

GO HOME, AFTON

Copyright © 2018 Brent Jones

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for the purposes of review) without the prior permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Visit the author's website at AuthorBrentJones.com.

Edited by Sarah Burton:

anavidreader.com

Cover design by Humble Nations:

goonwrite.com

ISBN (EPUB): 9781370497867

ASIN (MOBI): B07CBRX77Q

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Book 2: See You Soon, Afton

About the Author

Also by the Author

To Mackenzie . . . thanks for the inspiration.

Acknowledgments

A lot of people had a hand, both big and small, in creating Afton Morrison.

After watching a rerun of Forensic Files—rest in peace, Peter Thomas—I got the idea to write a serial novel about a vigilante murderess, who's just arrogant enough to think she can kill a man in cold blood without getting caught. The question was, who in a small town would be the last person suspected of committing a violent crime? A children's librarian, that's who.

It's with that sentiment in mind that I want to thank Karissa Fast at Fort Erie Public Library. Karissa gave me a detailed tour of her office and allowed me to shadow her on the job. And, alongside library technician Laura Rudynski, Karissa spent hours answering pages worth of questions I had about her role as a children's librarian. I learned a bundle, including just how much she loves kids and her job.

It is also to Karissa's credit that, through helping out with a workshop for young writers, I met an eleven-year-old girl named Mackenzie. After sharing some of her fiction, Mackenzie presented me with a gift—a sketch of a human eyeball in pencil, intended to inspire a future book I might write. Yes, Mackenzie, it worked. And when your parents think you're old enough, I hope you'll consider reading Go Home, Afton.

The first iteration of Afton Morrison, however, didn't impress some beta readers. I want to thank Nicole Campbell, Suzanna Linton, and Cat Skinner for giving me a dose of hard truth. Your feedback helped me to create a heroine—albeit a flawed and unlikely heroine—that readers could root for.

Sarah Burton, who edited this series, as well as several short stories of mine, provided tremendous insight and research. She went above the call of duty to ensure that the manuscripts we worked on together not only read as one coherent serial novel, but that the characters were as strong as the plot was compelling.

To all who received and reviewed an advance reading copy, you have my gratitude. Without initial readers and reviewers to spread the word, finding an audience can be an exhausting uphill battle. You are the unsung heroes behind every successful fictional release.

I want to thank my mom and dad for not only taking an interest in my writing from a young age, but offering me encouragement in endless supply. It means the world to have you believe in me.

And last but not least, my wife, Andréa, deserves to be recognized. Oh, sure, I could go on about how she, in fact, is always my first beta reader, not to mention my most outspoken fan. I could highlight how she, without complaint, took over running our home-based business, so that I could write fiction full-time. I could even describe how she sits, for hours on end, listening to me talk through ideas for stories. And while all of those points are both valid and admirable, I'd rather just say this: I love you, Andréa. Forever and always.

Chapter 1

He chose that same damn bar stool every night, ordering one tall glass after another of what looked like horse piss. Colt 45, probably, or whatever it is small-town lowlifes like to drink. I watched from my car, slouched in the driver's seat and buried in shadows. The dim interior of The Corridor was visible through a bay window facing the sidewalk, its amber glow contrasting against the night. It was hot out, still and muggy, and the air inside the car was beginning to turn stale and moist.

He kept his head down, staring a hole through his empty glass, looking up only as the bartender approached. She was a girl about my age, but unlike me, she had silky hair streaked with highlights, sensual curves, and bronze skin. Becca was her name, I think, although I couldn't be certain. She had just moved to Wakefield from Portsmouth, according to local gossip, and she had no idea how dangerous this man was.

He handed his empty glass to Becca, and I could tell he had ordered another pint. And as she took it, his fingers lingered around hers for a little too long. It was a gesture she seemed to dismiss as harmless flirting, but I knew better.

His name was Kenneth Pritchard. He was forty-four, a construction worker, and a reclusive type. He'd stop at The Corridor on his way home from work, and venture out on Saturday mornings to buy groceries and fill his truck with gas. He had no friends in town to speak of, no known family, and no hobbies, either. Not so much as a pet cat. He kept the shades drawn at all hours, and no one seemed to know where he'd come from, although some thought he was hiding out from a past life.

Becca, a smile painted across her naive face, flounced her way back to Kenneth and handed him his newest beer. He said something to her, and she listened for a second, all the while batting her eyes. She laughed—a fake laugh, of course—heaving her substantial chest in his direction. She tilted her head back with each chuckle, placing one hand over her falsely modest heart and the other on his forearm.

Then the laughter stopped, with just as little warning as it had started, and Becca busied herself with wiping down the bar. A futile effort, given what a rundown hellhole The Corridor was. Its main entrance was hidden in an alley that stretched between two old brick buildings. That's where it got its name, I imagine, a reference to its own relative obscurity. Its windows were caked in filth, its chairs and stools were mismatched and uneven, and a number of its overhead lights flickered or appeared to be missing a bulb altogether. A mirror behind the bar had a large crack running through it. Seven years of bad luck, but no one in Wakefield seemed to notice or care.

My face was beginning to bead with sweat, despite the window being cracked, and the thick rims of my glasses slid down my nose. I exhaled a thin stream of hot air, trying to keep my breathing slow and even, my body motionless. And as I stared at the back of Kenneth's head, I couldn't help but picture his face—those thin, dry lips, flanked by patches of graying stubble. The heavy bags beneath his bloodshot eyes. He was average height, five-foot-nine or so, and lean, except for the slight belly that spilled over the top of his pants.

He'd glance at Becca every so often, and I was sure she was consuming all of his mental resources. That, in itself, was innocent enough. There were plenty of men in Wakefield that would have liked to take her home for a night. But that wasn't all that was on Kenneth's mind. He was imagining her pinned beneath him, I was sure of it, her face streaked in tears, a blade pressed to her throat. Unresponsive to her cries for help and getting off to her shrill whimpers. He'd be almost silent, though, notwithstanding a few depraved whispers, and a low grunt at the last second. At least that's how other women had described the ordeal.

