Page 85 of Miserable Marionette

Neither of us speaks as he settles me in a chair in the corner of the room, leaving me alone with the body and that budding knot of panic again until he returns, wrapping me in a blanket from upstairs. When he presses my sketchbook and Krissy into my arms, I wince as he goes to move away, my hand snapping out to grip him so hard my nails score him above his wrist. “Please. I want to be by you.”

The smile he gives me almost looks genuinely warm, but it’s not as he reaches out, slipping his fingers into my unbound hair. “I’ve missed you so much. Missed you needing me.”

Strange, I hadn’t realized I’d ever stopped.

My eyes are as blank as the sketchpad as I curl up in the metal chair, staring forward at the lift attached to the wall as he gets back to work. Soon enough, when Gideon starts humming The World We Knew by Frank Sinatra, I let myself fall asleep.

So long as I’m close to him.

39

Be Good

Audrey Present Day 1994

The past two days passed much like that, lingering and holding onto Gideon, and him being unabashedly pleased to watch me panic every time he leaves the room. Which is why this morning, as I got dressed for my shift at the alterations shop with shaky palms and Gideon suggesting it be my last, it was easy to agree. The cab of my dad's truck is cold, my fingers red and numb against the steering wheel. I hadn’t bothered with the heat as I sit in the parking lot, half debating turning around and going home, the remaining bits aware the Johnsons deserve more from me. I reach for the handle to the cab when the phantom feeling of Gideon’s lips on my neck sends a shiver up my spine, his words echoing in my head.

“Be good for me today, Audrey.”

My grip falters and goes limp on the handle.

“Gonna sit out there all day?” Mr. Johnson's voice booms from around the side of the store, making my head snap up.

I force out a breathless laugh that sounds weird and foreign to my ears as I scramble from the cab, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “Sorry, I was daydreaming.”

“No daydreaming when you should be day-working,” he huffs, closing the door until I reach the back steps leading up to it and swinging it open just in time to let me in.

There’s not much to do today, aside from dry cleaning the groomsmen’s suits from the Kessler wedding. It feels odd to be in this space with everything I know. Everything I’ve seen like I’m a robot piloting an Audrey suit, my own movements uniform but off-kilter.

Everything is happening to someone else.

But that someone is me.

The day passes and I do my best to avoid Mrs. Johnson’s probing questions and worried glances, not even the deafening lull of Mr. Johnson and his coffee buddies taking the edge off my anxiety. I flinch as the bells to the shop sound, making my hand slip off the steamer, letting it clatter loudly to the tile floor in the backroom.

I stare at it for a moment. My breath coming in a little quicker than it should.

What is Gideon doing right now?

Mrs. Johnson quickly lays her own steamer down, getting to her feet faster than a woman of her age should. “Audrey, what is wrong, sweetheart?”

I laugh it off, but my hands are shaking as I suddenly jerk to pick it up. No sooner than I straighten, she takes the steamer from my palms. Her cold, weathered hands gripping my face and forcing it up to hers. “I’m okay,” I breathe out, unable to meet her eyes.

Cringing at the idea of her knowing… what I know. How much everyone would hate us both, how much disappointment she’d feel if she knew I wasn’t going to do the right thing. That I can’t, that I would rather die than—

“Audrey! Come out here,” Mr. Johnson booms, and the timing couldn’t be better as I let her give me a few extra pats. Her wrinkled lips cool as he presses a motherly kiss to the top of my head, so soft it makes my chest ache, a deep-seated shame hitting me center mast. I’m a bad person. Sick and bad like Gideon.

The second I brush through the curtain, that feeling manages to expand, doubling in on itself. It swarms and bubbles with a punch of ripe, aching fear.

“Miss Fisher! I was hoping to have a word with you.”

My eyes fall on Detective Altman’s snakeskin boots, taking a step back toward the safety of the curtain when I flinch, bumping into Mrs. Johnson. “I actually, I don’t have a lot of time today.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Johnson haggles, setting his cup back down on the table. The eyes of his friends, men I’ve spent the past few years laughing with, suddenly grating.

“I promise to only take a moment of your time,” Altman offers, and I swallow hard, snagging my coat off the rack as I head toward him at the front of the shop. All I can see as he opens up the door leading me around the side are those women, their terrified faces, the awful sound of Gideon's drill, Bryan’s letterman jacket, and Jessica’s eyebrow piercing, glinting in the artificial basement lighting.

I see his mom's black, frizzy hair. How he killed her, then made her pretty again so the town could say their goodbyes.