by Rina Kent
“That’s when it all changes, you know. That one moment, when you’re holding your baby in your arms. The burden you’ve carried for nine long months. The thing that made you throw up every morning, that made you spoil your bedsheets more times than you’d care to remember. That thing…”
Marigold blinks a few times, and I realize she’s keeping back tears. “That thing consumed my life. She was everything to me. Everything!”
I start misting up. That’s how I felt about Mom too, especially after Dad died. She was my world.
I like to think I was hers.
“But then I lost her.” Marigold holds up a hand and extends two fingers. “Not once. Twice.”
“I don’t—”
“Your father took her away from me.” Marigold flicks her hand, shakes her head. “Dragged her thousands of miles to that nowhere town. He kept us apart.”
I open my mouth, but she doesn’t let a word get out.
“And then someone killed her.”
Those two fingers lift, trembling ever so slightly. “Twice, I’ve lost her. I’m not losing you too, even if it means you hate me. Because at least you’re here to hate me. At least you’re here.”
She drops her arms to her sides, swallows visibly, and takes a step back. “Now think about what you’ve done.” She nods, and a single tear breaks free to race down her wrinkled cheek. “You think about your life, Indi. And you don’t come out of this room until you’re ready to tell me how you plan to spend it.”
Marigold grabs the door handle and shuts the door in my face. I stare at the wood for the longest time, and then slowly turn around and collapse on my bed.
I wish there were a way I could dump everything that’s happened to me in the past two weeks onto Marigold. Maybe she can handle that shit better than I can. After all, she’s still standing, and barely looks worse for wear.
Me? I feel like two-day-old roadkill left to bake in the sun. I’m a withered husk of who I used to be, and it feels like the only thing keeping me alive is my anger and my hate and my desperation.
Anger at Briar for lying to me.
Hate for the man who destroyed my life so wantonly.
And oh, how desperate I am to make them all pay for their crimes.
Briar
It’s just after one when I get to the burned-out church. Empty, blackened, cast in deep shadow.
I haven’t seen Marcus here in years. So why? Why did he track all the way over here from his house? It’s further than mine — an extra fifteen, twenty minutes. Doesn’t make sense, not if it was just to reminisce.
So why then?
I scan the building, trying to find anything that might be out of place. Some glaring sign that will point me in the right direction.
But it looks the same as it always does.
I head to the back where I thought I saw a flicker of light the night Marcus and I were here. There’s a tangled nest of brambles back here. I crouch, take out my phone, and shine the torch on the ground.
There are a few scrapes through the dirt, some indistinct marks. A thorn ripped from the bramble. Was this where Indi was hiding?
I turn, crouch, and scan the church from my new perspective. The entrance is straight ahead, the pulpit a little to the left. She would have had a clear line of sight to both of us coming and going.
She must have seen what Marcus was doing. My finger hovers over my phone, but who the fuck do I call?
I try Dylan first. He’s the one that sent Indi the video his girlfriend had taken of her on her knees in front of me in Veroza’s class.
No answer.
I try Zak next, but his phone’s off.
I know Marcus doesn’t have her number, and the last thing I want is to potentially tip him off to my amateur investigation.
Instead, I wander around the church. Spot the difference, Briar.
My eyes are drawn to the mess of footprints coming and going. I follow them a few times, trying to decipher which ones are mine, which are Indi’s, which could possibly be his. On the fourth circuit, I notice a pair of tracks detouring. It could be mine from the night I first followed Indi into this place…but it doesn’t feel right.
For one, they’re too perfect. Each precisely placed in front of the other.
I follow them down a row of pews, and stare at a scuff mark on the dusty tiles.
Crouching, I brush my fingers over the tile. It’s not flush with the others. No surprise — almost nothing in this church is straight or narrow anymore. I heard that the church burned down in the early sixties, cause unknown. Apparently, no one was injured in the fire, but it was never reconstructed.
I wedge my fingernail under the lip of the tile. Reluctantly, it starts lifting. I put it down to one side and frown down at the dark rectangle of empty space it was obscuring.
I reach inside. The air in that small space is arctic. I grab the bundle of fabric inside and draw it out as goosebumps break out over my arms.
Did you get rid of everything?
Of course.
As soon as that blue fabric catches the light, I recognize it.
Jessica’s hoody. The one she was wearing when she left Marcus’s house the next day.
Why the fuck would he keep this?
I stand, gripping the sweater tighter. Inside one of the pockets, something crumples. I unfold the hoody, dangling it from my finger as I head out of the church. I rummage through the pockets, forcing a swallow when I pull out Jessica’s lip balm.
It takes everything I have not to smell it. My hand slips into the other pocket.
A piece of paper, and something small, rectangular, hard, slick, cool.
Flash drive. I stare at it for a second before slipping it into my jeans. As I step into the small clearing right outside the church and the sun washes over me, I unfold the piece of paper.
I stop walking.
I straighten the paper, blinking hard.
I turn my head.
Am I fucking seeing things?
