Shallow River

by H. D. Carlton

  “You think because you’re dating you a rich man that you can get away with whatever you want,” she spits, her glazed eyes narrowed into slits. “Shallow Hill is in your bones, little girl. You’ll never be better than me, so quit acting like it.”

  “You sound bitter, Barbie,” I state with boredom. “Doesn’t change the fact that I own this house and you owe me rent.”

  This house foreclosed when I was a freshman in college. By that point, I had busted my ass since I was sixteen, working in fast food the next town over, and then working part time in a call center when I turned eighteen. I saved every penny, got a credit card and built my credit from the bottom up. When the house foreclosed, I bought it from the bank for an insanely cheap price. It was almost insulting. That money went down the hole. I’ll obviously never profit from it by reselling—no one wants to live in Shallow Hill—but it was worth it. Keeping my mother under my thumb is worth every. Fucking. Penny.

  Her hands tremble as she pulls from the cigarette.

  “I’ll tell Billy,” she threatens around a cloud of smoke. I raise an eyebrow. She says this every time she’s late on rent. Which is every single month, mind you.

  “Billy doesn’t give a shit about you, Barbie.”

  “He does when he’s balls deep inside me,” she snaps back. I roll my eyes at her immaturity. Billy doesn’t care about anyone, even when he’s balls deep inside them.

  Barbie and I have both seen firsthand what happens when Billy gets angry with someone. We’ve also seen what happens when he grows bored with them, too. Equally terrifying prospects. Neither of us seek him out if we can help it.

  “He’ll tell you whatever you want to hear, and the second he comes, he’s already forgotten about you.”

  A hand thumps on the table in anger. I’ve no idea what she was attempting to accomplish there. Scare me? I never feared her to begin with. Not when her clients always did so much worse than she could ever do.

  Billy was always the worst one, and the one that hung around most frequent. He keeps my mother doped up on drugs, and she gives him information and bad sex in return.

  He’s a drug lord and has insane connections. And Barbie fucks everyone. Men and women. With that, comes dirt on everyone in town. Barbie wraps the noose around their balls, and Billy strings them up. He owns this entire shitty town.

  I’ll never admit it to her, but Billy scares me to death. He’s capable of making anyone disappear without a trace. Barbie knows that deep down, but I think there’s a miniscule part of her that isn’t willing to turn over her daughter to Satan himself. Besides, Billy always liked me better, and Barbie knows that, too.

  He’s caused enough damage to carry over to my next three lifetimes at least. He took my innocence, and my entire childhood. Both irreplaceable. Both I’ll never get back.

  “I want the money by next week. Fuck extra hard, I’m sure you can make it.”

  I walk out the door, her screaming and curses following me long after I’ve left.

  Four

  Mako

  “TIME OF DEATH WAS a little over two days ago based off the decomposition of his body. Looking at the blood spatter, he was shot from about ten feet away,” the criminalist, Redd, observes while snapping a few more pictures of the dead body.

  There’s a small hole in his head. Looks like an entry wound from a .22 caliber. Carved into his bare chest is the word ‘Ghost.’

  “Carvings have the consistency of a hunting knife. You can tell by the patterns that whoever did this took their time. Doesn’t look sloppy or rushed,” Redd continues.

  “Was he alive when it was carved into his chest?” I ask, observing the jagged letters closely. The blood has already dried and crusted on his chest.

  “Yep,” Redd says. “Very alive. There are signs of struggle, but it’s not consistent with this type of torture—it’s too subtle. I assume there were at least two people holding him down. There’s no way he acted alone.”

  I shake my head, the scene before me pretty fucking morbid. I’ve seen a lot of shit in my career—the Ghost Killer isn’t the nastiest I’ve seen. Just the smartest.

  My partner, Amar, stands next to me, his hands in his pockets as he studies the vic.

  “Ghost Killer strikes again,” he murmurs to himself.

  Greg “Froggy” Barber. Has a rap sheet related to drug activity longer than Beethoven’s last symphony and has been in and out of jail since he was thirteen years old. Kid grew up in the slums with a deadbeat mother and missing father. Slinging dope was probably his only way of survival.

