by L E Fraser
He patted the seat beside him on the sofa. “I hear you don’t have any friends. That’s too bad. It must get lonely. How old are you—fourteen? Before you know it, the boys will be all over you. I bet you’re going to be a knockout when you’re older.”
“Thirteen,” I whispered. “I’m only thirteen. You have to go.”
He leaned against the back of the sofa and studied me. “Be nice. Your sister is nice. Don’t you want to be like her?”
I shook my head and took a step backwards.
I remember him jumping up from the sofa. I remember his calloused hands on my shoulders as he threw me to the carpet. His breath against my nose was rancid. The bristles from his beard scratched my cheek. The radio kept playing. A heavy metal band screeched something about the pieces being as good as the whole. Then the DJ was laughing, as if everything in the world was great. Vomit filled my throat and sick dribbled down my chin. Grunting, he flung my pyjama bottoms aside. His fingers were inside me. His sharp nails ripped and tore at my flesh. Turning my head, I focused on an image of a pink bunny that decorated the white flannel of my discarded pyjama bottoms. The pain was excruciating. I squeezed closed my eyes and sobbed in fear and misery.
When I woke, I was lying on the sofa in the den. The television was on and Desperate Housewives was playing. Gabrielle and Carlos were arguing about something. My hands flew across my body, feeling the flannel of my pyjama top. The stickiness against my inner thighs disgusted and humiliated me. Through my tears, I saw my pyjama bottoms flung across the bottom of the sofa. With shaking hands, I tugged them over my hips. Blood instantly stained the crotch and I cried harder. Outside, the thunderstorm quickened and flashes of brilliant lightning pulsed like a strobe light through the slit in the patio drapes.
The kitchen door slammed shut. Terror gripped me. I jumped to my feet, grabbed the fireplace poker, and hid behind the door in the den. My father’s angry voice drifted through the door. He and my sister were arguing. Mama was yelling at them that all she asked for was one night of peace.
I dropped the poker and stumbled down the dark hallway to the kitchen. My family stared at me but said nothing. “Your boyfriend was here,” I whispered to my sister. “He hurt me.”
My sister shoved me. “You’re a liar! Why do you always have to make trouble for me?” She stared at the blood on my pyjama bottoms and burst out laughing. “You got your period. You’re such a pig. Clean yourself up.”
My mother came out of the living room holding a man’s leather jacket, which my father snatched from her grasp. My sister lunged for her lover’s coat but Dad held it out of reach. He rifled through the pockets and pulled out a bag of weed and a fistful of condoms. Revulsion contorted his face, and he waved them at her as if she were the whore of Babylon.
“That’s it.” His voice was deadly quiet. “Gather up those ridiculous gifts. You’re returning everything and never seeing him again.”
I waited with Mama while Dad marched my sister up the stairs. I waited for Mama to ask me what had happened, to comfort me, to call the police. But she stood mute with her back rigid and no expression on her face.
Upstairs, the arguing reached fever pitch. I heard my sister say loudly that she’d left the necklace with the golden charm on her mirror. Dad was tearing apart her room. My heart hammered in my chest as he stomped to my bedroom.
Dad found the necklace in my drawer. Everything shifted as my parents and sister came together in a unified front. They branded me a liar and a thief. I’d stolen and Dad had proof of the crime. Theft was far more serious a sin than anything she had done.
Dad did confront her boyfriend about coming to the house. He claimed he had come inside when I begged him to because the storm frightened me. He said I flirted with him and it made him uncomfortable so he’d left. My accusation that he’d raped me outraged him. My parents believed him. After all, I had a reputation for exaggerating, lying, and making up stories. They never discussed the incident again.
A week later, at a little after midnight, I lit the smoke bombs in the basement. With the smoke alarms wailing, my family stumbled onto the sidewalk in their nightclothes and stood shivering in the freezing rain. The lights on the fire trucks washed the dead-end street in an eerie crimson glow that made the rain resemble showers of blood.
