I hold out my hands. They’re steady, solid. Ready to act. But my mind is shifty, unreliable as quicksand, sucking me back to the past. To two days before my mother had died.
I’d been asleep on the hideous sofa, my mother wrapped around Trey in the bed like a spider with a fly. Somehow the fly broke free and buzzed away, leaving her limbs stretched empty across the sheets. He’d stumbled toward me, and I’d shut my eyes fast and hard. But that hadn’t stopped him. His breath, hot on my face, and reeking of alcohol. His hand, that devil’s claw, slipping beneath the blanket.
“What’re you doin’ to her?” my mother had asked.
He’d rubbed his hand across my chest, my barely there breasts. It was the first and only time he’d touched me like that, but it felt like he’d been doing it all along. Forever. Like he owned me. Like it was nothing, and I was nothing.
“Nothin’.” Exactly.
My mother had called his name then, beckoned him. And little by little, I’d felt him withdraw, his evilness getting farther from me. Until the air above me felt cool and empty again.
When I’d opened my eyes, he’d gotten back in bed. Mouth on my mother. “Don’t you think it’s about time she started earnin’ her keep?”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
Butch
January 19, 2017
Thursday
“Where did you say you found this?” The question is mine to answer. But I stutter. Like I did something wrong.
Mr. Vinetti and I sit side by side in the office, Detectives Munroe and Maroni perched on the metal folding chairs we’d brought in from the storage room.
“Go ahead, Butch. Tell ’em where you’d found it.”
“Out behind the dumpsters. I think it belongs to my roommate.”
Maroni studies me, nods. “And how did you know exactly where to find it?”
Here we go. “The other night we’d left the house, and he went back there to get something. I’d forgotten about it until today.”
“So, you just decided to have a little look-see, huh? Go diggin’ through the dirt?”
“Yes, sir. I thought it might be important, what with the murder of that girl and all. Violet.” Goddamned right, it’s important. Critical, even. Because when you find a few barely legal porn mags and a pack of condoms in a lockbox, it’s probably a clue. But add a cell phone with a dead girl’s name scrawled on the case—if lost, return to Violet Kurchell—you’ve got a smoking gun.
He narrows his eyes at me. “How do we know this stuff doesn’t—”
Maroni’s phone buzzes at his hip—saved by the bell of modern technology—and he answers it, excusing himself. With him gone, the air lightens and I can breathe again.
Mr. Vinetti clears his throat and turns to Detective Munroe. “Should Butch have an attorney? Your partner is on him like white on rice.”
“It’s alright,” I tell him, the back of my neck burning hot. “He’s just doing his job.”
“No, it’s not alright, Butch. They’re treating you like a suspect.” He scowls at Munroe, but she’s distracted, probably listening to Maroni like I am. I can hear him, his clipped voice, outside the door.
“Okay…I’m sure it’s fine, Mrs. Maddox. Let me check.”
He pokes his head in. “Have either of you seen Dr. Maddox this afternoon? Or heard from her?”
I shift in my seat, worms of worry squirming in my belly. “No. Her office has been locked all day.”
I curse myself as soon as I say it. I sound like a stalker. Just the sort of guy who would bury a lockbox behind the dumpsters.
CHAPTER
FORTY
Evie
January 19, 2017
Thursday
I knock on Trey’s door, already knowing. One way or the other. Him or me. It ends now. Today.
No one answers. I press my ear to the door, half-expecting to hear his heartbeat on the other side. To feel the wood warm from the fire of his breath. But Trey’s heart is a stone. And the door is cold.
“I know you’re in there, Trey. If you don’t open the door, I’m calling the police.”
The door opens. Just a crack. A slim gap held in place by the security chain. And the barrel of a gun points through it. “You’d better take off. Skedaddle. Trey ain’t here.”
“Matthias?” He has a name and a face. I’d googled him this afternoon on Maggie’s phone—Matthias Granger—and stared at his Facebook photo until my eyes blurred, picturing him there that night. In the truck. With Cassie under the tree.