Kenneth had been accused of assaulting at least three different women in the area, but never convicted. Never formally charged, for that matter. Insufficient evidence, the Wakefield police claimed. A small police force comprised of all men, by the way, who found it easier to believe that three women had been lying than to accept that they had a serial rapist on their hands. I knew it would only be a matter of time before he would strike again.

It was with that thought in mind that something else caught my eye, something indiscernible at first. Movement, I thought, a figure tall and lanky outside the passenger window, traveling in slow motion. Someone was creeping in the shadows. A man, perhaps, watching me while standing next to a wooden bench at the edge of the street, concealed in part by a decorative lamppost. And all at once, I could feel it. The prying eyes of a fellow voyeur, keen to assess my intentions as much as observe my actions. But as I gave my head a soft shake, the figure disappeared, and I was almost alone again.

It was well after ten o'clock when Kenneth got up from his stool. He tossed some cash on the bar, gave Becca one last look up and down, and headed for the door. It was tough to tell if he was stumbling, because he always walked with a limp. He sort of shuffled to his truck, where he sat for a moment, rubbing his gaunt face with calloused hands before starting the engine.

I was about to tail him home when I felt it again. An onlooker lurking outside my car, peering at me from the shadows. I scanned over my shoulder, left and right, but saw no sign of activity, nothing material.

A familiar voice spoke to me from the backseat. "He's getting away, Afton."

I ignored her remark and narrowed my eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of this man in shadows. But again, my senses deceived me. I could feel his presence, just as I had several nights before, but I couldn't find him. There was nothing out of the ordinary on the street, just a commercial block devoid of pedestrians, near silent, and dwarfed by an expanse of red brick buildings.

The voice spoke again, this time harsher, lower, and breathier. Like a lifelong smoker with throat cancer. "What are we waiting for? Let's go. Follow him, before . . . it's too late."

Kenneth had already rounded the corner. I made quick work of catching up, though, making sure to keep my vehicle at least fifty yards behind his. After a few blocks, he turned. That was all I needed to know. That he had gone home, and no one was in danger for the night.

She spoke again. "When, Afton? How much . . . longer now?"

"Soon."

I hadn't experienced true autonomy over my consciousness since adolescence. Well, seventeen or so, to be exact. A second Afton emerged that year. A twin sister of sorts, a manifestation of my darkest desires. A relentless cheerleader, in a manner of speaking, who appeared only to me, urging me to obey impulses that most good people can suppress or ignore. I had named her "Animus" Afton, and the time to give in to her was drawing nearer.

She leaned forward from the backseat, her cold breath fanning across the back of my neck, but said nothing. That's because she didn't have to. After a second passed, I glanced in the rearview and the backseat was empty. Animus was gone, but she would be back.

Kenneth Pritchard had to die, you see—she and I agreed on that much—but it would be me who would have to kill him. He would be my first, and his death had to be just right.

Chapter 2

The walls and trim of my apartment were painted white, just for the simplicity of it, and I had a few odd things hung up in case I ever had visitors. There was a photo of me with my brother, Chris. There was a dreamcatcher I'd bought at a farmer's market of all places, and The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost. All stuff that made me look normal. My dresser, desk, coffee table, bed frame, and television stand—all of my furniture, to be frank—had come from Ikea. They were the same matching shade of flat black, a gentle luster on their surfaces only because I wiped them down out of compulsive habit. A guest would have been hard-pressed to find a speck of dust anywhere.

The one frivolity I had in my living space was a colorful twenty-gallon aquarium, home to Twinkie, my beloved goldfish. We had so much in common, Twinkie and I—our devotion to solitude, for instance, and our appreciation for solemn introspection. We were both predators of sorts, too. A goldfish seems passive enough, until it encounters a cichlid in its waters. And a small-town librarian seems innocent enough, until she's given an opportunity to take a man's life in cold blood.

I had already showered, which meant it was feeding time, and Twinkie knew it. He left his favorite thinking spot—a ceramic bookshelf resting atop the turquoise gravel at the base of his tank—and rose to the surface, eager to snatch up the pellets I had soaked in a mug for his breakfast. It was routine, sure, what some might call mundane, but there was a familiar comfort in routine.

Animus had already seated herself at a small kitchen table with two chairs. There was once a time when she made her presence scarce, but these days she clung to me like an insecure lover. And even though I grew tired of her existential banter, I was powerless to put an end to it.

She looked just like me. The same thick, shoulder-length hair—dyed black to hide the natural rust color—with bangs pinned to the side. She had on the same cherry-red lipstick I did—the only makeup we ever wore—a shade that looked particularly rich contrasted against our milk-white complexion. Her skin was somehow colder than mine, though, almost bluish, as though she had been asphyxiated. And her eyes—a light teal, like mine—were near translucent, peering at me from behind the same thick-rimmed black glasses as those on my face.

Animus stared at me for a while before speaking. "How was your run?"

She, of course, knew the answer. My morning runs were never a modest jog or a short saunter through the park, but a hard run. It had to be the kind of run that turned my face beet red, that got my heart hammering against my ribcage. I had, after all, first taken up running as a coping mechanism, but no matter how hard I ran, or how fast, Animus would be waiting for me at the finish line.

"It was fine."

"Do you feel . . . stronger, now? Energized? More capable?"

I was small in stature—just five-foot-two and a hundred and fifteen pounds—but strong. I had always been that way. Playing baseball with Chris and his friends as a kid, for instance, the only girl they'd allow to join them. I was as tough as any of the boys, and I'd made sure they knew it. "Yeah, I'm just fucking dandy, Animus."

"Are you strong enough to kill Kenneth now?"

I fed the last morsel to Twinkie and made my way to the kitchen counter. "I'll kill him when I'm ready to kill him. And I'll do it according to the plan." I readied a breakfast of peach and apple slices, and placed them on a plate next to a steaming bowl of oatmeal.

"What? No bacon and eggs this morning?"

"Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"You're about to carve a man to bits, and you still won't eat meat?"