Bart is screaming again. One of the captives is begging him to stop. But he won’t. When you debase people long enough, they grow acquiescent. Or they fight back with more savagery because they have nothing left to lose.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sam
THERE WAS A stain on her little black dress. Sam scraped at it with the edge of her nail. When that didn’t work, she dampened a cloth and tried blotting it, which made things worse. But there was time to have it dry-cleaned before her date with Reece.
It had taken a major favour from a grateful corporate client, but she had a reservation at Canoe on the fifty-fourth floor of the TD building. The panoramic views of the city would be so romantic, and a table at the swanky five-star restaurant would thrill Reece.
In the spirit of romance, she dug around her closet floor until she located the pink-striped box with the silky black lingerie nestled inside. The luxurious fabric of the high-cut panties was a dream against her skin, and the gel padding in the underwire bra scrunched her breasts and made them appear twice their teacup size. What a pleasant surprise.
Brandy lifted her head to watch her mistress twirl.
“Don’t judge,” she told her dog. “Tomboys get to be sexy, too.”
She plucked her black heels from the closet shelf, selected a simple pair of diamond stud earrings, and laid everything on a white suede loveseat. She grabbed the dress and stuffed it into a plastic bag.
“Back in a couple of hours.” She smothered the old dog’s head with kisses.
Meteorologists were warning Torontonians that early evening temperatures would be frigid, but the afternoon walk wasn’t too bad. Bright sunlight reflected off the ice-coated trees, transforming them into giant crystal ornaments. Squealing children were building a crooked snowman in a small park and Sam paused to watch them play.
Two blocks later, she dropped a mitten and turned to retrieve it. Behind her, a young woman wearing a knitted toque stopped short and turned her back to Sam, as if she expected her to attack her and snatch her purse.
Chuckling, Sam continued to the dry cleaner and dropped off the dress. A tantalizing aroma of coffee wafted from a bistro a few stores down. Getting to it required passing a flower shop. She closed her eyes, lowered her head, and hustled by. There was always a chance that there were lilies in a florist’s window display. Avoiding them was easier than dealing with the pain they caused her.
When she reached the café’s glass doors, she spied a figure reflected in the shop’s window. It was the young woman in the toque. She stood on the other side of the narrow street, staring at Sam’s back.
She’s following me.
Putting on her sunglasses, she stepped away from the door and leaned her back against a brick wall beside the bistro’s front window. She pulled out her cell. Keeping her head bowed, she studied the girl. A bulky red parka concealed her weight, but she was just over five feet and wore loose jeans tucked into combat boots. Best Sam could discern from the nine-metre distance was that the woman was in her mid-twenties. Without altering the angle of her phone, Sam snapped a picture. She continued to mime the action of reading and sending text messages and enlarged the image.
A black pompom toque with “Raising the Roof” stitched between white stripes covered most of the woman’s hair. Wisps of dark bangs surrounded a high forehead on a round face. She wore a ridiculous pair of oversized tortoise-framed spectacles that reminded Sam of a comic’s prop. The picture was too blurry to get a good look at her facial features. Sam tucked her cell into her pocket.
“Let’s see what you want.” She jogged across the road.
The woman sprinted down the sidewalk, shoving unsuspecting pedestrians
out of her path. An elderly woman tottered and Sam grabbed her arm before she fell.
“My goodness, she was in a hurry,” the woman said.
“Are you okay?” Sam asked.
“Yes, thanks to you.” She smiled and continued on her way, pulling a wheeled shopping cart behind her.
Disinterested in coffee now, Sam strolled back to her building to fetch her car. As she walked, she scanned pedestrians. No sign of her pursuer. There was something familiar about her, but maybe the hat was evoking the nagging sense of familiarity. The toques were part of a popular city charity to prevent homelessness. Hundreds of Torontonians wore them.
Once she settled into her Grand Am, she drove west to Rexdale and pulled onto the street where Incubus had once lived in a modest bungalow. The abandoned property was an eyesore sandwiched between stylish homes with well-kept yards. Someone had boarded up the windows. Red spray paint on the white garage door spelled MURDERER. A graffiti artist had painted a giant lily on the brick façade of the house. “Incubus” intertwined the stem and transformed the art into a gruesome logo. The bungalow was a monument to both his sick fans and his justified haters.
