Blake had moved to the far end of the room. He seemed to know the three of us needed a moment to be with one another.
“You take it, Blake,” G urged him.
“Well, ah, Spencer got the notes from the author for the next book,” Blake said as I felt my world tilt. “Sounds like he wants her to write her, ah…” he stumbled, “parents’ murder.”
I felt Lisa flinch and her body tense. “What? How-how is that possible?”
I dried my eyes on my sleeve and took a deep breath. “Remember how Mom used to always use rosemary in her diffuser? She loved that scent. She said it always made her guests wonder what she had in the oven, even if she wasn’t really cooking.”
“Yes.” She eyed G.
“The author knows about the rosemary. He even told me to mention it when I write about the murders.”
“What?” Her eyes fluttered as she tried to follow. “Are you saying this person, this author you are working for, killed Molly and Philip?”
“Looks that way,” G finally added.
“And I think he wants me to relive it, by writing their murder.”
“Oh, my God.” She covered her mouth and stared at me. I knew that look; it was pure horror. “You can’t. I mean, you can’t, Spencer. That’s just…no!”
I closed my eyes and tried to focus.
“Well…” Blake’s tone made us all turn and look at him. He held up his hands in defense. “I don’t mean to be callous, but he did mention there was another victim. If Spencer doesn’t get those chapters written, we may never be able to save who is next to die.”
Christ!
“No! Spencer has been through enough. We’ve been through enough! We don’t need to relive that horrible event just so some sick man can live his twisted life.” Lisa was furious.
All the faces of the victims flashed in front of me. All five stared lifelessly up at the sky with their horrible secrets buried as deep in their souls as they were in the ground. I was their only hope. I was all they had left in their search for justice.
“I have to do it,” I whispered at the realization, and everyone turned to look at me. “What was this all for if I give up now?”
“No, Spencer, you don’t have to. Have someone else do it.”
“She can’t.” G’s eyes found mine with the same decision written in their depth. “She writes in a unique way. If someone else writes it, he will know.”
I gave a nod and noticed Blake was quiet. He knew we were right. He was just waiting for us to see it.
“G, this is—”
“I know,” he cut her off and pulled her into a hug. “I know.”
I turned to leave, but Blake blocked my path. “Where are you going?”
“I need to do it now and get it over with.”
He nodded, and I hurried out the door, sidestepping around the custodian on my way across to the conference room.
I swung open the door. I was on a mission. “I’m not trying to be a dick, here, but everyone out.”
To my surprise, everyone listened, and once I was alone, I vomited into the wastebasket.
This might be my hell to write, but I was certainly going to dictate how much of a loser this guy was while I did it.
I was laser focused and kept my heart out of it.
It was a story, just a story.
My fingers were a blur on the keyboard. The sun moved across the room, and then the streetlights below took over. No one came in, no one knocked, and no one tried to text me. Fresh Blood by Eels was on repeat as I worked.
I wrote as I’d felt at that time, as if I was there in the room, unable to help. I was poor Bentley, hidden under a chair, unsure what was happening and why. My heart poured into every word, tears flowed and blurred my vision, and I felt the urge to empty my stomach, but I fought on because that was my moment to say a big, written FU to that son-of-a-bitch.
I wrote that my father fought him. I wrote that my mother crashed a glass bowl over his head, nearly knocking him unconscious. I wrote about their strength and their desire to live, but no matter how many heroic moments I created for them, the outcome would always be the same. I tried to avoid the end of the scene, but it couldn’t be put off. I was at an impasse. I reread the last few paragraphs.
I did not include my brother in the story. Maybe it was because the author never mentioned him, or maybe it was because he wasn’t worth mentioning, but either way, he did not make it in the story.
How and why were the two words that had haunted me in real life, and now those same words haunted my fictional life. My safe place, my happy place was now tainted.
I thought I couldn’t hate anyone in this world as much as I did Will, but I was sadly mistaken.
“Damn,” I muttered as I again found my words and wrote the last few lines that ended the scene.
Life is a fragile vase. Though nicks and chips may mar the glaze, the beauty is still there to see. When the vase is shattered and the beauty gone, the memory of it will remain in the hearts of those who were lucky enough to have treasured it. It was here we drew our final breath. He might think he has won, but someday, someone will trip him up, and he will pay for the lives he has broken.
I hit save and dropped the first forty-thousand-word document into the chat. I refused to check it over to even attempt an edit. He wanted to rock my foundation, and it worked. He would only get the bare bones of the story, and he could do what he wanted with it.
GW: See attachment.
I waited to see him log in. The hand on the clock ticked around until I finally heard the door chime.
A: That was fast.
GW: What’s next?
I knew I was supposed to alert the others whenever we spoke, but, frankly, I was too raw inside to see their faces and answer their questions.
A: I’m still working on the next set of notes. I’ll be in touch.
A has logged off.
I slammed my computer shut and hopped up. The blood coursed through my veins, and my vision went spotty. I circled my fingers over the back of the chair, and before I knew what I had done, the chair flew into the window and bounced off to overturn on the floor.
Three little beeps echoed throughout the room, and Jackson poked his head in to see what had happened.
“You okay?”
“No!” I kicked the table. “Not even the tiniest bit okay. I’m not even sure what okay means anymore.”
“Ahh,” he signaled for someone before he stepped inside the room, “Get Blake,” he ordered before he stepped farther inside the room. “You want to talk about it?”
“Nope.” I circled the room. Part of me wanted to be in a small, safe space, yet I desperately wanted to get outside to yell and scream. “How do you curb this feeling?” I asked him.
“What feeling?”
“Can I hold it?”
“Hold what?” He looked confused at the swift change in topic.
I licked my dry lips and stared at him as Blake came into the room.
“Have you ever felt so disconnected from your body you aren’t sure how to get back to it?” Jackson didn’t speak, just listened. “I have no control over anything.” My hands shook as I held them up. “Please,” tears threatened again, “please just let me have one moment of feeling like I’m here,” I pointed to my chest, “and in control.”