I sat across from her and shrugged. "I like animals. People, not so much."

She nodded and grinned, watching me shovel in a spoonful of sustenance at a time. I might have found it uncomfortable if it had been a real, living person sitting across from me. But Animus was a bit like the mole on my left boob. Harmless, albeit irritating, only because I knew she wasn't supposed to be there. A mole, even if abnormal, is most often benign, but that makes it no less unwanted.

"Stop it."

I looked up from my fruit. "Stop what?"

"You're . . . doing it again." Animus had this indirect, fragmented way of speaking. Her words were peppered with unusual pauses, and wild fluctuations in her expression and tone. "You're thinking that I'm . . . different from you. That I'm some kind of unwanted skin growth."

"I'm thinking that I'm bat-shit crazy and you're a figment of my imagination."

"That's how you think of me?"

"You're a scapegoat for the worst parts of me."

"Oh, Afton. That . . . hurts."

"How else should I think of you? Like you're my long lost twin or something? The sister I never had?"

She shook her head, keeping her vacant eyes locked on mine. "I am you, Afton Morrison. You're just not ready to admit it yet."

I studied her between chews. No matter what I wore each day, she would have on the same exact thing. A long, flowing skirt with pleats today, a floral top with long sleeves despite the heat, sensible flat shoes, and no jewelry, aside from a pair of diamond studs that used to be Mom's. It was a look that paired well with the library dress code, I guess. Cleavage was supposed to be kept to a minimum at work, too, but we didn't have much to worry about there. And no visible tattoos, per policy. Being plain on the outside was a good aesthetic for a woman planning to commit homicide. It was a style that I liked to call thrift-shop fabulous. It made me a bit of an odd duck, sure, but it kept the human race at a distance, which is just how I liked it.

"Do you deny it?" She had her lips pressed tight, waiting for a thoughtful response.

I chewed another mouthful without answering. There's an old psychology joke about a psychopath lying awake at night, wondering—worrying—that he might be a psychopath. But it's in our nature to ponder the stuff we're made of, the same as all sentient beings. A lion doesn't hunt a gazelle for sport. It hunts the gazelle because everything in its nature compels it to. It's what the lion was born to do.

"You still think you're some kind of nut? A psychopath?"

I considered the idea while finishing my oatmeal. "I'm sitting here talking to me, aren't I?"

"A female psychopathic vegetarian librarian with a pet goldfish." She laughed, which sounded more like a toad's croak. "What's that they say? That truth is stranger than fiction?"

I carried my dishes to the kitchen. "Sure, something like that."

"He was . . . watching you again last night."

"Who?"

"The Man in Shadows."

"You saw him? He's real?"

"You think so. That's really all that matters, isn't it?" She drifted to the spot next to me. "You know somebody's been watching you the last few nights."

"I don't know it for sure."

"He's coming for you, Afton."

My back stiffened, and I stopped rinsing out the bowl. "Give it a rest."

"He's coming because we're close to killing Kenneth."

I held my breath without realizing I was doing it. "Stop it." I had no way of knowing if The Man in Shadows was real. It was more of a gut feeling, to be frank, or a trick of the mind. Then again, I was conversing with an imaginary version of myself. Wasn't it possible that I had made him up, too?

"He's watching you, Afton. Watching . . . and waiting."

"How"—I snapped—"could you possibly know that?" I grabbed Animus by the shoulders and shook her. Her body felt rigid and cold like ice. "You don't know a goddamn thing unless I thought of it first."

"There's a reason he chose us."

I softened my grip and gave my head a quizzical tilt. "Us?"

She rubbed her hands together and narrowed her eyes. "You've never told anyone about your 'twin sister,' have you?" She made slow air quotes as she said it. "Not even Chris."

"Of course not."

"Guess I'm your dirty little secret then."

I'd been watching Kenneth for months. Had someone really been watching me, too? Oh, God, what a depressing thought. Terrifying, too. I was far too invested in this kill to turn back now. But I had to leave for work, which meant I had to push The Man in Shadows from my thoughts for the time being. A challenging task, given that Animus would be sure to remind me.

"You can't . . . put it off forever, you know."

"I have no intention to."

"When?"

"Soon."

"Admit it."

"Admit what?"

She licked her bloodless lips. "You want to kill Kenneth. You . . . want him bad." She wasn't wrong, and she knew it. "You can blame it on me, if you want. You can make me your little anthropomorphic scapegoat and all that. You can pretend you're possessed or whatever you call it. But your thirst for blood is real, Afton. You can act like those violent fantasies of yours are all my doing, but in the end, you want to slit his throat. You want to watch him bleed."

I hung my head. Not so much in shame, but defeat. As the years passed, I only found myself more consumed with the thought of killing, and more determined. The thought of my hands coated in spurts of thick, warm blood. The tingle of that final gasp of shallow, wet, and ragged breath on my cheek. The spark fading from two round eyes, engorged with terror. I learned over time that the murderess without blood on her hands has a lot in common with a heroin-addicted streetwalker. Both crave a fix, and both are willing to do just about anything to get one. And the longer she has to wait, the more dangerous and erratic her behavior becomes.

"You crave the thought of . . . taking a human life."

She was right about that, too. I'd been young the first time I'd ever thought about killing. Right around the time Mom lost the battle to cancer, I think. I'd been fifteen or so back then, four years after she'd first been diagnosed. I could never explain it, not that I had ever tried. And when, ah, the incident happened in my late teens, well, let's just say it intensified. It coursed through my veins, taking control a little at a time, the way an addict describes the nagging torment of withdrawal. The helplessness of it all, the despair, and the eventual defeat. And Animus played the role of my dealer.

"Forget her."

I looked up from the sink. "Huh?"

"Mom. She's dead, Afton. Just forget about her."

"Her last words to Chris and I were to spend our lives doing good for others." I wiped away the moisture pooling beneath my eyes. "And then she was gone."

"I know."

The memory of Mom in her final moments flickered on the backs of my eyelids, weak in her hospice bed, skeletal, her voice addressing us in a hoarse whisper. Chris was the oldest and became my legal guardian until I left for college. I was never certain if he had internalized Mom's final words the same way I had.

