Deadly Visions Boxset

by Alexandria Clarke

  “No.”

  “Goddamn it, Autumn.”

  “What about Officer Hart?” she asked. “You met her last week, and you already trust her more than me. How much does she know? What have you told her that you haven’t told me?”

  “Mackenzie is a cop, not a boutique owner,” I pointed out.

  Autumn looked at me as though I had slapped her. “That was real nice, Bee.”

  “You know I didn’t mean it like that—”

  “I don’t care how you meant it,” she replied. “And Mackenzie? You’re on a first name basis with the newest member of Belle Dame’s finest? I didn’t think that she was assigned to Holly’s case. Does the force know how close the two of you are? Because I doubt they would approve of—”

  “Autumn!” I bellowed. “Shut up! Why can’t you understand that I’m trying to keep you safe? I’m not telling you anything, and you have to deal with that. Stay out of it!”

  Stunned, Autumn stared at me with her mouth open for a couple seconds. Then she pushed the gearshift into drive, looked over her shoulder, and pulled onto the interstate again. The remainder of the ride was heavy with loaded silence. I rolled down the window and closed my eyes, letting the rush of air fill my ears. When we coasted off the exit ramp and into Belle Dame, the two-lane road bordered by cornfields on either side, I couldn’t take the tension anymore.

  “Just drop me off here.”

  Autumn’s reply was practical and soft. “We haven’t even made it into town yet.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Fine.”

  She coasted to the shoulder, where I opened my door before the sports car had fully completed its stop. The overgrown grass on the side of the road tickled my ankles as I stepped out.

  Autumn tugged on the back of my shirt. “Come on, Bee. Let me at least drive you to civilization.”

  I pulled free of her grasp. “I just need to be alone right now.”

  She shook her head, giving up. “Whatever.”

  I shut the door and looked at her through the open window. “Hey, I’m—”

  “Don’t apologize.” She flipped her darkly tinted sunglasses into place and looked straight at the road ahead. “I’m so sick of hearing you say you’re sorry. Call me when you’ve decided to stop being a colossal jerk.”

  She revved the engine, and I backed away just in time to dodge the squealing tires. The white sports car peeled off, careened down the road, and faded into the horizon. I watched it go, trying to convince myself that letting Autumn get mad at me was the best way to keep her safe.

  When I reached town an hour later—drenched in sweat, sunburned, and sporting matching blisters on each heel—The Pit, as Autumn guessed, was closed. Cigarette butts, flyers for the band, and beer bottle caps littered the sidewalk outside, remnants of last night’s show. I picked up one of the bright green flyers. Autumn’s boyfriend, Christian, was featured in the center of the black and white photo beneath the printed advertisement: The Outskirts. One night only at The Pit. Friday @ 7pm. I crumpled the flyer and threw it into the road. For good measure, I jiggled the handle to The Pit’s front door. Locked.

  Most of Belle Dame was asleep. A woman in workout gear jogged by the end of the road, while a man walked his dog on the opposite side of the street. Neither paid any attention to me, so I slipped into the alleyway between The Pit and the laundromat next door. A security camera watched from above The Pit’s back door, so I turned my face against the brick wall and sidled along like a crab. That was one decent thing about Belle Dame. The town didn’t see a whole lot of crime. Most businesses never expected to host a break-in, an assumption that worked to my advantage. I used my credit card to jimmy the lock of the back door, popping the simple deadbolt out of place in less than three attempts. Then I eased the door open, slipped inside, and let it shut behind me.

  Without customers to fill it, The Pit felt oddly haunted. Sepia pictures of Belle Dame High’s past football teams decorated the walls, and the eyes of the long-grown teenaged players seemed to follow me as I snuck through the kitchen and ducked underneath the bar top. The soles of my shoes peeled off the sticky floor with every step, working my way through spilled soda and beer. I retraced what I could remember of my steps from the previous night, scanning the floor for the picture. Near the middle of the bar, where I had collapsed, a corner of white photographic paper glinted up at me. I made a dive for it.

