Repressed Read online

  Made him feel strong.

  35

  They hadn’t come back, not once since they snapped her photo. Karen smiling over the smartphone screen, the beaked man—gone. Evie, gone. And Shannon felt herself creeping ever more quickly toward the brink of madness.

  She could not hear her baby. She could not feel her baby. But she could feel. God, how she wished she couldn’t.

  Her lips throbbed, hot and painful with every beat of her heart, each pulse bringing with it the sweet, putrid stink of coming infection—though that might have been her imagination. Her legs were rigid with the strain of holding herself upright, frozen brittle with terror, and her arms ached from fruitlessly picking at the lock. For hours, maybe days, she had tried to free herself from the evil contraption on her neck, bloodying her shirt still more every time she shifted to pick at the lock from another angle.

  The needle dug violently into her palm now, but she was unable to loosen her grip, as if the sharp prick of pain would tether her to the closet, to this world—a lifeline, capable of keeping her awake and vertical. But so far, the needle hadn't helped her escape. And there was no way to hang from the collar unless she wanted to slit her own throat or strangle to death. No chance for reprieve even for a moment.

  It would be so easy to take a step forward, neck against the blades and just be done. Who knew what other atrocities they were capable of? Morrison should have been here by now, but they wouldn’t keep her alive unless they knew they wouldn’t be found. She was on her own. And whatever they had planned—it would surely be worse than death.

  The air hissed through her nostrils, but it hitched occasionally as if trying to tell her to stop breathing, to just let go. The blackness in front of her eyes called to her, the quiet void of eternity, and she envisioned herself walking toward it, a sharp pang in the throat, warm, soft wetness, and then—

  The sour reek of milk from her shirt called her back. Her daughter needed her. Evie could not escape without her. She gripped the needle still harder, the metal digging into the meat of her palm, and gritted her teeth against the scream that desperately wanted to escape her sutured lips. Evie. She imagined her daughter’s face, her legs, her smile. Her tiny feet, barely kicking. Barely moving.

  Shannon raised her aching arms and jammed the needle into the lock.

  36

  The house was colder than it had been yesterday. Damper too. Morrison’s cheeks were wet, though he wasn’t entirely convinced they were his cheeks and not someone else’s. His eyes watered feverishly. Aggression? Sadness? Madness. It was irrelevant. Nothing mattered, nothing but this.

  He walked into the living room and opened a window. The screen was tight, but not stuck, and he removed it and set it on the floor. The couch Roger had sat on yesterday seemed smaller, or perhaps everything else just loomed larger now, as if his world had shrunk with Evie’s desperate wail. She isn’t dead yet, she isn’t dead. Morrison’s ear was bruised and sore after that last call from Janey, from pressing the device so tight against his face that he feared he’d break it.

  The photos on the mantle belonged to another life, another world—Shannon and Roger, both smiling with un-sutured lips and very much alive. Beside the photo, an angel holding the scales of justice. The one from Roger’s office? Had he taken it home from work and stuck it there, or did he have one in every room, holding court over every place he was? Roger had probably always seen himself that way—not simply a purveyor of justice, but justice itself. But justice was dead. The deer above the mantle glared.

  Morrison picked up the statue, leaving streaks of blood across the figurine’s white marble skirt, marring the mantel, too, with gore. He walked the statue to the body and dropped it. It rolled from chest to arm to floor, clicking dully as it caught the button on Roger’s shirt. Justice was rarely clean, but the once pristine statue settling among the carnage—that was the last thing he wanted to see here tonight, as if Lady Justice herself was admonishing him, condemning him for what he’d done, for the butchery. Not that it mattered.

  He’d done it for Shannon. For Evie. And now he would find them.

  He started at the back of the house with the gas can, fuel spreading in heady, oily snakes over tile, carpet, wood. The fumes turned his stomach, made him dizzy, but no more than anything else he’d seen and done that evening. He gagged. But the dizziness, the nausea, the burning in his gut, all of it belonged to someone else.