My first kill had to be someone no one would miss, someone the world would be better off without. Animus would have preferred indiscriminate mass murder, I think, so I had to set boundaries with her. It would only work, I had reasoned, if each murder was planned with care, and if our targets were selected with purpose. That was our compromise, Animus and I. Finding a way to do good in the world by putting an end to those who did evil, even if that sort of moral justification was dubious at best.

"Fine." I gave her a subtle nod. "I admit it. It's all I can think about."

"You're like a teenage boy . . . that hasn't rubbed one out in, like, two hours." She placed a frigid hand on my neck. "You know"—her nostrils flared, and I could tell she was choosing her words with care—"there's nothing stopping you from taking out one of those little brats at the library."

"No."

"You could probably lead one of them back to your office for a gold star or a sticker or a pencil topper or some shit, and kill him . . . or her with your bare hands. You could choke the life out of her tiny little throat and—"

"Never." I shook my head in defiance. "I could never hurt a child." I pointed to the bubbling aquarium. "I couldn't even hurt Twinkie if I wanted to."

"The world is full of goldfish and children, Afton. Most kids grow up to be assholes anyway."

"No."

"Besides, you hate children."

I disliked kids, sure, but at least they aren't two-faced, which was one of the few things I appreciated about them. It makes my career choice a bit strange, I guess. When I moved back to Wakefield after college, it was the only librarian opening for miles. So I lied to management and told them that children are precious, and, oh, how I loved arts and crafts and singing and stuffed animal sleepover parties and prize wheels for summer reading clubs. There was nothing as important as laying the foundation early for a lifetime of literacy.

I wasn't great at my job, but at least it had security. After all, where else were they going to find someone with a master's degree within a hundred miles of Wakefield? Plus, being a child and teen librarian in a town of ten thousand had its benefits. Who would ever suspect me of murder?

"That's my compromise, Animus. That's the deal. I, ah, we'll kill together, but it has to be someone the world's better off without."

"That's a slippery slope."

"How's that?"

"Well, after you kill Kenneth, then what? You'll want to kill again. And . . . again. And before you know it, you'll be killing anyone and anything you can get your deranged little hands on."

"You know that isn't true."

"Stray dogs, first-graders, seniors, drunks, door-to-door salespeople . . ."

"Nope."

She tapped her foot with incredulity, pretending to contemplate the absurdity of my arbitrary standards. Then she relented, winking and parting her lips for a crooked smile. "I know. You're too . . . good, I guess, but I'll keep working on you."

"Whatever." I blew Twinkie a kiss and headed for the door, only to find Animus blocking my path.

"You're not a psychopath, Afton."

"What makes you say that?"

"Not a true psychopath, anyway. You have a conscience, and it bugs the hell out of me."

"Thanks?"

"You know the difference between right and wrong, even if you do draw the line in a different place than most other people." She shuffled to the side, allowing me through. "You're still trying to do good for others. At least for now."

Chapter 3

"Is that what I think it is?"

Kim surveyed the contents of the wet drop box. The books—especially the paperbacks—were sopping and smelled sour, having absorbed most of the fluid from an empty Gatorade bottle. She shifted her weight to one foot and put slender hands on her narrow hips, trying to figure out what to do next.

"I'm afraid so, Kim." I said afraid, but what I really meant was entertained.

I'd been a volunteer at the library once, too, and back then it was me who had to clean up the messes left in the drop box overnight. I'd never had a bottle of piss dumped in, though. Bags of dog shit, sure. Even a dead pigeon once, next to a pair of bloody scissors labeled: Property Of Wakefield Public Library. The bastard had actually borrowed our scissors, used them to gut a live animal, and donated his handiwork back to us. Part of me had been angry when that happened—I had to clean it up, after all—but part of me had been intrigued, too. Blood and gore were so seldom part of my daily routine.

"So . . ." Kim tried to stall by whistling, but it sounded more like hissing between closed teeth. "What happens now, Afton? Do we check the security cameras or something? Call the police?"

I shook my head and fought like hell not to laugh. "The cameras don't work. Not the one pointed at the drop box, anyway."

"They don't?" She wrinkled her forehead in surprise.

"Not for the past few months, they haven't." That was a lie, but I enjoyed making Kim squirm. She was so gullible. "No budget. You know how it is."

Kim was seventeen—she would be a high school senior in the fall—and was almost too easy to rattle. As a volunteer, she could have quit at any time, but she seemed to like it here. As I understood it, she liked it better than being at home with her conservative Chinese parents.

I tilted my head to the side, hoping she would take the hint. "Come on, Kim. Get to it. Bag up everything and, for the love of God, please wear gloves."

"Yes, ma'am." She thought that, at twenty-six years old, I was eligible to be called ma'am.

"You'll find disinfectant in the back. Scrub everything down quick, too, because I've got storytime starting in an hour. If you can, make a note of what's in there. We'll try and replace some of it."

"Only some?"

I pressed my hands together in a sort of emblematic prayer, pleading with Kim to ask fewer questions and just get the job done. "Budget, Kim. There's no budget for it. Remember?"

She nodded.

"That's why you're a volunteer. If we could afford to pay someone . . ." Her face lit up at the very mention of a pay check. Poor kid. She was always so hopeful. "Well, we can't afford to pay someone, so never mind. Just clean this shit up, okay?"

Kim always flinched a little when I swore, but it usually got her moving. "Yes, ma'am." She began her disheartened trudge to the back for supplies, dragging one Converse-adorned foot after the other.

"And, ah, one more thing."

"Yeah?" She turned around, offering me a clear look at her long face.

"How about I take you out to lunch one day this week?" I regretted making the offer as soon as the words had come out of my mouth. It would mean an entire hour of listening to Kim prattle on about boys, gossip in Seventeen magazine, and the latest trends in bubblegum lip balm.

"Really?"

I let out a deep breath before answering. "My little way of saying thanks, I guess."