I rub a thumb over the penciled lines. They smudge a little, but that only convinces me that I haven’t lost my fucking mind. My head darts up as a cold thrill scours my bones.
Indi.
I break into a sprint.
Jesus fucking Christ.
How long, Marcus Baker?
How long have you been playing me, you sick fucking psycho?
Indi
It’s too bright out to sleep. I’m too miserable to study. I decide on a hot shower, and daydream about French toast and hot coffee for after.
Marigold’s gone. I heard her slam the front door a few minutes ago. It’s the only reason I dared to sneak out of my room for the shower. With clean, wet hair and a body reeking of lavender, I feel a little less wrecked than when I walked in here.
A little, but not a lot.
I pull on my baggy jeans and hoody, and drag my hair into a messy bun, glaring at my reflection.
I look as bad — if not worse — than when I arrived here six days ago.
Six. Days.
Feels like a fucking lifetime.
I slip my mother’s necklace around my neck, lay back on the bed, and close my eyes as I wait for the stone to go warm in my fist.
Marigold said I should figure out what I want out of my life, but you know what? I don’t have a fucking clue despite having all the traditional expectations thrust upon me while I was still part of a full, functional family.
Doctor.
Lawyer.
The opposite of a starving artist.
My parents told me I could be anything I wanted, and I lived life expecting that to be true. So I studied whatever took my interest. History, the sciences, art. Briefly, accounting. Because it didn’t matter — I could be whatever the fuck I wanted.
When my father got sick, I didn’t want to be anything anymore. Didn’t seem to be a point. He was young — not even forty-five yet — and his life was over. All my hopes and dreams were pinned on his recovery. I prayed, I begged, I sacrificed
.
It was never enough.
If there was a God, then he refused to listen. No one accepted my offerings.
After Dad died, the only thing I wanted to be was fucked. I drank, I smoked, I snorted.
There was nothing for me to rebel against, but I still found cause to yell at my mother and call her names.
And she just kept on doing what she’d been doing. She was my only constant in those years, and I was too much of a loose cannon to notice. She kept painting and drawing. Her work kept appearing in galleries and art shows.
If I’d bothered for even a second to pay attention, I might have noticed the sterling fucking example she was setting.
But I was too broken, and unashamed of flaunting my grief to the world. I didn’t want to feel anything except pleasure, and I pushed away every bit of pain that came my way.
The police asked me if I knew my mother was on anti-depressants. That she was scheduled to appear at an art gallery for her latest collection the night she was murdered. That, instead, she left and then came home, heavily intoxicated with booze and pills.
I didn’t. How could I? That would have required talking to her. Doing something other than yelling and disobeying her.
It was a blessing, they told me.
Meant she must hardly have felt a thing.
As if they were there when she was bound, gagged, and tortured. Like they had ringside seats to her brutal rape.
But they weren’t.
No one was there that night except her, and the man who took everything from her.
The man who stole my life from me.
I come to with a start, and stare fuzzily around my room as I lick dry lips and push onto my elbows. Must have dozed off, but I don’t remember even—
Someone’s coming up the stairs.
I’m on my feet in an instant. It’s not Marigold — those footfalls are too heavy, too slow.
Determined.
My eyes dart to the baseball bat beside my bedroom door. I left it there in case Briar ever came back, not sure if I could ever use it against him but wanting to keep my options open, just in case.
But this isn’t Briar. I know it like I know there’s some heavy shit coming my way.
I creep over the carpet, my breath coming in fits and starts as I take hold of the bat and wrap my fingers around the smooth handle.
My heart’s slamming in my chest. My pulse is a soft roar in my ears.
He’s on the landing now. I hear a door creak — the spare bedroom next to mine.
My door is next.
I hoist up the bat, flexing my fingers before wrapping them even tighter. It feels too heavy. My body too light. I want to tip over. I want to drop it.
But I clutch it for dear life instead.
Somehow knowing…this is life or death.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Briar
I don’t have Indi’s number. Why the fuck don’t I have her number?
I call Dylan again, but he still doesn’t pick up. I leave a voice mail, but I have no idea if he’ll ever listen to it after last night. Zak’s phone is off.
All I have is her address.
And so does Marcus.
Because I fucking told it to him. I handed her to him on a silver platter. And why? So he could clean up my mess.
Again.
I couldn’t let her call the police on me. I couldn’t let her show them the shoes I’d left behind. That would incriminate me, and I refuse to be charged as a criminal. I refuse…despite everything I’ve done.
I emerge from the shadows of Briar Woods breathing too hard, my vision swimming with stars. I ran as fast as I could, but I already know it’s too late. I’m too late. The monster’s been loosed. Wolf has already devoured Red Riding Hood.
But I still have time to cut him open, right? Isn’t that how the story goes? The hunter cuts open the wolf, and Indi and her grandmother come out unharmed?
I sprint over the lawn, scanning Indi’s house for signs of life.
