CHAPTER 1
Friday, October 14, 2016
Catherine always believed that her soul was weightless. It was a thing made of thoughts, and feelings, and beliefs—all bodiless, as light as sunshine. But the soul also contained a person’s secrets. And those turned heavier every day.
If she could carry the weight on her back, perhaps she could go on as usual. She imagined a sturdy backpack, like her uncle used to have, with buckles and padded shoulder straps. She’d put all of her secrets there and adjust the hip belt, spreading the weight uniformly.
Instead, her secrets chose where they lay. They’d settle around her neck one day, dragging her down, making her neck stoop. The next morning they’d crawl into her gut, and she’d constantly bend over with cramps, running to the bathroom every hour. Right now, the secrets lurked in her heart, squeezing it, until it felt like it would shatter, or simply stop.
She’d called in sick that morning, third time that week. Her dad was getting worried, and she circumvented his questions by mentioning “lady problems.” It was now late in the evening, and she sat in her living room. The television screen flickering in front of her as she tried to cry.
Her tears had forgotten their way out. They constantly filled her throat, making her voice brittle and whiny, but they hadn’t emerged in days. If she only managed to cry, it would be a release. Perhaps the weight of the secrets would become bearable. Her eyes remained dry. Her lips quivered, and that only made her feel childish and stupid.
Secrets were sticky. They could clog your tear ducts if you weren’t careful.
She toyed with her phone, as she had many times in the past weeks, opening her contact list, her dad the first one in her favorites. Appropriate, since he was her favorite. Her favorite parent, her favorite human, her favorite thing in the whole world. She could tell him the truth. The weight in her heart would dissipate into nothing. Her finger wavered over the screen. For a second she could almost feel the anticipated relief.
And then the images came. His hurt face. He wasn’t a young man anymore. He’d had a heart attack last year, which the doctors called a “near thing.” What would this do to him?
The imaginary relief morphed into thorny fear and guilt. She couldn’t.
She let out a raw, feral sob. Dry as dust, no tears.
A sudden knock on the door made her heart skip a beat. For a second she couldn’t fathom who it could possibly be. It was very late. Her friends or neighbors would text her before showing up on her doorstep, especially at this hour. Then she knew. It was her father. He was worried about her, wanted to see how she was doing.
He’d take one look at her face and know something serious was wrong. That if these were “lady problems,” they weren’t the kind that happened on a monthly basis. Would she be able to lie to him when he asked her? Not right now. Not this evening. She’d have to tell him everything.
Relief, fear, and guilt flooded her at once as she got up, stumbling to the door. She took a quick glance through the peephole.
“Oh,” she said in surprise. She knew this man, but he wasn’t her father.
She reached for the dead bolt, more out of confusion than intent, her mind foggy after a long day. As she did it, she felt the sudden wrongness. Her thoughts, scrambling in panic, tried to order her fingers to stop, that this door should remain shut. This man shouldn’t be here at all. And something shimmered in his eyes. Something dangerous and unstable.
But there was a moment of disconnect between her brain and her body. As if in slow motion, she turned the dead bolt knob, unlocking the door.
It shoved open, slamming into her face, a sudden blinding pain. She fell back to the floor, the entire right side of her face throbbing, her vision foggy. Tears sprang into her eyes, finally finding their way out. She tried to scream, to speak.
A hand clamped on her face, blocking her nose and mouth. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t make a sound. She struggled, and he hit her.
The world went blissfully dark.
Her eyelids fluttered open. Her mouth felt strange, woolly, and it took her a moment to realize something was stuffed in it. She lifted her hand to pull it out.
“Don’t.”
The command froze her.
“I need that there. I can’t have you screaming.”
Her eyes focused on the familiar face, and she blinked, beseeching him mutely to let her go.
“This will only take a few moments,” he said, sounding almost apologetic. He held something. A needle.
He pulled her right hand toward him and raised the needle, about to stick her. She let out a muffled scream, tried to pull her hand away. She was weak, and his grip was strong enough to hurt, but the sudden jerk surprised him, and he missed his mark. She gasped as the needle plunged into her arm.
“Look what you made me do!” he snarled, angry, and she saw that gleam in his eyes again. His grip tightened on her wrist, hurting her, and he stuck the needle again. She tried to claw at his face with her other hand, and he slapped her.
“I can’t hit your vein like that,” he muttered. The needle went in again. He shook his head and mumbled to himself, frustrated.
She wrenched her hand away, a blinding pain flaring through her arm as the needle twisted. Blood seeped from the ragged hole in her arm. She felt dizzy, thought she was about to faint.
“Damn it!” He tossed the needle away in fury, and it clattered in the corner of the room. He looked at her, gritting his teeth in anger. Then he glanced down at her bleeding arm. His eyes widened. His throat constricted as he swallowed.
He lowered his head to her arm and, to her revulsion, licked the blood. The rough feeling of his tongue on her skin made her squirm in disgust and horror. She tried to pull away, but he held her arm tight, making a strange sound. A snarl.
His lips tightened on her skin, and he began to slurp. She stared mutely as he sucked blood from her torn skin. He finally pulled back, a trickle of blood running down his chin.
“I had to.” His face twisted in shame. “I’m sorry.”
The world faded again.
When she came back to her senses, he was gone. A strange keening noise echoed somewhere nearby. Crying? Yes. It was him. He was still in her home, and he was crying.
The police. She had to call the police. She tried to force herself to move, to get up, but her limbs wouldn’t obey her. Blood seeped from her arm, dripping to the floor.
Finally she managed to budge. To pull the gag from her mouth. She was about to rise when a noise behind her made her freeze.
And then a fabric tightened around her throat, choking her. She clawed at it, couldn’t get a grip on the noose, her mouth opening wide as she tried to scream. No sound. No breath. Spots danced in her eyes as her vision clouded.
A low chuckle, full of malice, and a growling voice whispered in her ear. “Now for the fun part.”
CHAPTER 2
Saturday, October 15, 2016
Detective Holly O’Donnell stood in the hall and watched as the medical staff gently placed Catherine Lamb’s body on the stretcher. The body had been zipped in a body bag, out of sight. But the image was seared in her mind. The strands of matted hair, glued to the victim’s cheek with dried blood. The bruises on the skin, contrasting with the paleness of death. The torn clothes, Catherine’s final unavoidable indignity. Sometimes, O’Donnell could summon a barrier of professional aloofness. Not today.