Repressed Page 30

  Maybe she’d stopped giving a fuck too.

  Petrosky waited for her to say something else, but she turned back to Evie and offered her another bite of eggs.

  Morrison approached with two stainless steel coffee mugs and handed one to Petrosky. “What the hell is this?” Petrosky said, frowning at the garish blue peace sign on his mug.

  “Present.” Morrison smiled.

  “Liar. You just wanted a new mug and were afraid your wife would say no.” He cast a sidelong glance at Shannon who raised an eyebrow and went back to feeding Evie. “Give me the other one, Surfer Boy. Then we can swing by the donut shop and get a few crullers.”

  Morrison exchanged cups with him. “You sure you need all that sugar, Boss?”

  Speaking of not giving a fuck … “Damn sissy beach boys and their peace signs and their kale.”

  “If we go, maybe we can bring some to Roger.”

  That asshole. He had come in handy even if he was a lying sack of shit. Even if he’d just done it for the headlines that came out right afterward: Lead Prosecutor Rescues Ex-Wife from Homicidal Kidnapper. No mention of the fire. And before the press got wind of Morrison’s role, coercion and duress had cleared Morrison as well, though it had been touch and go for a few weeks: he’d found Michael Hayes dead in his home, suicide by pills according to the ME, probably guilt over Acosta’s death. But filleting the tattoos from his dead body to purposefully mislead police was something the taxpayers would have been pissed about—it would have been a public relations disaster. In the end, Morrison had walked away with five thousand dollars in fines and some restitution to Roger. Insurance had rebuilt the house. And the extenuating circumstances were enough to keep Morrison out of jail, off probation, and still on the force.

  Roger had applauded Morrison publicly for finding Shannon, which, for Roger, must have fucking hurt. But it was surely worth it—all the critical information Morrison had on Roger, everything in the safe deposit box, was gone along with his dining room table and the last of Roger’s goddamn dignity. Fucking shmuck. Maybe he’d stay on the up and up. If he didn’t, Petrosky had no intention of giving him another chance, regardless of his partner’s opinion.

  Morrison was still looking at him expectantly.

  “Fine, goddammit, we can bring some breakfast to your new best buddy.”

  “Not exactly best,”—Morrison winked—“but I figured we’d butter him up before Shannon goes back next week.”

  Petrosky gaped at her.

  She smiled. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Petrosky.”

  “I thought you were going to wait an extra month or so.”

  “I thought so too, but even McCallum says I’m doing awesome. I think I’m ready.” She drew her shoulders up, proud maybe, or maybe trying to seem stronger than she felt. “And Lillian, Valentine’s wife, is going to take Evie during the day to play with her little one. Starting tomorrow, actually. Get her adjusted before I really have to leave.”

  “Is he going with you?” Petrosky gestured to the dog.

  “I’ll have Ozzy with me, and Floyd and Prince will be at Valentine’s. At my husband’s insistence.” Shannon rolled her eyes but she was still smiling. “Don’t look so worried. You’re as bad as Morrison.”

  Morrison shrugged one shoulder. “I thought she’d wait longer too. But you know … prosecutors.”

  “Fucking lawyers,” Petrosky agreed.

  “Evie’s going to be talking soon,” Shannon said. “Watch your mouth.”

  Morrison was gazing at his wife with that adoration thing he did. Shannon ate that shit up; and she looked at Morrison the same way. He was glad for them, he really was. Or as glad as he was capable of being.

  His ankle itched again, reminding him that the bliss never lasted long enough. And every morning, awakening felt worse than it had the day before—more desperate. The world was tightening around him like a tourniquet.

  “Lawyer or no, there’s no stopping Shanny when she gets something in her head,” Morrison said.

  “Women, am I right? Always doing crazy shit … stuff,” he amended when he saw Shannon’s raised eyebrows. Petrosky headed for the door.

  “Screw you, Petrosky,” Shannon called as Petrosky touched the knob.

  Screw him indeed.

  “This story is told through the eyes of a madman,

  who, like all of us, believed he was sane.”