  The picture was stuck beneath the bar, glued to the floor by a used piece of chewing gum. I pried it up, doing my best not to damage it, but after being kicked around by every drunk idiot in Belle Dame, the photo was pretty worse for wear. Holly’s handwriting on the back had bled out in streaky black stains. Some of the faces on the outer edges of the pictured group were no longer definable. Ironically, I remained completely recognizable, as did the man who embraced me from behind.

  A door clicked shut out of sight, and I shot to my feet, banging my head against the underside of the bar.

  “Shit!” I hissed, rubbing the tender spot on my skull as stars danced in front of my eyes.

  “Bridget?”

  I turned slowly, dread heavy in my stomach, but it was only Autumn’s boyfriend Christian. He held a mic stand in one hand and several instrument cables in the other.

  “Hey, Christian,” I said, casually tucking the picture into the back pocket of my jeans. “What are you doing here?”

  He lifted the mic stand. “Getting the last of the band’s stuff. We got a little too drunk after the show last night and forgot some of it.” He deftly wrapped a dangling cable around his elbow. “How are you? You looked pretty rough last night. I didn’t know you were out of the hospital yet. Autumn never called me.”

  I tried not to let out a sigh of relief. Autumn hadn’t had the time to fill Christian in on our recent argument. That was good. The last thing I wanted to do was defend myself to her hunky boyfriend.

  “Yeah, I just got out,” I said. “It was no big deal. Guess I should’ve drank more water last night.”

  “Happens to the best of us.” Christian looked over his shoulder toward the back door. “You here for hair of the dog or something?”

  “Uh, no,” I told him. “I think I left my credit card here last night.”

  He pointed. “It’s in your front pocket.”

  I looked down, where the corner of the card poked up out of my jeans, a little bent from its work in the back door lock. “Oh! Thanks. I didn’t even notice. Man, you know how annoying it is to have to call the bank when you lose one of these suckers.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I edged around him. “I should go. The doctors told me to take it easy today.”

  “Yeah, you probably should. Hey, did Autumn make it home okay?”

  “I’m not sure,” I replied, backing toward the door. “She dropped me off here. Is everything okay between the two of you?”

  Christian set the cables on top of a guitar amplifier, where they unraveled like an amateur charmer’s snakes. “I’m not sure. She’s been kind of distant lately. Ever since you got back into town actually.”

  I looked down. “I’m not sure why.”

  He fiddled with a Velcro twist tie around his wrist. “She shouldn’t be stressed. You know, because of the baby.”

  “Right—”

  “I’m probably overreacting.” He gathered up the cables again, this time securing them with the Velcro tie so that they wouldn’t spring apart again. “I can’t help but worry, you know? Autumn’s so great. She’s really strong, and she’s determined to prove that pregnant women are superheroes.”

  “I picked up on that.”

  “They totally are,” he went on as he fiddled with the Velcro. “Superheroes, I mean. Can I be completely honest with you?”

  “Sure.”

  Christian leaned in and lowered his voice. “This whole thing kind of freaks me out. Don’t get me wrong. I love the idea of starting a family with Autumn, but the baby thing? It’s like a tiny little alien
has taken over her body.”

  I stifled a laugh. “You are such a guy.”

  He grinned and flipped his honey-brown hair off of his forehead. Flecks of gold glittered in his hazel eyes as the sunlight filtered into the bar through the front windows. He and Autumn shared a natural warmth. Together, the couple was a living embodiment of a fall fashion advertisement. Their golden skin tones were reminiscent of fresh cinnamon scones and hot cappuccinos on a chilly morning. If anyone deserved Belle Dame’s quintessential charm, it was my saint of a best friend and the father of her child.

  “I guess you’re right,” Christian said, folding up another mic stand and stacking it against the first. “Women do this all the time, right? It’s the miracle of life.”

  “If it helps, I remember when my mom was pregnant with my little sister.” My ribs clenched around my lungs. God, I missed those days. “I think I was about nine years old. It completely weirded me out. Wait until you start seeing the baby’s hands and feet push against Autumn’s stomach. Talk about aliens.”