  He could almost pretend that he wasn't really here. He could almost pretend that the deep crimson shimmering on his hands was just paint.

  But it wasn’t.

  In the kitchen he emptied the gasoline over boots, jeans, a button-down shirt. Roger’s cufflinks glinted accusingly from the floor, just outside those dead wrists, but Morrison didn’t look, just spilled, splashing the fuel over the floor, over the body, and onto the towel he’d used to conceal the man’s face. For though Morrison was desperate, he could not bring himself to stare into those eyes—swollen and wide and dead. Just like Danny.

  He turned his back on the body and placed the gas can on the floor of the kitchen by the back door. Then he grabbed the files from the deposit box and set the packet on the floor beside the blood-soaked towels, pouring gasoline over all of it, watching as the papers absorbed it like they were thirsty enough to chug the poison, knowing it would be their end. A few renegade drops of fuel flitted through the air and struck the cabinets, streaking the cupboard doors. Leaving the finish in ruin. He tossed the empty can to the floor and walked out back.

  The glass bottle was where he’d left it, filled with fuel, a rag protruding from its neck. Morrison lit it, waited a moment for it to catch, and then hurled it through the open window as he backed away down the walkway to the side yard and into the trees. He was parked one block over, well behind the lake where no one would see him.

  Not loud, a subtle clank, a whoosh, a crackle. Soon it would roar, but he’d be gone before then. Shannon. Evie. I’m coming, baby.

  Sometimes justice was nearly silent. Morrison took off across the yard, choking on unshed tears.

  37

  “It’s done. What’s the next step?”

  He sat on the floor in his bedroom, guitar at his side, absently plucking at a single string. Waiting for them to call.

  He texted again:

  “Can I come to get them now?”

  Nothing.

  He tried calling next, but no one answered. Shannon’s voicemail greeting made tears prick in his eyes. Janey wanted to tell him where Shannon was, didn’t she? But the phone stayed silent, save for Decantor’s calls, probably about brainstorming the case. He let them roll over to voicemail.

  Janey had said to take care of Roger if he wanted his family back. But it had been hours now. He was no longer confident that she’d tell him where to find them, or whether she’d text him with other instructions. And was there anything at this point that he wouldn’t do? He was already in too deep—whether he got his family back or not, he was in a lot of trouble. But Shannon and Evie were all that mattered. If he couldn’t get them back safe, what happened to him was irrelevant.

  The drug called to him now like a song in his heart. She’d said that once he knew who she was, he’d know where to find her, but all he knew was that she had cared about Danny. That she blamed him for Danny’s death. He’d gone back to the hospital, in case, but no one recognized her photo. And Janey Krantz didn’t come up in any birth certificate searches—she wasn’t Danny’s sister, and there were no other family members with that name. Had Janey always hidden her real name? Must have. But how? Why? She’d been a kid then. If she was adopted, her records might be sealed, but …

  Janey had his family and she was trying to punish him. And he couldn’t even fucking remember her, other than a vague scratching in the back of his brain, an answer just out of reach. If only he could recall—

  You can’t get your family if you’re all fucked up.

  But the whisper of sweet relief had swelled to a dull roa
r, and every word had teeth, gripping him and pulling him in. He needed her name. Needed to know who she was. And if it helped him remember …

  He had the remnants of the baggie, still had the syringe Petrosky had used. Sweat popped out on his forehead, and slices of memory teased at the edges of his consciousness. He leaned his head back against the bed. You can do this. Remember her. And if you can’t, if it doesn’t help, you can go back out and keep investigating.

  He’d been sitting on the bed in Danny’s bedroom. There was an ant farm on the end table. A few schoolbooks.

  And they weren’t alone. There were other voices, girls.

  My turn!

  No, I’m next.