* * *

Parents—stay-at-home moms, mostly—brought in their toddlers once a week so I could read them a story. And I use the word toddlers loosely. Kids as old as six or seven sometimes attended during the summer. And the stories we would read were made up of fewer than fifty words, for the most part. A lot of the mothers in Wakefield were too lazy to read to their own children, I guess.

Oh, and crafts, too. After reading a story together, we'd break out glitter and colored pencils and paste and other nonsense, but that wasn't the real reason a dozen women turned out with their little monsters each week. Storytime was an excuse for the mothers to gather and gossip. It always took a little while to get the children to settle down, sure. I'd press my finger to my lips and wait. Five or ten seconds at most, although I would have been happy to wait longer. Their mothers, on the other hand, were so much worse. Getting them to shut their fucking traps was a whole separate exercise in endurance.

But as much as I disliked children, there was something magical about them. It was their inability to see gray, I think. Their entire worlds existed in black and white, right and wrong, good and evil. You could see it in their faces as a story unfolded, rife with nervous energy at every inconsequential turn.

"And she just doesn't know"—I read to the room, pointing to each gigantic word—"should she stay, should she go?"

I caught a boy's expression, who sat just inches from me. The hippopotamus in our story was faced with a dilemma, and this boy was transfixed. His eyes were wide, his hands were cupped over his mouth, and he was vibrating with anticipation to see what the hippo would do next.

I flipped to the last page. "But yes the hippopotamus."

The boy relaxed a little, making a deliberate show of letting his shoulders drop. A talented drama queen in the making. He was new to storytime and looked to be about five or six years old. He had dark hair, a tan complexion, and a missing front tooth. He'd attended just once before and he'd sat close that day, as well. I'd never really been big on learning children's names, to be honest, but I knew his was Neil only because he'd come to the library alone both times. It sounds strange, I'm sure, but having a parent use the library as a free babysitting service happens more often than most people would guess.

I continued on, reading the final words of the story. "But not the armadillo."

Neil was stressed all over again, and his tiny hand shot up. "Miss Afton?"

"Yes, ah, Neil? What is it, little man?"

"How come not the arma-darma?"

"Armadillo." A woman in baggy gray sweatpants corrected him from the back of the room. She was a few years older than me, had bleach-blonde hair in a ponytail, and her voice resembled a seagull getting crushed by a car.

I shut the book and set it on my lap. "That's a good question, Neil." I bit my lower lip, deciding how much to share. "Well, let's see. Ah, no one likes armadillos, for starters. They're bullet-proof, if you can believe it, and ugly as sin. They carry leprosy, too, but they don't bite children too often."

The woman at the back of the room—Sweatpants, let's call her—looked horrified. Her stained teeth chattered and she blinked in rapid succession. She placed her palms over her daughter's ears, a girl around three or four in age.

Neil scratched his head. "What's a lepra-she?"

"It's—"

Sweatpants raised her hand to silence me—not that I minded—and looked to a few of the other mothers in the room for support, most of whom were checked out or occupied with their phones. She looked back at me again, then at her daughter. "It's when good little boys and girls get ice cream." That wasn't how I might have defined the word, however. "You want to stop for ice cream on the way home, Jessi?"

It was hard enough getting these little turds to sit still for all fourteen pages of But Not the Hippopotamus. Why on earth would this woman want to stuff her daughter's face with sugar before lunch? But the girl jumped up and squealed at the mention of sweets, and soon, other kids joined in, as did their mothers.

I peeked down at Neil to see him cradling his head in his hands, masking a look of disappointment by staring at the floor. It appeared he had forgotten all about armadillos and leprosy and storytime, and now sulked, wishing he had a parent present to take him for ice cream like the other children.

The mothers talked amongst themselves, and their toddlers fed on the elevated energy levels. The room was alive with discourse, and I wondered if the local Dairy Queen might consider paying me a small commission. "Well, that's it for storytime, boys and girls. Thanks for coming."

Sweatpants spoke up at the back of the room, the self-elected leader of Wakefield's fattest and frumpiest. "But it's only quarter past, Afton. Isn't storytime supposed to be a full hour?"

"Just figured you were all on your way to get a double-scoop of leprosy."

"Very funny."

I raised my hands in a gesture of mock uncertainty. "We've got crafts we can do." I pointed to three short tables covered in plastic, adorned with supplies that Kim had set up for us. "Should we get to it?"

"That won't take long. Couldn't you read them another story first?"

Couldn't I read them another story? It'd been her idea to squeeze out one of these little nightmares. Why was I being punished for it? "Not this week, I'm afraid. Sorry."

But she just wouldn't give up. "Afton, do you know where Jessi's daddy is right now?"

My first thought was that her husband was probably fucking her sister at some roadside motel with hourly rates, bed bugs, and a one-star rating on Trip Advisor. I couldn't say that out loud, of course, and so I fought like hell to keep a smirk off my face. It helped to keep my sights trained on Jessi, who had sat back down, cross-legged in a checkered dress. She was drawing on the floor with one small finger.

Sweatpants answered her own question. "He's at work, Afton. And he works hard, by the way, and we pay more than our share of taxes in this town. Taxes that pay your salary."

Oh, the salary card. How I loved it when disgruntled parents brought up my salary, as if any one of them wanted to trade places with me. Yes, her taxes paid me a small fortune. That's why I rented a one-bedroom apartment in a triplex. And it's the same reason I drove a seven-year-old Corolla. I was so grateful—indebted, even—to Sweatpants and her husband that I just couldn't wait to read another story.

"Sure thing." I grabbed a second book off the pile next to me. "One more story, coming right up."

Sweatpants smiled. It was a flat, fake smile, of course, the kind where the mouth curls tight but the eyes are dormant. It was about the best I could have hoped for, and it seemed to have a calming effect on the other mothers. They quieted down, eager to return to their various text message conversations.

I pointed my finger to more jumbo text on a colorful page. A story about an overweight and diabetic caterpillar with impulse control issues, who was always so very very fucking hungry. "In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf . . ."