  His mother hasn’t even reported him missing.

  “And as usual, he’s covered in DNA,” Redd sighs, shaking his head with disappointment.

  Usually finding DNA at the crime scene is lucky. But in this case, it means nothing. Every vic we’ve found killed by the Ghost Killer is covered in DNA from randoms. Sex workers mostly, but we’ve come across DNA from murderers and rapists that have been in prison for years, pinning these crimes on people who have no relation to the victims.

  No fucking clue how he does it.

  He has to have a connection on the inside somewhere. Problem is that the convicts are in random prisons across the country, with no obvious connection between them. Whoever the Ghost Killer is, he’s powerful.

  “Let’s head back to the precinct, see if we can find any connections to the vic,” I say to my partner, frustrated with this fucker. I’ve been chasing him for a good year now, and it’s been the longest three hundred sixty-five days of my life.

  Amar nods his head, never one to speak more than what’s required. That’s what makes him a damn good partner. He sees shit I don’t, while I excel in putting all the puzzle pieces together.

  I glance over at him, noticing how he looks at Greg’s body with sadness. This kid had an entire future ahead of him—one I’d hope would be full of redemption. Maybe Greg would’ve saw the light eventually and worked to get himself out of a bad situation. The fucked up part of it is we’ll never know. Poor kid suffered a gruesome death because of a sick individual.

  Amar’s a kind soul, probably too kind. He migrated to America from India when he was ten years old. He had a harsh welcoming when his father was killed walking out of a grocery store because of the color of his skin. That’s what bred Amar’s need to seek justice for all the innocent souls whose lives ended way before their time.

  Just as I get into my car, my phone rings.

  “Hey, dad,” I greet.

  “I have lunch ordered. Come on down, take a break. Bring Amar,” he says. Dad has a knack for adopting people as his kids, much to my brother’s dismay. He treats Amar like a son, and it pisses Ryan off something fierce.

  I rub my hand through my hair roughly as a headache begins to pound through my skull. I am pretty hungry. Not really sure the last time I even ate, to be honest. It doesn’t hurt that my presence usually ruins Ryan’s entire day, and I’d be a liar if I said I don’t get enjoyment out of that knowledge.

  Thoughts of River come filtering in with that thought, ruining the satisfaction. When Ryan has a bad day, everybody suffers for it. Especially his girlfriends. For a split second, I think of telling Ryan about her, but I roundhouse kick that idea out as soon as it enters my head. I won’t use her as bait to piss him off.

  Not when she’ll be the one to suffer the consequences.

  “Alright,” I concede. “Be there in fifteen.”

  “WHERE’S RYAN?” I ASK nonchalantly around a bite of my BMT sandwich.

  “He’s holed himself in his office for the past hour,” Dad answers, shrugging his shoulders. He doesn’t seem concerned. Typical life of a lawyer, I suppose. I’m no stranger to Dad locking himself away in his office when dealing with a particularly brutal case. Those days, the light in his eyes was always dimmer, but somehow, he managed to push through and smile for Ryan and me. Even when he was up to his ears in stress, he’d still take the time to toss a ball outside with us or teach us how ride a bike.
/>
  He’s the most resilient person I know.

  “So, Amar, how’s Clara been?” Dad asks, his bright blue eyes sparkling and shit. He’s always been a sucker for love. Hard not to be when you’ve been happily married to your soulmate for over thirty years.

  Clara is Amar’s wife. They’ve been married for fifteen years and aside from my parents, I’ve never seen a couple more perfect for each other. Where Amar is quiet and calm, Clara is loud and bubbly. They give me a real hope of finding the one or whatever the fuck the kids say nowadays.

  I’ve had a lot of good role models in my life when it comes to relationships. Not sure how the fuck Ryan ended up so jaded.

  I take the last bite of my sandwich as Amar answers my Dad. It’s the only time I see Amar’s eyes light up.

  “Be right back,” I mutter. Neither of them pay me any attention.

