And she was gone.
Today, she wore no wedding dress. There was no crowd. Just the doll. Just the blood. Just the beach.
A soft rain fell, pelting the three of them. The doll was a part of their family, a bitter member. He’d tried to get rid of it countless times. Any time she noticed his efforts, they would fight, she would scream, and the claws would come out. He still had scars.
Her eyes, blank, met his own. Or perhaps it was his that met hers. They were beautiful. She was beautiful.
“Even in death, you are my sunshine.”
The sirens were blaring now. Doctors, paramedics, police all trampled onto the beach, ruining a perfect scene. They struggled to pull him away from the body, the pool of red, but eventually they forced him into the vehicle. He couldn’t put up a fight. He didn’t want to. He wanted to die, but they saved his life.
Ophelia, too late. Ophelia, all that mattered. Ophelia, never forgotten.
He waited in the white hospital bed, wondering if they would want him to wander. If his bride was somewhere in these white halls, wearing that white dress, her teeth bright white. He waited, in the white hospital bed, wondering if they would want him to wail.
He kept his mouth closed.
There was no funeral procession. Just him and the priest, and those few who lowered her. Nobody would have come. Back home, in that godforsaken town, people would have flocked to see her. But not to mourn. She was buried with the doll. He chose it for her. It was the least he could do, after all the arguments and the pain. Watching her lowered into the ground, with that doll, without him, seemed more painful than lying on the sand beside her.
The casket closed. Lowered. The same scene as years earlier, before they’d left town. This time was just as depressing.
It should have been his funeral too, could have been. If only the ambulance hadn’t come.
It was the third funeral he’d attended. Before it was the one for his son. And before that… his unborn daughter. An unofficial funeral. All they had to bury that day, just heartbroken teenagers trying to keep a secret, was a beautiful ruby.
She lay inside a white-padded coffin, and he sat inside a white-padded room. Alive in death, dead in life. Nothing made sense as his walls spun and the world turned, a white cube. But he was alright some days, some ways.
They brought him lunch and he ate. Everything a daze.
Getting back on his feet was much easier than expected. He walked out of the hospital a free man, a whole man. Those memories that tormented him for so many years and the agonizing guilt was all gone, floating away into the wind.
He forgot things he should have remembered. Names, faces, events, and actions. All of it washed away in his new identity, his new life. It was buried beneath layers of medications, new memories, and trauma.
But his past wouldn’t remain underground forever.
Chapter 37
The Iron Grip
Will and Zada were seated at the diner, quiet. A plate sat in between them, bare of everything except for crumbs. Each of them had a soda in front of them, mostly flat and nearly empty. It was clear they didn’t plan on eating any more. The servers had long ago started ignoring them, instead opting to deal with the more recent customers. They didn’t care, however. The young couple were completely focused on one another.
The diner wasn’t empty by any means, but certainly not busy like it would have been just over a week ago. Fires as large and as tragic as the church one didn’t just go away. Even when the flames burnt out, their impact lasted many months, even years. This one would hurt worse than almost two decades earlier. There were more aspects at play. The pastor’s dead body being found hanging, Cyrus’s disappearance.
It was about Cyrus that they spoke, mostly. Will had decided, after a long phone-call with Zada, not to tell the police. Perhaps, in some strange way, there was an explanation for it. Cyrus being the murderer certainly didn’t make sense, nor did him starting the fire so many years before. There was the note from the killer, calling him out, and the level of despair Cyrus still showed over his son’s death that day. If he had been responsible, the grief and guilt would have played out differently. Probably.
And besides, what motive was there? He had no reason to kill those people, back then or recently. Would he come back to town, after escaping justice, simply to start again and put himself at greater risk of being caught?
“Alcohol makes people do bad things. Alcohol and guilt,” Zada had said to him on the phone. “Things they would never dream of doing otherwise.”
In Will’s mind, an image flashed in his head of Cyrus on the couch, slumped over, bottles lining the table, shot glasses in the middle. But he wasn’t alone there. Beside him, sitting up straight and staring into nothingness, was Will. It didn’t make sense. Despite his best efforts at forcing his brain to picture it differently, the image remained, burned into his subconscious. Was it a memory? Was it a dream?
“So many things I want to ask him,” Will sighed, looking at her from across the table with his chin resting on his elbow. “If he was here, I feel like he could give us so many answers.”
“Do you think maybe you’re too trusting of him?” Zada asked, shrugging her shoulders apprehensively. “Like… you don’t know a lot about him.”
“You don’t know a lot about him,” Will corrected. “I worked with him -and for him- nearly a month. Trust me, he could give us answers.”
“I’m not saying he couldn’t, Will, but would he want to? Don’t you think it’s possible, not that you know so much, he might try to kill you?”
Will shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.
“No, just listen to me. What if he goes back to his house, realizes you know everything, but also knows that you probably wouldn’t tell the police about it? He probably wouldn’t consider me. Then he could kill you off, and get away clean.
You’re the loose thread.”
“So you’re saying I should tell the police?”
Zada leaned back in her seat, rubbing her forehead. “I’m just saying be careful about who you trust, and how much you trust them. There’s some sketchy people in town.”
He agreed, and they each took a long drink, trying to ignore how flat they had gotten. She stared into his eyes, and he watched hers, both of them trying to gauge the other. Zada had only been back in town for three days, and yet every afternoon they’d been able to meet somewhere and have a lengthy conversation about everything she missed.
“I’ve been thinking about the day of the second fire a lot,” Will admitted out of the blue. “Trying to figure out where Cyrus could have hidden the night before. I was at his house before then, and when I went back after the fire it was exactly the same. Dirty dishes the same, messes on the counter the same, a post-it note on the wall the same. I’m certain nobody had been there for a long amount of time since I was. So the question is, where did he stay?”
Zada bit her lip and a strange expression crawled over her face.
“What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”
She cleared her throat and played with her straw, swirling it around the dead-colored drink. “I’m worried about how focused you are on this, Will.”
“What do you mean? How can I not be focused?” He sounded hurt. “The guy was a huge part of my life for a month and now he might be a serial killer. How am I supposed to react?”
“I know, I know. Calm down. I’m just saying that… Well, maybe it’s time to start trying to move on. We can’t worry about the specifics of this case forever. That’s the job of the police. And if you’re not gonna tell them your information, well, then we’re done with this. Right?”
Until We Burn_A Psychological Thriller Page 18