And I couldn't help but lose myself in thought. I was that little egg on a leaf, glimmering in the moonlight, and about to hatch. Soon after, the morning would come. And my hunger would be satiated at last, because Kenneth Pritchard would be dead.

And with any luck, Animus would be satiated, too.

Chapter 4

The lighting in our back offices was fluorescent and plentiful. Almost too much, really, a bit harsh on the retinas. The walls were made up of concrete blocks painted a pastel blue. It was meant to be a workspace as much tranquil as functional, but the disarray of it all made my skin crawl. People have this idea that librarians are meticulous creatures, but that's only because they never get a peek behind closed doors. Just because we understand the Dewey decimal system doesn't mean we're tidy by nature.

I led Neil by the hand, maneuvering us between an assortment of beige book carts. Most of them housed nothing but dust, except for one labeled processing, which had a stack of new movies on it. A break in the book carts brought us to a lunch room on the right. There was a round table at the far end, large enough to accommodate only two adults at a time. It sat next to an old fridge with a menacing hum, and it was plastered with crumbs and grease.

Animus waited for us at the table, leaning on her forearms with anticipation. "You've changed your mind." She licked her parted lips, examining Neil with a nod. "He'll do." She dashed to a cutting board on the counter, grabbing a long knife with a serrated edge. "Nobody'll hear . . . a thing, Afton." The softest hint of a giggle escaped her mouth. "Do it right now."

I shook my head. No! I shouted the word in my mind, channeling my inner thoughts loud enough for her to hear. Fuck off!

Animus slithered farther down the counter to a double sink, where a large cast iron skillet soaked in cold and soapy water. "Then use this instead." She jutted out her chin in Neil's direction. "Walk right up behind him and bash his tiny—"

I tried to ignore her, leading Neil to the chair where she had just been seated. I swung open the freezer door of the refrigerator. "Chocolate or vanilla?"

He looked up at me with contemplative lines spread across his face, much too deep for his age. "Chocolate, please."

"Coming right up, little man." I unwrapped the first few inches of an ice cream sandwich and looked over my shoulder. Animus had left us in peace. "Here you are."

"Thank you, Miss Afton."

"Can I ask you something, Neil?"

"Yes."

"Where's your mom?"

"She had to go talk to Dad."

Ah, so it was baby-mama drama keeping Neil here. Just another reason why I never wanted kids of my own, even if I could ever find a decent sperm donor in this Godforsaken town. "And she said she'd be right back?"

"Yes. She told me to wait here."

I handed Neil his frozen treat. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

He took a big bite, despite his missing front tooth. "It's just me and Mom."

It made me think of my own mother. Dad died when I was only five—a workplace accident, decapitated by a forklift. Mom raised Chris and I alone until she got sick, and being a single mother in a town this size meant certain judgment from close-minded locals. "I'll let you enjoy that, little man. I just need to go check on something, okay? Wait right here. I'll be back."

My desk sat adjacent to a large cork board on the wall, showcasing outdated memos, program schedules, and a fire escape plan. It was also near the only functioning staff photocopier in the building, and shelf after shelf of craft supplies—glitter, ribbons, beads, foil, and the like. These were materials I was supposed to make regular use of, but I tried to save the library money however I could.

The desk next to mine belonged to Pete Albright, the adult services librarian. He had dual computer monitors set up, for those times when ordering new materials necessitated extreme performance, I guess. Both were lined at the bottom with a collection of vibrant blue and pink sticky notes. Scattered across the surface of his desk was a haul that could have rivaled the aisles of Office Depot. Pens, paper clips, mechanical pencils, a ball of rubber bands, a three-hole punch, and even a roll of paper-hole reinforcements. What in Pete's job description, exactly, warranted him punching holes in paper, let alone needing to reinforce them?

I dropped to my office chair, and it greeted me with a familiar creak. There was nothing on my desk but a plastic canister of Lysol wipes. Not a framed photograph, not a placard, not a pen or a pencil, not so much as an artificial fucking ficus. My belongings, sparse as they were—lens cleaner for my glasses, an extra cable to charge my phone—were filed away in a two-drawer cabinet next to my feet. I took a moment, as my single computer monitor flickered on, to savor the beautiful synthetic scent of lemon disinfectant. No, not all librarians were meticulous creatures, but I was, and it felt soothing, reassuring.

I intended to review the security footage from the night before to find out who had dropped off the Gatorade bottle of piss. I liked Kim, believe it or not, and she didn't deserve having to clean up after delinquents. She was a good girl, true to her word, diligent, polite, clever, and eager to please. A rarity in Wakefield, and I'd get even on her behalf. Because if I had actually had a friend in the entire world, I would have wanted it to be someone like her.

I began by watching a live video stream of Kim out on the library floor. Creepy, I know, but surveillance was nothing new to me. And I wished, just for one heartbeat, that I could have had a system like this installed in Kenneth's house. Then again, odds were fair to good that I really didn't want to know what else he got up to in his spare time.

Kim was restocking books and, I swear to God, she was taking ten times longer than needed. It wasn't because she liked to slack off or sit idle, but because she was so damned afraid of making a mistake, the living embodiment of perfectionism. I watched her bend down and examine the books on a low shelf, wanting to be certain she was replacing each title exactly where it belonged.

She tapped her fingers on the shelf nearest her head, a habit that both annoyed and intrigued me. As I understood it, she was an accomplished pianist. Not that she volunteered that information. Bragging wasn't her thing. But in moments of concentration, she'd tap out an arpeggio on whatever flat surface was within reach. I found it intriguing only because human behavior fascinated me. Habits and tics and mannerisms and gestures and quirks, the very things that make us human. We carry out these brainless functions without ever knowing why.

I clicked play on the security video from the night before. It faded in and out of focus, making it tough to decipher much of what I was seeing. I let it play at high speed, starting after the library closed at nine o'clock. While I waited for the action to unfold, I pulled open the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet and retrieved a small pile of books I had stashed there earlier. Morning Star and The Queen of Blood for Chris, who had loved science fiction and fantasy novels since we were kids, and Columbine and The Psychopath Test for myself.