  I gun straight for Ryan’s office. I’m already preparing myself for some type of confrontation. I don’t know why I even bother going around him. Ryan isn’t capable of treating me like anything other than shit, and it always ends in me instigating him and then him kicking me out.

  It’s not like I haven’t tried to get close to Ryan, it’s just that he’s made it fucking impossible to. The asshole has done nothing but torment me our entire childhood. Not that I ever rolled over and took Ryan’s shit, but no amount of ass beatings made Ryan hate me any less. His hostility has only grown stronger over the years, and I don’t give enough of a shit about him to try and repair it. I tried that once years ago and I’ll never make the same mistake again.

  Dude’s had a chip on his shoulder since I can remember. I’m bigger and older, but Ryan never cared. He’s like a fucking chihuahua, a small little shit that acts like they have a big bark and tries to lord over everyone bigger than them. Most of Ryan’s life, it’s worked too.

  Just not with me. Never with me.

  The entire front of Ryan’s office is all window, except right now he has the blinds shut. I stand outside his door for a moment, debating whether I should just be an asshole and barge in or knock. Either way, he won’t be expecting me. It’s very rare that I visit Ryan when I have lunch with Dad.

  Which is often enough that Ryan has started closing his blinds around this time. Petty fucker.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice one of the blinds is caught in the sill, allowing a small window of space to look in his office. I walk closer, bobbing left and right until I can get a good angle. I never said I was above spying on him. I am a fucking detective after all. Being nosey is in the job description and my asshole of a brother commits enough crimes on daily basis to warrant it.

  A growl nearly escapes my throat when I finally get a good angle. Spread eagle on his desk is his secretary. In between her legs is his head gripped tightly in her cherry red talons. Her head is thrown back, her slender throat rippling with moans as he goes to town on her pussy.

  My spine snaps straight and I have every intention of storming the place.

  He’s got a beautiful girl at home that treats him far better than he deserves, and yet he still fucks around. Can’t say I’m surprised. If anyone would treat a girl like shit, it’s Ryan. He treated Alison like dirt for years, there’s no reason he’d treat River any differently.

  I can’t count how many times Alison cried on my shoulder, sunglasses covering her blackened eyes and her arms stained with bruises. He gave her chlamydia for god’s sake, after they’ve been dating for two years. I wanted to put him away for domestic violence every time, but Alison always refused to press charges. She was too scared. I was willing to take it further for her and press charges anyway, but she begged and pleaded for me not to. She wasn’t ready to leave Ryan yet, and if it came back to him that he was being charged for domestic violence, we were both scared that he would make her disappear. Permanently. If anyone has the connections to make it happen, I’d trust Ryan to be one of them.

  So many times, I had encouraged Alison to move on from him at least, find someone better. Someone who wouldn’t cheat on and abuse her. At one point, she had asked if that someone better could be me. I had said no. She was a sweet girl, but I felt nothing more towards her than genuine concern and friendship.

  But the more I intervened; the worse Ryan treated her. The abuse became more violent and bruises turned into broken bones. There was always an excuse ready on the tip of her tongue, but she only tried pulling that shit with her very concerned friends. Eventually, I learned that if I was going to help her, I couldn’t do it right in his face. The day she finally escaped from him, I felt an entire weight come off my shoulders.

  That is, until River came in the picture. Now it feels heavier than ever.

  “Mako!” Amar calls from behind me. I whip around, rage still painted on my face. I’ve been standing in front of his window for a solid minute now, glaring at the glass window, seething over this fucking prick. I’m sure I look like a goddamn lunatic, but I don’t care.

  “You ready to jet?” Amar asks from behind me, walking up to where I’m standing. He eyes me cautiously, like I’m a bear and he’s the fish I’m two seconds away from mauling.

  I swallow roughly and nod my head.

  Probably for the best Amar caught me when he did. Once again, I’m feeling that familiar pull to help another one of Ryan’s victims. But this time, it feels personal, and I don’t even want to figure out why.

  I’VE BEEN AT THE precinct for hours, poring over the case. My leg has been bouncing for the past hour, a clear indicator that I’m getting restless. My hands rip through my hair for the millionth time, beyond frustrated over this case. I’ll be bald by forty if I keep it up.

