Page 66 of Miserable Marionette

To whatever end.

The sun is lowering itself behind Crosswell Mountain; there’s a cake nestled in the floorboard of my car, and the most perfect girl in the world is turning twenty-six today. Of course, I wouldn’t spare a thought for the failed copies of her; they were a means to an end, a pet project, a way to pass the time and make the years without my best friend more bearable. Even if in the end they only served to draw attention to the Audrey-shaped wound she left behind. Like before, all thoughts are on her. Perhaps even more so. It’s… worse than I remember, but it feels so good to be consumed with her again. Only this time, I’m forgetting to eat. To sleep.

Hours pass with my eyes locked on her. Following her, thinking about her, watching her, obsessing over her, pleasuring her, making sure she’s safe, happy, cared for, ensuring there’s nothing she could possibly want for, desire nothing I haven’t already provided.

As my tires hit the bend over the bridge, any semblance of calm, of a good mood, evaporates. A slim figure leans against the railing of Audrey’s porch, a cigarette dragged between their fingers. It doesn’t take any substantial degree of intelligence to know who it is. Jessica Jordan, the wayward child of Reene Jordan, is lurking. That buzzing builds in my chest, slipping backward, deeper into the cavity, toward my spine. From there it silvers upward, higher and higher as I exit my car.

Where is Audrey?

Has she said something?

Tipped my puppet off?

Will Audrey be scared?

She’s delicate, my girl. We can’t have someone upsetting her, not at all. Certainly not on her birthday. The figure shifts in response to my staring. I’ve stepped out of my car and turned toward her directly, haven’t budged an inch. Those people my father told me about, the ones that will take one look at me and know… Jessica and the fuckwit detective are some of those people, and damn my luck to be in close contact with them both recently.

The screws, if they track them—

No, it’s a tiny family-owned shop. They didn’t even put my cash in the register; nobody is keeping tight books there. I was nice, but not overly… unmemorable. I don’t move, but my mind is running a million miles a second, my eyes glued to the corpse as she shifts again, dropping her cigarette to the porch before smashing it out there.

How disrespectful.

I don’t bother hiding it; maybe she can even see the way my lips jerk up into a horrid smirk. What my mother once called a mockery of a smile. A grotesque misrepresentation of an emotion I rarely get to feel: happiness. I think I might’ve today, but she’s here to ruin that, and I simply cannot allow it to continue. Is Audrey inside? No… the lights are off. Audrey is home, in my home. Brave, perfect girl being at the right place at the right time. Brilliant puppet, and this fucking cunt is waiting her out. I take a step forward, the buzzing swelling until it's building like a pressure in my skull.

Yes, I had already known Jessica Jordan would die. But it was an afterthought, something down low on my to-do list.

That has just changed.

We can’t have you messing things up for us, Jessica. Not after everything is finally falling into place.

I take a step forward and watch as she rushes down the steps of the porch, the world descending into twilight. Taking a mere second to ponder how difficult it must be for her as she walks down the drive toward me before veering off and nearly running up the road toward town. I don’t stop walking until I’m on Audrey’s porch, discarding the half-drunk bottle of vodka the corpse left behind. As I spin, I bring my hand to my face, adjusting my glasses, wondering if it’ll ever get easier. If my fixation on my best friend will ever become something that mellows and doesn’t require the death of others. I’m back across the street pulling her cake from my car when something deep hits in the pit of my stomach, an illicit surety that she and I will likely never find out.

Audrey, Present Day, 1994

I flip through the news, lying on the couch upstairs at the Bell Funeral Home, the nameless orange tabby sprawled next to me on the windowsill. My flipping is mostly mindless, trying to keep myself away from the windows, checking to see if Jessie has left yet. I’d already been heading back home after dropping off Gideon’s watch he’d left at my house last night. I’d pivoted and bolted inside; facing ghosts seemed better than another showdown with her. That was three hours ago.

My flipping abruptly cuts off, a gasp leaving my throat as a familiar face pops up on the screen. A wide-brimmed cowboy hat and huge buckle, but mostly the thick, groomed mustache of Detective Altman. Despite my anxiety about the woman across the street, I laugh. He looks like a piece of straw in a bucket full of steel. The men around him are all dressed neatly in formal suits.

“…Detective Martin Altman, who is leading the case, will be making a statement. There will be no additional questions at this time.” The man behind the podium steps to the side, nodding and leaning in to whisper something in Altman’s ear before the new man settles at the helm.

Even out of place compared to those around him, there’s no doubt he’s in his element. “We are now treating this as a confirmed victim of The Marionettist, as we released yesterday. The young woman has been identified, and we’re notifying her family now. Our thoughts and prayers are with the family who has just suffered an unbelievable tragedy.”

He takes a deep breath, shuffling the papers on the podium despite not looking like he’s reading from anything. “The FBI and I are proud to announce that a witness to the abduction has come forward. We’re working closely with this unnamed individual. Until then, we believe he has moved locations. This suspect is highly intelligent. He would know the heat is becoming unpalatable here. This individual is likely a well-mannered man, around his early to late twenties. He will work in the medical field or have an interest in it. A hobby perhaps. He’s a chameleon, but most of all, the suspect will be someone who is deeply lonely. To him, a deeply unwell man, his victims are beloved. He cherishes them—"

“Bullshit.”

I scream, my heart slamming into my chest as I lurch from the couch to flee. Only my foot gets caught in the blanket there, sending my knees to the carpet. I whirl, finding Gideon standing in the doorway, his chest heaving as he watches the TV.

“Holy hell, Gideon, you scared me.”

He doesn’t respond as I untangle my foot, plopping down where I fell in front of the TV.

“…likely thinks of them, each one as his potential soulmate, his own perfect dolls—"

“No, he fucking doesn’t, and that fucker knows it,” Gideon seethes, and I spin to look at him over my shoulder before turning my attention again to the TV.

“… that brings the victim count to seventeen. Seventeen failed attempts to persuade these women to love him—" The TV cuts off, the sound of the remote cracking in his palm has me getting to my feet. I barely reach him before he grabs me, slamming me close.