And now, he’s real. But I can’t quite believe it. For half brothers, they don’t look a thing alike. It must be the devil inside that binds them. Matthias is younger than Trey. With broad shoulders and meaty bones and hair so blonde it’s white, framing his face like a halo.
“I said leave.”
“Not until I talk to Trey.”
He nudges the barrel of the gun through the gap, closer to me, and fear zips like a cattle prod at the back of my neck. It stuns, even though I’d expected it.
“Go ahead. Threaten me. I’ve got a gun too.”
I reach into my coat, tasting my own arrogance. Bold and bitter, it quells my fear. Until from behind, a hand shuts my mouth.
I squirm against it, tasting sour skin now. Cigarettes and filth and the metal of my father’s ring. Trey is all hands. Like he’s got more than two of them. With one, he tightens his grip while greedy fingers search my pockets, my skin crawling beneath them.
“Talk, talk, talk. That’s what they pay you shrinks for, huh? Personally, I’ve always been of the mind that talkin’ is overrated.” The gun—my gun—is mine no longer. “But you wanna talk, Evelyn? We can talk. We can talk all night. Ain’t that what you always wanted? To find out what makes ol’ Trey tick. What gets me hot and bothered.”
Trey’s strength surprises me. Rail-thin but all muscle, he drags me into the room next door and tosses me onto the bed, pinning me on my stomach with his knee. Matthias laps at his heels, eager as a puppy.
My face rubs against the bedspread, and I turn a single eye to the room. A row of beer bottles stand watch on the dresser, guarding a thin line of white powder at the edge. Above it all, a mirror shows me half my face. Half a grimace. The other half hidden in cheap linens.
I try to move. Can’t. And the backside of Trey’s hand makes a sickening thwack against my skin, so hard my teeth rattle. Now, I taste blood. My own.
“That’s me talkin’.” He pokes my leg with his finger. “Just like you wanted.”
“You killed Cassie.”
He hits me again, even harder this time.
“And Mom. And you scammed her government money. The money that should’ve been mine.”
Another strike. And this is the Trey I remember. Vicious, red-faced, and frothing at my mother on that day. Her first and last minutes of freedom.
“You killed your own daughter. Violet.”
With the next blow, the room goes dim and starry. A whooshing in my ears like I’m sinking underwater. He puts a gun—mine?—to my temple. It’s cool and hard with no life of its own. But in his hands, it’s greedy. And vicious. And ready to take whatever it wants.
“Talk,” he says. “C’mon. I can’t hear you.”
It wants me.
****
I must be dead. And this must be hell. Because Trey’s still here, prowling circles around the bed. Matthias too. Four black eyes, hungry and fixed on me.
Wakefulness is gradual, a slow tunneling to the surface. But my situation comes to me—sudden—like a flash of sunlight on the water. A shark fin piercing the blue.
My hands are tied together and secured to the bedpost, makeshift, with a ratty T-shirt. A towel from the bathroom bunched in my mouth like a fist. And the mirror reflects an other, a not me, a misshapen image.
; I find my gun on the dresser, gaze at it with longing.
“Told ya to leave.” Matthias snorts at me, taunting. And now that I know his face, I can’t stand it. I want to scratch it, strip it, tear skin from bone. Until it’s gone again.
Fuck you. I spit it at him. But only in my mind, of course. Out loud, it’s gagging on my own saliva, the towel already soaked with it.
Trey leans over the dresser, sucking up the line of powder in his nose. He sniffs, shakes his head.
“Damn, Evelyn. Look what you made me do. You got me all worked up.” I jerk my arms forward, bucking against the ties, and the bed creaks. “Easy, girl. Don’t go breakin’ anything. They charge for that shit.”
Matthias cackles with delight. “So what now?” he asks.
“Go get the truck.”
The front door opens for an agonizing second, and I kick at the bed, scream into the towel. Exhaust myself.
Matthias is gone. And somehow that’s worse.