  Every lead I get leads me to another connection that doesn’t add up. Solving puzzles is what I excel at. Dad always bought me those thousand-piece puzzles when I was a kid, marveling over how quickly I put them together. Brain teasers relaxed me. Connecting the dots come naturally. But nothing is fucking connecting in this case.

  The Ghost Killer is sending me on a wild goose chase, leading me to all different kinds of dead ends. He’s deliberately fucking with me, stringing me along like a puppet and I’m the dumbass that keeps falling in the trap.

  I need to see this case from a different perspective. Instead of following the clues he keeps laying out for me, I need to look for the ones he’s trying to cover up.

  I drag my hands down to my neck, gently massaging as I go. Women have the right idea. I need to book an appointment at a spa ASAP. Couldn’t care less if it freaks people out that a six-foot-five man is chilling in a mud bath, I fucking need it.

  I glance at the clock in the corner of my computer screen, noting the time is nearly after eleven at night.

  Fuck. I need sleep, too. But I can already tell my brain won’t shut off. Not after digging into Greg’s life all day with one half of my brain, and certainly not when River is possessing the other half.

  I want to help her. I should, but I shouldn’t.

  She’s different than Alison. Tougher. Meaner. Stubborn as hell. And loyal as a dog. Alison wanted my help, whereas River definitely won’t. I mean, shit, during dinner she stared at me as if I hurt her somehow. She’s protecting Ryan when I can guarantee she has no idea what she’s even protecting him from. When someone hates their brother as much as Ryan hates me, anyone would assume he has a good reason for it. In reality, he doesn’t have a single reason other than the fact that he feels I stole our parents love and affection from him.

  He’s a spoiled asshole that’s been throwing one long temper tantrum for most of his life. Still shocks me how two of the most loving and caring people I’ve ever met created a sociopathic monster.

  My fingers are typing in River’s name before I can stop myself. After I met her, I got a little out of line and ran a background check on her. River McAllister, born and raised in shitty Shallow Hill. There’s not much else on her other than the fact that she bought a house in Shallow Hill a couple years ago. No fucking idea why she’d ever do
that.

  I stopped my research there, feeling ten different kinds of creepy. And here I am again, looking into her life when I have no business doing so. But I can’t watch another innocent girl suffer at the hands of that prick. I don’t consider myself a good guy, but I’m not a monster either. I don’t abuse girls. I don’t rape girls. I don’t do anything to them they don’t want me to. Ask for consent, and I shall receive. It’s basic fucking morals.

  After a few minutes of searching, I find that she’s attending the university. She has three classes a week, one of them at the southside of the campus. That area is tucked into a private little nook with little traffic. A perfect spot to strike a conversation with someone without many prying eyes around.

  Fuck. I bang my fist against my desk, frustrated with my own damn self. Meddling with another of Ryan’s relationships can—and probably will—end in complete disaster. At the end of the day, I can’t force any girl to leave Ryan. I can’t force them to see the truth in Ryan. It’s something they need to face themselves. But fuck, if I’m going to stand by and watch a girl suffer through domestic violence without at least trying to help her.

  Showing up at the university has got to be the worst, best idea I’ve ever had. Yet, I still lift my head and see what class it is.

  Professor Trumbling’s Psychology 101 class.

  Funny, she said she was good at reading people, but yet she’s gone blind to the devil directly in front of her.

  I’VE RESORTED TO FUCKING stalking. I guess I could say stalking is in the job description too, but River isn’t a criminal—that I know of—and this isn’t a stake-out. There’s no justifying this. Fuck it, it’s for the greater good and all that if I can convince her stubborn ass to see the light. Or rather the darkness in Ryan.

  It's just after two o’clock in the afternoon when she emerges from the building wearing black Chucks, and cuffed jeans that hug her ass in ways that should be fucking illegal. Not to mention her white shirt with little buttons at the chest—buttons that are completely undone, teasing wandering eyes of her ample cleavage that’s nearly gobbling up the gold chain hanging between her breasts.