The vacancy was odd. Incubus had gone to prison three years ago. The city should have seized the house by now, which meant someone was paying the property taxes. A lawyer entrusted to manage the monster’s money was Sam’s guess. But it was curious that he hadn’t sold the useless house. Incubus wouldn’t enjoy freedom ever again.
A neighbour to the right exited his front door with a gorgeous German shepherd. Sam jumped out of her car and climbed over a snowbank to meet him on the sidewalk.
“Hi, can I talk to you for a second?” She knelt and patted the dog.
The middle-aged man glanced at her Grand Am parked in front of the bungalow. “I’m aggrieved to tell you that house is not for sale,” he said in a thick English accent. “I know nothing about the previous occupant. You needn’t waste your time with inquiries.” He yanked the dog’s leash and walked away.
She followed. “Who owns it?”
He turned to face her and his expression hardened. “Are you a reporter or a crime author?” His nose crinkled, implying he held both professions in contempt.
“I’m a PI.” She tugged her wallet from her back pocket and displayed her licence. “My client wants to offer a price above market value, renovate, and flip the property.”
The man gazed at the disaster beside him. “That would be brilliant. My company transferred me from Manchester last year. Had my unscrupulous real estate agent disclosed the previous neighbour’s compulsions, I would not have bought the bloody house.”
“Why hasn’t it been put on the market?” she asked.
“My real estate agent told me it was tied up in legal paperwork due to the owner’s death, which turned out to be a lie. I suspect you know who used to live there. He’s imprisoned for life.” He exhaled in a puff.
“Do you know who pays the taxes?”
“I do, in fact. After the city told us the taxes were not in arrears, we had our attorney investigate. Aleksia Berisha, the owner’s daughter, pays them,” he said. “She’s in her early twenties, I believe, and lives in Albania. Given your occupation, perhaps you’ll have better luck contacting her.”
Sam had never discovered a child’s birth certificate during her original investigation into Incubus. The media hadn’t mentioned a daughter, and no one claiming to be his daughter attended the trial.
“An Albanian bank transfers the annual taxes to the city,” the man continued. “My attorney was unable to coax them into releasing contact details for Ms. Berisha.” He gave his German shepherd a hand command and the dog sat. “I suppose one can’t fault her for wishing to keep a low profile.”
There had been no daughter in the picture when Sam investigated Incubus. But his wife, Natasha, had been Albanian. Maybe Aleksia was her daughter.
Cadaver dogs had found Natasha’s body in a grave near the cabin Incubus used to prepare his victims, but she’d died before he’d begun abducting random women. Natasha had not died the way Incubus’s victims had—he’d stabbed his wife multiple times. It was a messy and frenzied kill.
Bewildered over this mysterious daughter, she asked, “Did Aleksia live here?”
He shrugged and gestured to a back-split across the street. “Mr. Tanaka has resided in that house for over twenty years. He knew the family but he’s in Florida until the spring. I don’t know any of the other neighbours. I prefer to keep to myself.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“Cheers.” He strolled away with his dog.
In her car, Sam considered options. The Canadian Border Services Agency would know if Aleksia had entered Canada. But that would take a serious favour. There had to be another way to gain access to the confidential material.
Her cell rang. Reece. Should she share this development? He wouldn’t approve of her questioning Incubus’s neighbour. She’d keep quiet, just until she could confirm Aleksia’s location. She took a deep breath and answered Reece’s call.
“I got dinner reservations at—”
“Sam, listen, my battery is about to die. My damn car broke down. I’m stuck on the QEW east of Niagara, waiting for roadside assistance,” Reece said.
He couldn’t make it back for their seven o’clock reservation. A sharp poke of disappointment cramped her stomach. But Reece was stuck on the side of the road. It wasn’t his fault.
“How about I meet you in Hamilton?” she suggested. “We can do fancy another night.”