  “Ugh.” He faked a dramatic gag. “I can’t wait.”

  I laughed and squeezed Christian’s forearm reassuringly. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Every new parent freaks out.”

  “Yeah,” he sighed. “Listen, it would really help if you were there for Autumn. She doesn’t have the best relationship with her mom, so she doesn’t have many people to talk about this stuff with. I love her so much, and I want to make this as easy on her as possible.”

  Guilt flipped my stomach over. What Christian wanted from me was the exact opposite of what I had planned to keep Autumn out of my mess. “I’ll do my best. I love Autumn too, but it’s hard with Holly missing. I’m all over the place right now.”

  Christian set down a heavy guitar amp with a soft plunk. “Hey, I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but if you ever need anything—an objective third party to talk to or whatever—I’m here for you. Any friend of Autumn’s is a friend of mine.”

  A lump rose in my throat. “Thanks, Christian.”

  “Of course. And they’ll find Holly too,” he said. “I promise. I know it looks bleak, but I have a good feeling about it. Don’t give up.”

  I let out a garbled chuckle. “I won’t. We can’t let her miss out on Autumn’s baby. She’d kill us. Aunt Holly and all that.”

  He smiled too. “Aunt Holly. I think she’d like that.”

  “I know she would.”

  Christian tapped the top of the guitar amp. “I should get back to this. The manager’s already mad at us for not cleaning up last night.” His biceps bulged as he lifted the guitar amp onto a waiting dolly cart. “You should drop by the house sometime for dinner. I know Autumn would love it. Plus, I need an objective opinion of my cooking. Autumn lies to make me feel better about burning stuff.”

  “Oh, I will be brutally honest about your cooking,” I promised him. “See you later.”

  “Bye, Bridget.”

  I ducked under the bar again but paused before I reached the back door. “Hey, Christian?”

  He glanced up from dismantling his drum set. “What’s up?”

  “I’m really glad Autumn has you.”

  “I’m lucky to have her.”

  My eyes watered as they adjusted from the dark interior of The Pit to the morning light. I crossed the road and jogged toward the police station, patting my back pocket every so often to make sure that the picture hadn’t wiggled out. Holly had said that her captors wanted to play a game. She told me to follow the clues, but so far, the only breadcrumb was the faded photograph with the ominous message in my little sister’s handwriting. I was at a loss for what to do with it. I needed another pair of eyes, one that I could trust not to judge me for the illegal things I’d done in the past. One person came to mind, and oddly enough, she made a daily habit of wearing a law enforcement uniform.

  The cop shop was frigid. After a few days with a broken AC system, the local officers took full advantage of the fix. Cool air rushed through the vents, chilling the sweat that now felt like a permanent fixture of my body. I shivered and ran my fingers through my damp hair as I approached the unfamiliar officer at the front desk.

  “Yes?” the stout man asked without looking up. His last name—Poitras—was embroidered on the pocket of his polyester uniform shirt.

  “Is Officer Hart here?”

  “She’s in a meeting with Scott,” Poitras replied gruffly.

  “About what?”

  The cop looked up, his rotund cheeks puffing out in recognition as he examined me from head to toe. “Private matter. You wanna leave a message? It might be a while.”

  “No, thanks.” I rapped my fingers on the countertop. “I’ll wait, if you don’t mind.”

  Poitras glowered at my restless tic. “I mind.”

  I stole a lollipop from a jar meant for kids and sat down on the cold metal bench near the door. “Don’t worry, sir. I’m a good girl.”

  “Ain’t what I’ve heard.”

  But he leaned his head back against his chair, closed his eyes, and tipped his cap forward so that I couldn’t see his face. I took it as permission to stay.

