Page 32 of Miserable Marionette

The world pivots as I let myself fall, my back slamming against the headstone as I slide down it into the damp grass. I don’t look away, don’t blink until I lose sight of those sunshine curls in the trees.

15

Drinks With A Corpse

Gideon, Present Day, 1994

I adjust my aching cock in my pants, my palm making waves of pleasure and need spiral through me. It would be nothing, probably feel fucking divine to palm the shaft, to fuck into my hand as I watched her clumsily don her paint-stained jeans, her ass bouncing as she works them up her soft thighs. I can still feel my lips on her there, the small of her back. The smell of her shampoo and whatever lotion she’s using these days. My teeth dig into my lip, fighting to keep a groan at bay as I jerk my hand off my cock. Even that feels like a betrayal of her now. Now that I’m home, slowly putting the pieces of our lives back together from the shadows.

She hasn’t stopped by after my gift, hasn’t reached out to say thank you. Not yet. Silly puppet, where in the world have your manners gone?

I never gave a damn about the clock, but from the very first time she saw it, she was mesmerized. She’d even prepared an entire lecture for my mom and dad one day. Which had consisted mostly of well-busted mermaids could be offensive to the clients there to grieve. It seemed improper; that was the word she used. Improper to display graphic nudity at a place of solace and grief.

She was ten.

My dad had laughed until he was red in the face and reassured her that the moment someone complained about the mantle clock, it would be turned over to her for safekeeping. My mother had just sat beside him, looking somewhere between horrified and amused. I’d fought back my own smirk until I watched the wind leave her sails, watched her laugh with them, but not a real one, a deflated, I’m giving up now laugh. She’d really wanted the clock. One that had sat in that very place since my great-grandfather had built the place.

I’d stopped finding it funny then.

I’d considered ripping the stupid clock off the mantel and handing it over.

But she’d just hand it right back.

My girl was sweet like that.

So, I decided I’d smash it instead. If she couldn’t have it and wouldn’t just take the damn thing well, they didn’t need it either. I told her as much later that day as we snacked on kettle corn in the field alongside the Fall Festival. She’d smacked me and told me that was immature, that we were nearly adults now, and I needed to act like one.

We played with her Krissy doll later that day, pretending Krissy had fallen from the big tree in the grove, and I had to rush to give her medical attention. I’d thought the irony of that was amusing but didn’t dare say that out loud. Audrey was perfect the way she was.

I didn’t want her to change a thing.

That’s why I’m here, in the woods, watching her flick through piles of junk mail and bills to find her keys. If I don’t think too hard, it’s like it was before. Like nothing truly changed. She bounds down the steps, her blonde hair braided down her back as she all but slams herself into her dad’s old truck. The bumper I remember now is dented and rusting. Like in her world, too, the moment we were apart, the entire world started to decay.

My pager beeps, making me jerk it out quickly, silencing the message.

346

037*1776127117

My jaw clenches as I pocket the device again, watching my Audrey as she hops out of the cab and runs along the back to snag something out of the bed. Detective Martin Altman has been to the office to see me eight times this week alone. I roll over every detail in my head of my last report, my last autopsy of a suspected Marionettist victim.

My victim.

It’s airtight.

Ironclad.

But he keeps calling.

I should head to the house and call him back to see if there’s an issue—

The sound of the hood of the truck slamming shut jerks me from my thoughts, watching her ass press against her jeans as she tosses the now-empty water jug back into the bed before climbing inside. This time, when she wrenches the key in the ignition, it roars to life like a wounded beast, a plume of jet-black smoke sputtering from underneath the hood. Audrey pulls out of her driveway, taking every want I have in the entire world with her. My jaw ticks as I stroll from the wood line onto the weathered front porch, the old swing swaying in the light breeze. Irritation floods me when I reach out to find her door already unlocked.

“That’s not very smart of you, puppet. What if a maniac let himself in while you were away?” I ask the house. “Could you defend yourself? Could you fight him off? Even yell for help?” I huff. “No, of course not.” I sift through the mail, mostly bills marked overdue and urgent. “But those things don’t matter anymore. You have me again.”

I’ll take care of everything.

Just like I had for years.