Trey wastes no time. Yet, he’s unhurried. He slithers to the bed and backs me up against the headboard. Until he’s right there, his tar-pit pupils big and black, his stringy hair falling against my knees. Silver teeth bared, crooked as old headstones sunk into the earth. And the smell of him is in my nose.
“That’s what you came here to talk about? All the wrong I done to ya?” He runs a finger down my cheek, and it hurts. My skin hurts. Traces a line to my mouth and pulls out the towel in one vile, wet clump. “What do you want from me, Evelyn?”
I gag. Cough. Move my mouth, my aching jaw. And sounds come out. But words take longer. Everything you took. Priceless things. Things you can’t return. “I want you to admit it. Admit something.”
He sits back on his haunches, slips my father’s knife from his pocket and sets free the blade. Perfect and ruthless and pointed at me. I can’t look away.
“Cassie and your mama, they were a lot alike. Loved ’em both. Took care of ’em. Hell, I even let Cas and that bastard kid of hers live with me. Even after she started makin’ accusations, threatenin’ me. Threatenin’ to get you involved, to dredge up the past.”
“She wrote to me, you know. Is that why you sent Danny after me?”
His smile is a wound—raw and red and festering. I take it as an answer. Yes.
“And they both loved somethin’ else more. You know that. Your mama, she loved dope even more than she loved you. Her own flesh and blood.”
Then, his shirt comes off. He’s all ribs and ink and hair. And the sight of it—what it means—knocks the wind from me.
“As far as I see it, I did you a favor. I set you free. And look how damn good you turned out. Real, real purdy. Hell, you’re beautiful.”
“Thanks, Trey. That’s sweet.” It comes out right. Soft and unexpected. “I need to ask you something.” His hand rubs my thigh, and it feels like the devil’s kiss, but I simper at him.
“Don’t play games with me.”
I shake my head. “No games. I swear. I just want to know what happened the night you sent me to LA. Did you tell Matthias to find us?”
The key turns in the lock, and I think about screaming. But Trey’s even closer now, running the tip of the blade down the seam of my blue jeans. Lightly. Like a promise broken. And I know for certain he’s planning on getting rid of me. But not here. Too much to explain. He’d made that mistake before.
Matthias stares at us. “Guess I’m late to the party.”
“Naw, man. You’re just in time.” Trey moves away. Sits at the edge of the bed. And that’s when I see the butt of a gun at the small of his back. “Evelyn was askin’ about ya. About the mess you made that night at the hangin’ tree.”
They share a look, both sets of lips parting in the same grin. That’s what they share. A wicked smile. The kind that would rob you blind. The kind that would kick a dog when it’s down. The kind that would stab you in the chest with your own knife—or in my case, my father’s—and twist it a little deeper.
“What do you wanna know?”
“You raped Cassie that night, didn’t you? Did Trey tell you to do it?”
Matthias takes a gun from his waistband, sets it with mine on the dresser, and unbuckles his belt. “Information like that is gonna cost ya. What are you willin’ to give me for it?”
The belt swishes through the loops, menacing. Like the tail of a snake disappearing in the underbrush. “Whatever you want. I need to know.”
“Trey didn’t know nothin’ about it…till later. You remember Cherice?” I nod, transfixed by his fingers on the button of his pants, the roll of fat still concealed by his shirt. “She paged me to look for your ass after you snuck out again. So if we’re layin’ blame, I’d say it’s on you. And her. Besides, I didn’t do nothin’ to Cassie she didn’t ask for.”
Trey shrugs at me, grinning, but there’s tension in his shoulders. In the way he grips my father’s knife. He’s watching Matthias just like I am. “I told ya so,” he says. “I’m not the bad guy you think I am.”
“I heard Cassie say no. I saw you choke her, Matthias.”
He pushes Trey out of the way and latches on to my ankle. Drags my legs toward him, my arms stretched overhead and straining against the T-shirt. Hung up to dry like an animal carcass.
“C’mon, Matty. I got dibs on this one. You wait your turn, little brother.”
Matthias’ jaw works like he’s got a mouthful of something thick and bitter. And I notice. Because that’s my job. “How many goddamned times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” To notice. And to remember. To make meaning.