It’s just gone one in the afternoon. There are no lights to indicate whether or not someone’s at home. Oh, how I fucking wish she wasn’t here, but life has never been that cute, that perfect, that wonderful.
The back door is ajar, and that almost makes me stop in my tracks. Luckily — luckily — I have enough momentum to keep me going when my mind flags.
I dart into the kitchen. A white-haired woman spins to face me. I see her resemblance to Indi in the way she scowls at me, as if daring me to take another step.
“Where is she?” I barely manage through a wheeze.
“In her room, studying.” The old woman lifts an imperious eyebrow at me. “And you are?”
I growl in response, and run for the stairs. My mind’s begging me to slow down, to take stock. To stop being such a fucking fool.
But I can’t.
I can sense him.
He was here.
Marcus was here!
“Excuse me!” Indi’s grandmother calls from downstairs. “Indi is grounded. She will not be receiving guests.”
All the doors on the landing are closed. I throw open the second one, the one I escaped through the other night. I instinctively knew back then that it was Indi’s room, even though it could have belonged in a hotel’s guest room, because she’d somehow left her mark on it.
Even now, standing at the threshold, I know this is her space.
And I know it was violated.
A second later, once my eyes have swept the room, they fix on a spot on the floor.
A splash of blood. Incongruous against the beige carpet. Unmistakable.
“Young man, just what the hell do you think—?”
“She’s gone,” I say, turning to the old woman working her way up the stairs. “He’s taken her.”
The woman glares at me, her lips working for a moment. Then she storms closer. “Nonsense. She was in her room when I left…”
The old woman steps into the room. It takes her a moment to spot the blood, and when she does she puts a hand on her chest and steps deliberately back as if it was a snake rearing to bite.
“No,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “No.”
“Call the police,” I say. “Tell them it’s Marcus Baker. He’s got her.”
I don’t wait for her response — I’m already rushing down the stairs three at a time.
But where to?
My first thought would have been the woods, but I was just there. We would have passed each other. I would have seen him. So where?
Burning lungs force me to a halt a few yards outside the house. I fall to my knees, dragging air through a tattered windpipe as my fingers dig into the grass.
Back to where it all started, of course.
Back to the Baker house.
Indi
I swing the bat the same moment my door opens. There’s a bark of pain from outside, and the hand that had taken hold of the door handle darts back into the hall.
Shit, too soon!
I rush around the corner, lifting the bat for another blow, but Marcus is too fast for me. He steps forward, grabs the base of the bat, and twists it out of my hands.
It happens so fast, my scream of rage twists into a shriek of pain as my wrists bend the wrong way.
I sag, desperately trying to pull my hands free, but then Marcus is inside my room, and the door’s already slamming shut behind him.
He grabs the front of my shirt, draws back his hand, and slams his fist into my nose.
Heat, pain, blood explodes from my face. I yell, gurgle, fall to the floor. In a second my shirt is soaked.
Marcus grabs me again, hauls me to my feet. I splutter, coating his face in a fine spray of bloody mist.
He doesn’t even notice.
“I have Addy.” His voice is barely legible, not even a little human. Black eyes dig into my head like a migraine.
“Wh-?”
“I’ll kill her.”
I shake my head. “Pl-please—”
/> “Then walk.” He shoves me so hard, I tumble over my own feet and land on the floor. I grunt, and a splatter of blood lands on the carpet by my hand.
That’s it. One splatter.
That’s the only evidence of this struggle.
And the struggle is over, I know it. I’ve already lost. Already surrendered.
I lift shaking hands. “I’ll come. Just…I’m coming.”
I don’t know what’s more terrifying — his expressionless face, or the way his dark eyes burrow into my skull.
He beckons me with a flick of his fingers, and I take a careful step toward him, hands raised.
Marcus grabs a fistful of my hair and uses that ferocious grip to steer me down the stairs. I bite back curses and tears, clinging desperately to the only thing I have left.
And it’s Briar.
I’m too fucked in the head to understand why, or how, but he’s all I’ve got right now.
Briar
Marcus’s car isn’t in his driveway, but he could have fetched it from Dylan’s house earlier today, drove it through to Indi’s house. More than enough time, what with me disappearing to the cemetery.
I’ve always been one step behind you, haven’t I, bro?
I don’t know why I believe I’ll find answers at his house, but honest to God, I don’t have anywhere else to go. I mean, where the hell do you take someone you’ve just fucking kidnapped?
I climb through Marcus’s window and take a second to scan the room.
Has he always been this messy, or does his cleaning lady not work weekends? The bed’s unmade, sheets twisted like he hosted a wrestling match on them. There are empty bottles of beer, coke and rum everywhere. Cigarettes and joint roaches clog up the air with stale fumes.
Was his father in here? Did he rough up Marcus enough to have caused this mess? Or did Marcus bring Indi back here—?
I cut off that last thought with ruthlessness and squeeze my eyes shut as I take a moment to gather myself.
Must have been Marcus’s father. Shit’s been moved around, tossed to the floor, but nothing’s broken.
