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What I do have is time. If I finish the book and then tell the authorities what I know about Liam, no doubt a lot of press will come from it. I could certainly use the publicity. Even better if I can find a way to spin it into my novel. It is a mystery, after all. Why would a seemingly normal young man from a well-to-do family, with a burgeoning career, and his whole life ahead of him, murder two—three?—people? At best, this situation appearing at my doorstep turns out to be a red herring. At worst, a case study into the mind of a monster. There’s only one question. Am I talented enough to write it in without Liam knowing I’m on to him?
I grew up surrounded by death. My father was a homicide detective. His father was a mortician. I’ve long thought of the ways in which our fathers’ careers have impacted the work we do in the world. My father’s father ran a funeral home. My father grew up seeing grief on a daily basis, and I believe that is why he went into detective work. As for me, I grew up with a man married to his job, which was not abnormal for the times. He was gone a lot, and even when he was home, he often had that absent look in his eyes, like he was somewhere else entirely.
Sometimes I’d catch him looking at my mother or my sisters with such sadness written across his face that I had to look away. I imagined that he saw the faces of victims in them, and I imagine that fueled him more. I don’t know that he looked at me that way; I hardly recall him looking at me at all. From an early age, he made it clear that I was to be the man of the house. I was in charge of caring for my mother and sisters while he was out doing important work in the world, or as he put it, keeping the wolves at bay.
Murder rarely occurs during business hours; it is usually between 10:00 p.m. and 3:00 a.m. So, on those days, his watch officially started when he arrived at the crime scene. He often didn’t make it home until long after we were asleep. Sometimes I’d wake in the middle of the night and find him seated at the kitchen table, poring over court orders or reviewing search warrants.
Back then I don’t think I appreciated how hard he worked; in fact, I know I didn’t. It’s difficult to understand what it’s like to be a man with the weight of the world—and a family—on your shoulders until you are one and you have one. My father very rarely spoke of his work. He didn’t share information about the cases he worked, and he didn’t celebrate when he solved a case. He didn’t buy into the cliché that he was a voice for the dead. He was a serious man with a serious work ethic. On occasion, I would see his files lying around and take a peek. Maybe it was the furtive nature of his job that made me fascinated with the dead and with
writing about them. Maybe I just wanted to be closer to the man who lived down the hall but was, in many respects, a stranger. Maybe it’s why I started making things up—to fill in the parts I never knew.
Any armchair psychologist worth their salt would suggest that I write mysteries because of my father’s profession. If they dug a little deeper, they’d see that I don’t just write mystery. I write easy mystery.
With my first novel, I was surprised. Truthfully, I didn’t think it was all that good. I surely didn’t think it would sell. It was actually Eve who packaged it up and mailed it to several agents. It was Eve who bought me my first good typewriter. She believed in me long before anyone else did, maybe even before I believed in myself. Without her, I would have moved on to something else, a profession my father found more respectable. He was embarrassed at having a son who made things up for a living. In fact, he was horrified that I spent my hours seated behind a typewriter conjuring the kind of stories he spent his life trying to stop.
Later, as my backlist grew and I became acquainted with my audience, it made sense why my work has been successful, even if it can at times be considered predictable. People like to feel smart. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as being right, proving that righteousness can be bottled and sold.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
My eyes flutter open hesitantly. In the in-between of sleep and consciousness, I hear shuffling, something or someone stirring around me. Was it a part of my dream? Daylight hasn’t yet broken, but there’s just enough light peeking through the curtains that as my eyes adjust, I can see it wasn’t a dream. A figure is standing over me. Instantly, I feel the pull, and my hands reach for my neck, toward the electrical cord that is wrapped around it. Digging into my skin, I try to get my fingers underneath the cord, but it’s too tight. I can’t.
“You’re going to send me back to that place, I know it,” she says calmly.
I try to call out to her, to say her name, but it comes out as a grunt. I try again and again to say something, to say anything, but speaking is impossible. Flinging my body from side to side like a fish out of water, I try to get a foothold.
“You want to kill me, George.”
Again, I try to speak, to say her name, but words don’t come, only a horrible gurgling sound. “Plea—”
“I’m sorry about this. But I can’t let you send me back there. You promised.”
Writhing back and forth, back and forth, I finally get enough momentum to swing my feet around, hanging them off the side of the bed. But then dizziness hits and I realize I am seconds away from passing out. It’s funny how it isn’t until words are taken from you that you realize how many you have left to say. I ask myself how she got out of that room. Had I forgotten to lock the door? Had she planned this?
Finally, I manage to push myself to an upright position. From there, I use my body weight to fling myself forward, putting a little distance between the two of us, just enough to get some slack on the cord. Eve is small, but when she gets like this, she might as well be ten feet tall and bulletproof. “What the fuck?” I ask when I can finally choke out words.
“I hate you!” she screams. “You’re going to kill me. I know you are.”
In the darkness I see her let go of the cord. She picks something up, and that’s the last thing I see.
The first thing I notice is the dull ache in my back. The second is the hard surface I’m lying on. It takes me a second to register what’s happened. I ask myself what I know: My wife attacked me. Eve. Where is she? What has she done? Everything hurts. But I am on the outside of the pain—a detached observer. There’s no fear, no other emotion, just my body instinctively willing me to get up. Rolling onto my side takes herculean effort. Somehow I manage.
I could easily and effortlessly give in to the desire to allow myself to sink back to sleep, although the bright morning light that filters in through the curtains making a zig-zag pattern next to me on the floor seems to beckon me toward the day. The warmth of the light sharpens my recollections, for a moment dulling the painful stiffness in my body.
I can’t seem to erase the scene from my mind. My wife standing over me with a baseball bat, bringing it down, again and again.
I’m lying in the half-light, mentally wringing my hands, imagining all the things I could have done differently to avoid my present predicament, when the aroma hits me strong. It’s not just the scent of blood, which is particularly pungent, but of something more pleasing. Something that makes my stomach clench and release several times over. Bacon.
It takes far longer than I think it will, but eventually I am able to army crawl my way over to the bed and pull myself to a kneeling position. From there I am able to hoist myself halfway onto the bed. My eyes are nearly fused shut, whether merely swollen or caked with blood, or both, I can’t yet tell.
Blood is matted in my hair. There’s a thick layer, dry and hardened, like hairspray, glued to my scalp. A six inch gash runs along the top of my skull. To the tips of my fingers, it feels wide enough to require staples.
With monumental effort, I make my way up to a standing position. My foot seizes up, nearly causing my knees to buckle. It’s still sore from the knife wound, back when I thought our last incident was as bad as it could get. Although it’s healing, it’s tender. But at least I can hobble around halfway decently. Assessing my injuries with minimal visibility, I can feel that my left wrist is swollen about twice its normal size and—fuck, is that a bone poking out?
Instinct tells me to find Eve; logic tells me to fix my vision first. It takes an age to limp from the bed to the en suite bathroom, and another age still to wet a washcloth and carefully wipe the dried blood from my eyes. I peel it out of my eyelashes like dried paint.
The reflection staring back at me in the mirror is unrecognizable. My face is swollen, my nose clearly broken, and there’s a bright red ring around my neck where the cord dug into my flesh. Although I suppose it could be worse. I could be dead.
Downstairs there’s music playing, and over it, I hear a fair amount of rustling around in the kitchen. I’m terrified of what I will find, but whatever it is, at least I have confirmation that Eve is alive. The rest I will deal with once I get her locked in her room.