  ~Edgar Allan Poe, The Tell-Tale Heart

  Epilogue

  The last stone brick went in more easily than the one before, as if each new support was begging to be a part of something great. And great it would be, now that he was free of Janice—of her restraints—though he’d been too cowardly to take care of her himself. He’d left that to the police. They might still be looking for him, but they’d not find him here. Happy, happy, happy.

  He adjusted the fiber optic camera behind the brick and applied mortar to the last section of wall. He was tired of being afraid. He was also tired of being invisible, but he wouldn't be for much longer—at least, not to his number one girl.

  He’d paid his dues, lying low under the radar, mopping up the puke of degenerates. He was capable of more. He deserved more. And now he knew how to get it.

  The mortar complete, he dropped the trowel and turned to the back wall of the room, a checkerboard of heavy iron bars from floor to ceiling, and shackles practically begging to be filled. He inhaled the steely scent deep into his lungs. None of that plastic zip-tie bullshit: this equipment was harsh, substantial, from back when they used to make things that lasted. Before people had the luxury of escape. Shannon had stolen from him, gotten out using his own needle, but he’d have no more surprises, not here. He’d watch every movement. The house upstairs held enough food for months, if not years.

  In the corner of the room, the dress waited, satin of a vibrant red, the color of wealth and status. A belt of gold ovals circled its waist. Every stitch of cotton puckered ever so slightly, bringing with it the memories of the night he’d sewn it. It was all his. He’d built this. He’d built her.

  And she would be perfect.

  He approached, his breath quickening as each stitch came into clearer focus. He glanced at the tools in the corner, but did not reach for any, though he was tempted by the billhook, a gleaming machete-like tool that boasted a curved blade along one side and an evil-looking hook at the top.

  Later.

  He traced his finger down her cheek, and the plastic of the mannequin caught ever so slightly. Dry. Not like skin, especially once it bore the blush of amour, the inevitable sheen of excited sweat. He ran a hand over the waist of the gown, the gathered petticoat. He could almost feel the promise of her flesh.

  But it wasn’t time yet. She wasn't ready, didn’t deserve to wear it. The girl still looked at him with blazing hatred in her eyes, a defiant rage that made his breath catch, his heart race. He deserved better. The men of their world deserved better. And if the women would not acquiesce, he’d bring them back to a time before they had a choice. When real men made the decisions.

  I’m a real man.

  He walked back to the iron cage and stopped just before the bars, where a large dog crate sat waiting. He bent and peered inside.

  She was on all fours, her hair damp with sweat and oil—limp and disgusting. But it was red like Janice’s—the color of power, of wealth—and glowing, like the girl’s eyes. She glared at him, and her cheeks flushed like she was ovulating, making his stomach drop and squeeze until he feared he might vomit. His jaw prickled with that old, familiar itch and he resisted the urge to run for his needles and release the pressure by gouging the infernal boil. Too many, and he’d look like the savage he was. He wanted that to be a surprise.

  Perhaps he’d grab the billhook after all. Nothing was too good for his number one girl.

  But no … it was not time yet. Impatience was for weaker men, and though Michael had been weak, he had shown Adam how to bide his time. A gift here. A kind word there. Not that
Michael hadn’t made mistakes: he was so kind, so diminutive that the Acosta boy hadn’t even remembered where he knew him from. But done right, you could draw a woman closer, closer, and they’d never suspect—they’d follow you wherever you went. He could be as patient as Janice, that fucking cunt. The reward would be that much greater.

  He glanced at the stone wall. Patience. She’d give him what he was owed.

  Near the stairs, it hung on a hook, the death mask, nose long and thin to protect him from her stench—pheromones could make a man insane, and he feared that heady stink as much as he feared the accusatory gleam in their eyes. Did they think they had the right to accuse him? If so, the mask would make them reconsider. The leather was thick and heavy and still smelled of the souls of the creatures it had been. One corner of the mask called to him, a tear he’d intended to fix. He wiped his hands on his pants and chose a shimmering needle from the kit, then ran his middle finger along each spool of thread. Ahh, the taupe was the one for the job: the hue would stand out nicely against the leather. His heart fluttered as he threaded. Perfection.