  I didn’t like that the Dubois name was becoming more and more notorious in Belle Dame. It was one thing when the pejorative connotation applied solely to me. Ten years ago, I was the resident delinquent in town. I traipsed around with a chip on my shoulder, taking out the frustration and anger of being unexpectedly parentless on the easily-spooked residents of our small and sleepy community. Holly, on the other hand, had shined the name to a spotless gleam once I had left. She wore it across the shoulders of her jersey like a first place trophy to carry on the glory of what our family once was. Belle Dame loved Holly. The people here used to talk about her in reverent tones, praising not just her incredible softball skills but her sunny personality too. Now, her name cropped up in hushed conversation that fell suspiciously silent when I passed by. The Dubois family was a mess. With two dead parents, a prodigal daughter with a record of petty crimes, and a missing high school softball star, it was no wonder we were the talk of the town.

  An office door creaked open, and Officer Scott and Mackenzie Hart—or Mac as I’d come to know her in the last week or so—joined the other officers in the refrigerated bullpen. I strained to catch the tail end of their conversation, but their words were inaudible from across the station. Scott patted Mac on the back and returned to his office. Her shoulders sagged. She turned around, caught my eye, and made a beeline for the front desk.

  “Hey, Bridget,” she said brightly, tugging me up from the bench and piloting me toward the door. “I almost forgot about our brunch plans!”

  “We have brunch plans?”

  She tipped her head toward the dozing Poitras and muttered, “Just go with it.”

  “Right!” I said. “Brunch plans. Yep. That’s why I’m here. I could kill for a stack of pancakes. You ready to go?”

  “Ready as ever.”

  Poitras grumbled beneath his hat. “Damn kids. You ever actually work at your desk, Hart?”

  “I’ll bring you a doggie bag, Poitras.”

  Mac ushered me out onto the street and led me beyond the scope of the police station’s glass windows. She studied me like a trail of footprints leading from a crime scene. “Jesus, did you go for a swim or something?”

  I flapped out the wrinkles of my sweaty shirt. “It’s hot. I’m surprised you haven’t grilled me about last night yet. Autumn said you were freaking out.”

  “I called the hospital earlier this morning,” she explained. “They reported that you were in stable condition.”

  “Stable, huh? In theory, I guess. What did Scott want with you?”

  We walked to the nearby dog park, where our conversation was muted by furious barking and the occasional sit or stay command. Mac leaned against the fence, took off her Belle Dame P.D. ball cap, and fanned herself with it.

  “A higher-up noticed that someone accessed Holly’s case file without p
ermission,” she told me, her lips set in a grim, straight line.

  “That’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not good,” she admitted. “I could get fired for something like this.”

  I hung my head. “Shit. Mac, I’m so sorry. I never should’ve asked you to do that for me. If Bill and Emily had just clued me in on what was happening with Holly—”

  She waved off my apology. “I know you don’t have the best relationship with your foster parents. Don’t worry about it. Thankfully, Scott’s on my side. He knows I was just trying to help you out. He’s going to take care of it.”

  A golden retriever puppy gamboled by, tripping on its own ears as it chased after a wayward butterfly.

  “So you won’t get in trouble?” I asked.

  “Scott told me to take this as a very serious warning,” Mac replied, unable to suppress a grin as the puppy stopped near her feet and began to lick the toe of her boots through the chain-link fence. “They’re going to be watching me. It’s going to be a bitch to get any more information for you, at least at the station.”

  I reached for my pocket, where the corner of the Polaroid picture peeked out over the denim. “What about outside the station? You ever do your own research at home?”

  Mac followed the movement of my hand. “I like to think I’m pretty savvy. Why, you got something?”

  “Holly sent me a message.”

  She turned to face me, pulling her boot away from the fence. The puppy whined and pawed at the ground. “What kind of message?”

  I freed the picture from my jeans but kept it hidden in the palm of my hand. “Before I show you this, you have to promise not to judge me for who I was a few years ago.”

  Mac’s cocoa-colored eyes solidified in a hard glare. “All right.”

  “You should know—”

  A harsh vibration interrupted me as my phone, tucked in the opposite pocket of my pants, beeped out a message notification. I drew it out and swiped the touch screen to open the text. It was from a blocked number: Keep your cop friend out of it or Holly dies right now.

  I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around the Polaroid.