We were both avid readers, Chris and I. It wasn't that I didn't love binge-watching television or the odd movie. Even romantic comedies, I admit, were an occasional guilty pleasure of mine. But there was something special about the written word. It was like having an out-of-body experience, transporting our consciousness to new worlds, fueled by nothing more than the power of our minds. It also meant experiencing places where Animus didn't exist.

Chris, having grown to be what some might call a man's man, kept his enthusiasm for literature under wraps. As a teenager, other boys at school had bullied him for reading, calling him all sorts of colorful names, even going so far as to stomp his reading glasses to pieces on more than one occasion. To this day, now almost thirty years old, he kept his favorite pastime a secret, and I'd sneak books out the back of the library for him. It was silly, I thought, but most traditional ideas of masculinity were. To be ashamed to be seen as an intellectual? But I obliged nonetheless. After all, who was I to judge? We all wear masks.

My own book selection, however, was not rooted in the fantastic. At least not for today. I'd picked out two titles related to true crime. With the advent of forensic science, I could gorge myself on all the death, decay, and gore I could stomach, which was an awful lot. And, if I were being honest, part of me hoped to better understand myself through the legacies of the greatest killers of our time. What made these people tick? What drew them to such extreme violence? I had to be careful, though. Sure, true crime was mainstream entertainment. It was widespread, but the last thing I wanted were library records demonstrating my admiration for murderers. People could get the wrong idea, so I'd carry books out the back door each week for both me and Chris. For reasons not so different from one another.

I had already read Columbine twice before, but it was good enough to give it a third go. I flipped to a random page and read the words, "Psychopaths don't act like Hannibal Lecter or Norman Bates. They come off like Hugh Grant, in his most adorable role." That's the image that comes to mind when people think of a psychopath. Patrick Bateman in American Psycho, or Dexter Morgan in Dexter. Likable and good-looking men with careers and charisma. Nice guys, the kind of men that no one would have ever suspected of being monsters.

I shut the book and let the author's words sink in. Was I a psychopath, by his definition? Animus thought not, and I certainly didn't have the likability or charisma for it. I wanted to kill, I had to kill, but I felt no compulsion to deceive or manipulate others. Or did I? I had a dark secret, sure, but I found it easier to shut people out than to lure them in with golden rays of phony sunshine.

I looked up at a small cork board mounted to the backing of my desk, plastered with notes and drawings, gifted to me by some of the children in my programs. Junk, for the most part. When mothers are given a macaroni necklace for their birthday, they wear it to spare their child any hurt feelings, even though they know it looks fucking stupid. All part of motherhood, I guess. Pretending to enjoy cheap and tacky shit, just because a heap of their own genetic material put it together.

This board was my macaroni necklace, though, and I kept it in plain sight. Not for sentimental reasons, but for camouflage. So that others could see how much I loved my job, and how I loved the kids I worked with. Maybe that was all the proof I needed. I really did make a point of deceiving others. And maybe that meant I was more psychopathic than I wanted to believe.

I was about to flip open the second book when my attention was drawn to sudden movement on the computer screen. There it was, at almost eleven o'clock the night before, right around the time I had followed Kenneth home. Three boys, each dressed in black with hoods pulled over their heads. It was hard to judge their respective heights, two-dimensional as their figures were in the video. I saw one boy toss in the bottle, and his two friends double over in laughter. Just as they took off running, I paused the video and zoomed in on the one who had done the deed. There was a split second where I could make out most of the little fucker's face.

The image was grainy, but I detected a discolored patch of skin just below his right eye. A scar, I was sure of it. He was a little heavier than his friends, too, giving him a round head and broad shoulders. I could see dark hair poking out at the edges of his hood, and a nose too large for his face. The image was black and white, but I could tell his eyes were light in color. I knew just who this was. It was Eric Conway. He wasn't an attendee of any of my library programs, but the younger brother of Jared Conway, whom I had graduated high school with.

Jared, who had never left Wakefield and still lived with his mother, had always been a serious kid, and a bit soft-spoken. He had a thing for me back in high school, but he had been a bit pedestrian for my liking. A little too normal. He now worked as a freelance reporter, both for the newspaper and a local access cable network. He came in to the library every now and again, most often to interview an aspiring Wakefield author with little to no talent.

Eric, his junior by a decade, had been a shit disturber all his life, even as a kid. He'd get caught stealing from convenience stores, or putting rocks through church windows. I even saw him kick a cat once, for reasons I'll never understand. But I'd get to him soon enough.

I returned the camera to a live view of the library floor just as a girl walked in wearing thick makeup, excessive lip gloss, fake lashes, and eyebrows penciled on thin and dark. Her name was Tia Moore, and she just loved to smile and giggle and touch people when she talked. Her hands were never short a fresh manicure, her long nails shimmering with shellac. And I hated this bitch.

"Is that Wakefield's favorite cum dumpster?"

Pete had sneaked up behind me, hovering over my shoulder and peering at the computer monitor. He was in his late thirties and had receding red hair, and he just loved to wear short sleeve dress shirts with clip-on ties. He was a first-class douche bag, and his voice often reminded me of a man that had sucked in a whole tank of helium.

"You can't say shit like that, Pete."

"Why not? It's true, isn't it?"

It was true, sort of. But it wasn't that Tia had a reputation around town that bothered me. Another woman's dick count was none of my business. It was the way she carried herself, like everyone in the room was her best friend. Insecure and narcissistic brat that she was, she interpreted the attention men lavished on her as validation that she really was all that. And that only really became a problem for me when she and my brother started seeing each other. Chris had always been popular with the ladies. He could do so much better, which is the part that made me the maddest.

We watched Tia in silence for a moment, as she meandered through the self-help section. She was twenty-three or twenty-four, and on most days, wore cutoff ripped jeans with her ass cheeks hanging out the bottom, and a tube top that exposed her, ah, slender midriff, to say the least. Today, however, she sported a pink Adidas jogging suit. It was uncharacteristic of her, no doubt, due in part to the obvious wrinkles in the jacket. It looked big on her, too.