  He shoved the needle into the corner of the fabric. It stuck. He pushed harder, feeling the stirring in his belly as he forced it, and when it gave, he sighed the needle through, watching the puncture deepen, the hole form. Like the boy. He’d felt the pierce of the spike, the initial resistance, then the give—and it might as well have been his own body entering the child. It had been the same with the woman. He’d taken the spike right off his boot for that one.

  He plunged the needle into the mask again, and his dick got hard. He could almost feel the sword he’d tattooed there swelling, sharpening. He considered fucking the girl in the crate to teach her a lesson, but he didn’t really feel like it. Sex was boring without blood. He glanced at the gown in the corner again, but went back to the needle, relishing the sharpness of it. Seamstress was synonymous with sissy, but the entire occupation was slashing and violence and stabbing. Was there anything more manly?

  The tear was repaired in five stitches, and he carefully knotted the thread and replaced his tools. Then he lowered the mask over his face.

  Much had changed since medieval times, but he could almost feel the ghosts still there, imprinted on the material of the mask, every soul sucked from a body via a too-thorough bloodletting, from plague, from childbirth, from injuries still ripe with complications and the promise of certain death should infection set in. He wished he’d been there to witness medieval life in all its glory. Sometimes he missed those days like he might miss a severed limb.

  He bent to the cage again, seeking her face, and her eyes widened with fear and excitement and longing. The beaked doctor’s mask was a symbol of status, and she surely knew it. Or perhaps she could feel how close she was to those who’d gone before, their souls almost touching her through the metal tip of the mask’s nose, still stained with Shannon’s blood. Maybe she was excited by the jester, superimposed over beak and hide, grinning at her with its fanged mouth. Hidden beneath the mask, he smiled.

  Happy, happy, happy.

  Your next book is waiting! CLICK HERE to sign up for the newsletter to get information on new releases. No spam, and you can opt out anytime.

  Read on for a sneak peek at Hidden, the next book in the Ash Park Series.

  Sneak Peek at Hidden

  An Ash Park Novel

  He’s back.

  Detective Edward Petrosky has always felt the pain of the world like a razor blade in his gut, even more so when he considers the killers who have escaped conviction. But he can’t let that stop him, not after a grandmother is found murdered on her front lawn, the victim of some machete-wielding psycho.

  The case is strange from the outset: no one heard a thing despite the public nature of the crime. An unknown child’s footprints cover the property without a trace of the kid. And a grisly discovery in the basement has the entire police force stunned. Nothing makes sense. Whatever secrets their victim had, she’d taken them, quietly, to her grave.

  But when another woman’s corpse turns up with a familiar brand on her rib cage, Petrosky realizes the horrible truth: a killer he’d thought was long gone from Ash Park has remained, lurking in their midst. And who knows how many victims this butcher has collected? For those he’s kidnapped, any day might be their last, imprisoned, unseen, with only their screams and a deranged lunatic for company.

  Now Petrosky must risk everything he holds sacred to track the most sadistic killer Ash Park has ever seen, a man whose thirst for carnage extends far beyond mere bloodletting. But saving innocent lives will require an unbearable sacrifice.

  One from which he may never recover.

  GET HIDDEN HERE

  OTHER WORKS BY BESTSELLING AUTHOR MEGHAN O’FLYNN

  The Ask Park Series:

  Famished

  Conviction

  Repressed

  Hidden

  Redemption

  “Alien Landscape: A Short Story”

  “Crimson Snow: A Short Story”

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  About the Author

  Meghan O’Flynn is the bestselling author of the Ash Park Series, which includes Famished, Conviction, Repressed, Hidden, and Redemption. She has also penned a number of short stories including “Crimson Snow” and “Alien Landscape.” Her husband still hasn’t decided to sleep with the lights on, so he’s either very brave or very silly, her children remain unimpressed with her practical jokes, and her dog hasn’t stopped side-eying her since she hid all the dog treats. There shall be mutiny before the year is out. You can find out more about that on her Facebook page.

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