  Two meaningless lines, innocuous and on a continuous loop as if someone had broken a DVD and sent it spinning over this same swatch of memory again and again and again. But no new information, no images of family or friends or lovers. Where had Danny met them? Had he said?

  One little prick of the needle.

  He was rationalizing. Trying to find a reason why using would make sense.

  And those reasons did exist, though he’d tried not to consider them. Tried and failed, oh so many times. State-dependent memory. Some people reported miraculous recoveries of memories long forgotten—once they were in the right state.

  But he feared the blanks in his memory were far too wide. And were the blackouts due to trauma or the drug? He’d tried once before to recall that night, hopped up on booze. It hadn’t been the same, though he hadn’t been in the same panicked state as he had been the night Danny died.

  He was plenty panicked now.

  Outside his window, the night thickened with darkness, his hope dwindling as dawn crept toward him, the phone utterly silent. He only had one syringe—not that Petrosky was diseased. Hell, it probably didn’t matter. What’s a little blood shared between friends? They were all one step from the grave anyway.

  Morrison’s cell rang. He jumped at it, but it wasn’t Shannon’s number. It was one he didn’t recognize.

  He put the phone to his ear without saying hello.

  “Need you over at Roger’s, Morrison.” Decantor. Borrowing someone else’s cell to call him. “There’s been an incident.”

  An incident. Not an accident.

  Yes. There had.

  The remains of Roger’s home glistened under the street lamps and spotlights, each beam catching water droplets left behind by the firemen. The front door, once so thick and imposing, had been reduced to a blistered, splintered pile on the porch, blackened with char and water. While the brick columns and window frames were still intact—strong and sturdy behind the soot—the windows themselves lay in shards on the ground surrounding the house, and the vacant openings left by their absence were like eyes, glaring at Morrison, judging him for what he’d done.

  He ducked under the remains of the entryway, ignoring the protests of the firefighters, and followed flashlights and voices into what was left of the kitchen, where the corpse was being loaded into a black body bag. A charred finger peeked out from between the teeth of the zipper, accusing him. Morrison wasn’t sure if he was sorry. He stared at the finger until the tech closed the bag and loaded it onto the gurney. The body moved with improbable lightness, and Morrison realized it was because the fat would have sizzled off in chunks and melted into the wood floor.

  “Definitely arson,” Decantor said. “Motive’s unclear, but it isn’t like Roger had no enemies.”

  “Was he dead before the fire?” Morrison asked even though he knew the answer.

  “Have to wait for the ME on that one.”

  Morrison toed the broken glass figurine and wondered how long he had before they figured out it was him. When he looked up, Decantor was eyeing him, an unlit cigarette perched between his lips. Since when did Decantor smoke?

  “I can let you know when they have forensics back on it,” Decantor said. “On him. Couple days. Hopefully there'll be a trace of whoever did this.”

  There probably would be. But according to Janey, he only had one more day. And if he failed, nothing else mattered anyway.

  Decantor was staring at him. Morrison nodded and turned to leave.

  “Wait—”

  Morrison’s back stiffened.

  “You get a hold of Shannon?”

  No. “Yeah.”

  Decantor cleared his throat. “I never heard back from her. To get her statement about Natalie Bell.” Decantor was scrutinizing him, and Morrison didn’t like the look in his eyes.

  “I’m sure she forgot,” he said carefully. “Vacation and all.” And her lips are sewn shut.

  “Right.” Decantor did not look convinced, just stared at Morrison as if the gaze could crack him … He’s suspicious.

  But Morrison was beyond that. He’d already cracked open, and the secret, brutal parts of himself had been unleashed. He glanced in the direction they’d taken the body bag.

  “If you hear from her—”

  “I’ll have her call you. Until then, let’s concentrate on Bell and Acosta. And now”—Morrison gestured to the charred remains around them—“this.”

  “Any progress on the case?” Decantor asked. “Missed you yesterday, I thought we were going to brainstorm. I called you a few times last night.”

  Yes, he had called. And Morrison had ignored him.