“Choking. That’s your thing, isn’t it, Matty? Your little fetish?” I feel the power in my words. Even here, beat up and flat on my back. “You knew my mother, right?”
His mouth pinches tight. And his laugh comes out high and breathy. “Everybody knew your mama. Ain’t that right, Trey?”
Trey stands, and they face each other. “As I recall, you never met Arlene.”
“Did you ever wonder where Mom got all that money she had? The five thousand dollars she stole right out from under you. That was supposed to be your money. You were the one providing for her. Feeding her habit. Taking care of her when she got dope sick.”
Trey nods, proud. Like finally—finally!—I got it right.
“I remember one time when you were gone, this guy came over, and I had to hide in the closet while Mom did her thing. Funny when you think about it. That guy was into choking, too. I know because when I peeked out—”
Matthias lunges for me—and Trey for Matthias—his fleshy arm smacking against the headboard, slackening my ties.
Trey swipes at him with the knife, slicing a gash through his T-shirt. It turns to a blood river—deep and wide and flowing, and Matthias’ eyes darken. He’s a wounded animal—a bear to Trey’s winter-starved wolf. And one wallop of his angry paw sends the knife flying.
They wrestle onto the floor, Trey on top, then Matthias, rolling toward the dresser as I struggle to get free.
The gun at Trey’s waist slides across the floor. And he scuttles for it. Fast like you’d expect. No matter how quick you are, the devil is always faster.
But Matthias is part devil too. And he scrambles to the dresser, to the gun he’d laid there.
I make one last jerk, and my hands come loose. I scoot off the bed and crouch beside it. “He was choking her. And I saw his bright blonde hair. And do you know what she called him? Matty. She called him Matty, and he didn’t like it.”
Both guns pointed at the other, nostrils flaring like wild mustangs.
“He gave her a wad of cash that she stuck in the sofa. And told her you could never find out.”
“Lying bitch.” Matthias’ eyes are fire, and he wants me to burn. I look back at him—at his face—and pretend it’s scribbled over in black crayon.
“I’m not lying. And I c
an prove it.”
The room is still. The air electric. I’m holding a grenade. And all that’s left to do is to pull the pin. To launch it. “He has a tattoo on his back. An iron cross.”
I duck down from the spray of bullets, head between my knees. Legs pulled in close just like that night at the tree. And it’s Cassie’s voice I hear over the pings, the cracks, the sounds of flesh exploding. Climb higher, higher.
****
Matthias slumps near the dresser, blood pooling around his head. He hasn’t moved.
The shattered mirror reflects Trey in pieces. Fragments. He writhes, and I watch him, transfixed.
I stand up, my legs tottery beneath me. They’ll be here soon, so I take my gun from the dresser, wipe it on the sheets. And return it to my pocket, unused.
Trey moans. Says my name. And I go to him. I want to be closer.
The hole at the center of his chest is small, but the floor is soaked with blood. He coughs, sputters. His breathing is shallow. Stops and starts. Stops and starts.
He says my name again, in a way that’s asking a question. The only question that can matter to him now. To either one of us.
What kind of person am I?
I kneel across his bony thighs, pinning him like a tack, and they give under the weight of me. His hand reaches, outstretched, but I brush it aside like a withering vine. It’s too weak to pose a threat. His eyes are open, glassy and wet. And that feels right, because I want him to see.
I put my hand over his mouth, his nose. Count to one hundred. Slow and unwavering. With each number, I steal back what I’m owed.
Until there’s nothing left.
****
I sit on the curb at the Blue Bird between two patrol cars and watch them wheel the bodies out. One long black bag, then another. So I can’t tell Trey from Matthias. One devil from the other. But not devils at all, apparently. Just men. Mere mortals.
Detective Maroni nods at me from the door and gives a sympathetic smile before he ducks under the crime-scene tape. He’s heard my story, written it on his little notepad and tucked it in his pocket. He believes me. I am Arlene Allcott’s daughter after all.
Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set Page 66