“There’s no point trying,” he said. “An eighteen-wheeler ran off the highway. Roadside assistance said it would take them an hour to get to me. If they can’t get it running, I’ll hitch a ride to Niagara, rent a car, and meet you back at the loft.”
“That could take hours,” Sam said.
“I’m sorry.” Reece’s teeth chattered and he snuffled.
With a dead engine, poor Reece had no heat. “Are you warm enough?”
“There’s a Mylar emergency blanket in my roadside kit. If I’m lucky, by the time the mechanic arrives, traffic will be moving.”
“Text me when—” The phone went dead in her hand. Reece’s low battery had dropped the call.
Another long night alone stretched before her. As she drove home, she kept telling herself—sternly—that it wasn’t Reece’s fault. But when she cancelled the dinner reservation, she had to stifle tears. There was no justification for her hurt feelings. When Reece arrived home, they’d order takeout, catch up, and she’d model her lingerie. They could salvage the evening. For now, she’d dive into the investigation into Aleksia and use the time productively. On that note, she called Eli.
“Hey, I need you to do something and keep it between us, understand?”
He paused a few seconds before replying, “You do not want me to tell Reece.”
“I’m working on a lead. I’ll bring you both into the loop once I figure it out.”
Verifying that he was a member of her team didn’t land well. Eli saw right through the manipulation attempt.
“It is your relationship to bomb,” he said stiffly. “But you are asking me to lie to my other boss.”
“Stop being dramatic. This isn’t lying,” she retorted. “We don’t tell each other every path we take in an investigation. Can you be a team player or not?”
“What do you need?”
“Incubus has a stepdaughter.” She paused. “Aleksia Berisha.” She spelled it. “Spelling is a guess, so try variations. She’d be in her late teens or early twenties and lives in Albania. She may have lived in Toronto.” Sam recited the address. “Find out if she attended school here.”
“Uh… okay, but school records are sealed.”
“PIs have a loose attitude around privacy laws,” she replied with a chuckle.
“I understand that, but juvenile records are hard-sealed,” Eli said. “One must be very skilful to hack any government database.” He paused. “I know someone who can h
elp. Is it okay to involve her? I trust her one hundred percent.”
Sam considered Behoo’s crappy attitude when she’d asked him to run the deep background check on Eli. She’d prefer not to ask her temperamental hacker for a favour right now.
“Keep the firm’s name out of it,” she said. “Since we’re taking this route, ask your hacker to find a birth certificate and a passport.”
“Do you want to know if she travelled outside Albania?”
Smart kid.
“I do. Keep this up and you’ll get a big raise. I bet you’re just dying to move out of that basement apartment.”
After they hung up and Sam had parked behind her building, she went into the lobby and collected the mail. A fistful of bills and one long white envelope, addressed with the monster’s neat cursive.
Inside the loft, she fed Brandy, who sniffed at her bowl but ignored it and lay back down on the heating pad in her bed. Sam poured a glass of wine, sat at the kitchen table, and picked up the letter. Incubus was writing every day now. What a dedicated pen pal. Maybe he was willing to share another insight. She recognized a tug of excitement in the pit of her stomach, and Hannah’s words from the morning came back to haunt her.
“He’s not manipulating me,” she stated to Brandy. “I’m in control.”
Am I?
Refusing to examine her motivation, she tore open the letter and smoothed out the folded sheets.
Dear Samantha,
Since my last letter, it distressed me to read in a back copy of Toronto Life that Reece’s aspiration is not to defend the innocence of the wrongly accused but rather to stifle their freedom. The photo of your fiancé with Gretchen Dumont, the Crown prosecutor responsible for my dismal lodgings, troubled me. The expression on your betrothed’s face as he gazed into the eyes of his mentor was disturbing. His admiration didn’t appear connected with her altruistic efforts to raise money for Toronto’s underprivileged whelps. Ms. Dumont is a comely woman. If I may offer unsolicited advice, postpone your nuptials until you are certain that his esteem doesn’t blossom into intimacy.