  “I went to bed early,” Morrison said. “I have a whole lot of nothing anyway.” He paused at the smile lighting up Decantor’s face. “Did you find something?”

  “I got a hit on one of the sketches—our rapist. Guy at the automotive plant said he works with him over there. And get this—there’s no record, but this guy from the plant said he heard a rumor that our suspect’s wife divorced him because she caught him abusing her daughter, his stepchild. Elementary school age. Sick fuck.”

  Michael Hayes. The Juggler. Morrison’s throat closed.

  “Want to take a ride over there?”

  He shook his head. He already knew what they’d find at the house. Morrison’s phone hung, heavy and silent, in his pocket. I did what the fuck you asked, why aren’t you calling me? He needed to think of a plan in case that call never came.

  Decantor leaned close, away from the techs bustling around on what remained of the floor. “Listen, I heard a rumor. About Petrosky.”

  Of course he had. “You don’t say.”

  “Hey man, what’s going on with you?” Decantor squinted, his brows furrowed. “You’re not … yourself.”

  None of them knew who he was. What he was.

  Neither did he.

  38

  Edward Petrosky started the day with a shivering in his muscles, rancid liquid in his bowels, and bile streaming from his nose.

  Fucking hell.

  He’d told them that he’d used. Told them he needed help. He didn’t—one use didn’t do jack except make you want more of it.

  And he did want more. There had been two blessed hours where he’d felt something other than the crushing despair which followed him every day like a shadow that had the ability to stab him in the fucking face. The heroin hadn’t made him happy; it had made him better than happy. It had detached him from the pain that’d been wrapped around his throat since Julie died.

  And the pain was back, especially now that they’d swiped his cigarettes. Since when was smoking forbidden in a rehab ward? If he wanted to kill himself slowly and perfectly legally that was his own fucking business. When he got out, he was going to haul one of these twatweasels up on charges just for fucking fun.

  The irritability was probably a side effect of withdrawal, but the pain in his chest was not. Walking Shannon down the aisle had been one of the happiest moments of his life since Julie was born and by far the best thing that had happened since Julie’s death. When he’d held Evie the day she was born, still pink and warm from Shannon’s body, he’d finally had a family again. And now that family was going to be taken away while he rotted inside this prison.

  He hauled himself to the bathr
oom and did his business, jaw clenched tight as his stomach lurched. Back by his bed, he drank the tepid piss they called coffee and nibbled a slice of dry toast. He never thought he’d miss Morrison’s granola, but holy fuck, did he ever. He’d keep that to himself once he got out of here.

  And he could walk out. Sign himself out AMA. But if the kidnappers—murderers—wanted him here, then they surely had someone on the inside monitoring him. Probably enjoying the shitshow. But all the diarrhea and irritability in the world weren’t going to keep him in his room while the day passed him by. Not while Shannon and Evie were in danger. Not while Morrison was in danger.

  The common room was already bustling with residents as Petrosky settled onto a threadbare couch, probably riddled with dust mites and years’ worth of imprints from other users’ asses. Against the wall was some skinny twerp, maybe a coke head, sitting next to an overweight dude who was probably here as a function of probation, his cocky gaze showing everyone he didn’t need no fucking help, though he was probably the one who’d end up needing it most in the end. It was always the ones who went down slow who seemed to forget that life existed somewhere else.

  All the shuffling addicts were trapped there together, yet no one spoke. Three men in the corner stood close enough to strike up a conversation, but each merely stared in a different direction like some wholly depressing Renaissance painting. And none of them so much as glanced his way. If one of these guys was the informant, they’d at least have been interested in Petrosky’s presence—after all it was their fault he was here. Without his fucking cigarettes. He swallowed bile and headed to the nurses’ station.

  The on-duty nurse was young and pretty, with teeth that stood out brilliant white against her skin. But the bags under her eyes revealed her exhaustion. Watching people destroy themselves all goddamn day wasn’t easy.