Pete pointed to her large hoop earrings. "That's where she likes to rest her ankles."

I held in laughter, only because I didn't want to encourage Pete. He reminded me of some perverted frat boy, talking trash about a woman—from a safe distance, no less—that he'd never have a chance with. "You're an asshole, Pete. And don't you have work to do?" He pressed his thumb and forefinger to my monitor, as if to pinch one of Tia's boobs. I slapped his hand. "Fuck off, Pete."

But he just didn't know when to give it a rest. "I just love the way she smells, too. Don't you?"

Despite the library having a no-scents policy, we could always pick up on Tia from fifteen feet back, having doused herself in a cheap body spray that made me think of a wilted botanical garden. "Can't say I've ever noticed, Pete." His name came out a sharp hiss, and part of me wondered if he'd talk as much shit if I castrated him with that serrated blade Animus had pointed out.

"Ah, you're no fun—"

"Miss Afton?" Neil surprised us both, talking to our backs.

"Oh, hey, little man." I spun around in my chair. "You all done?"

He nodded and extended his hand. "I drew you this."

Pete, still looming over my desk, glared at me, as if to ask why I hadn't warned him there was a child among us. But I paid him no mind, taking the piece of lined paper and unfolding it. It was an eyeball, sketched in pencil, with a teardrop dangling from its right corner. He had filled in the tear with red pen, and I thought it could be a drop of blood.

"This is, ah, I mean, wow, Neil." This was a goddamn macaroni necklace. "Thanks."

"You're, um, really nice, Miss Afton." He smiled, smears of chocolate splotched around his mouth. "I wanted you to have it."

I took another look. Neil had written i see you at the bottom. And as crude as his drawing was, it reminded me that I was under constant surveillance. As easily as I could review footage from the night before, it was safe to say there were eyes on me, too. That included not just patrons of the library, but The Man in Shadows.

"Think your mom's back to get you?"

"She'll be here soon."

Pete huffed and puffed, folding his arms and tapping his foot. "I don't think children are allowed back here, Miss Afton."

I stood and sighed, guiding Neil back between the book carts with one hand, and turning my head just long enough to mouth the words "Douche bag!" to Pete. We stopped at the office door, and I knelt in front of Neil. "Think you might like to pick out a book to take home while you wait for your mom?"

"I think I'd like to read that one about the hippo and the arma-darma again."

I ruffled his hair before opening the door. "Oh, and don't forget to wash your face, too, little man. You've got chocolate on—" But he was already gone, and I scolded myself for sounding so much like a mother. It's just that those chocolate stains were bugging the hell out of me, I swear.

I returned to my desk to find Pete still glued to my monitor, watching Tia. "You want me to leave, Pete, so you can have some privacy?"

He shrugged. "Surprised to see the dumb bitch looking at real books, that's all."

He had a point, even though I wouldn't admit it out loud. Tia only came to the library for periodicals, to borrow movies, and to socialize. I'd never seen her look through real books before. Even though she was just about my least favorite person in Wakefield, she was, for the moment, the lesser of two evils next to Pete and his demeaning banter. Just his presence made me want to scream.

He cupped his hands around his mouth. "The newest edition of Cosmo is over there, sweetie!"

I was debating whether or not to slap Pete's stupid face when I noticed that something with Tia was off. She wasn't smiling today. Like, not at all. She looked nervous, in fact, brushing back her long hair, and peeking over her shoulder every so often. She was fidgeting with the sleeves of her jacket, too. It was strange, because I would have expected to see her making her usual scene. Laughing at nothing, waving at all the staff, skipping from one spot to the next, and spouting disingenuous compliments to whoever might listen. "I just love those shoes, Francine," in that nasal shriek of hers. "Where did you get them?"

As she meandered from one row of books to the next, her movements appeared slow and graceless, as though unsteady on those long legs of hers. She was walking as if she had on a diaper, a stark contrast to the typical show she made of gyrating her hips. It didn't take Pete long to notice the same thing. "Looks like she took it in the butt a little too hard last night."

I got between Pete and my monitor, snapping it off and staring him down. He relented, after a second, retreating back to his own desk with both hands raised in mock surrender. It was comical, almost, how he cowered in front of me. All bark and no bite, I guess. But, I was sure, he'd make a point later of telling others about what an unreasonable cunt I was.

I was under constant surveillance, after all. Neil had been sure to remind me of that.

Chapter 5

"How was work?" Chris added a splash of oil to a hot pan on the stove and tilted it side to side.

"Oh, you know, I read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to a bunch of monsters." I shrugged and opened the bottle of wine I'd brought over, pouring each of us a glass. I had no idea if it would pair well with stir fry, but I knew Chris wouldn't care. "They were somehow even less interested than their mothers."

Chris chuckled under his breath, just enough to be polite. He dumped a bag of frozen vegetables into the pan. "What are we drinking to?" He took one of the glasses in his hand, showing his unkempt, dirt-packed fingernails.

"Escapism." We took a sip. "Which reminds me . . ." I dug through my bag, pulling out the two books. "Grabbed these for you."

He swiped his reading glasses off the kitchen counter, which was decorated with piles of empty takeout containers. "Perfect, thanks." He flipped over The Queen of Blood to read the back. "I've heard good things about Durst."

"You're a grown man, Chris. Are you still worried your friends are gonna catch you at the library?"

"It's not that. It's just, uh . . ." He held up the book, a picture of two cloaked figures on the front, and they looked like Hobbits. The figures were making their way through some sort of enchanted forest, next to a wolf. "It's not that I'm into reading. It's what I'm into reading."

"And the glasses?"

"Well, I don't wear these in public because, uh . . ." He set them back on the counter and used his big hands to frame his face. "I mean, this is the moneymaker, Afton. Can't go covering this up."

"You're a douche, Chris. You know that?"

He smiled, but didn't have a response. Yes, my brother could be a douche, but he wasn't wrong. He was good-looking, at least by Wakefield standards. He might have only been a five or a six in Portsmouth, but out here, he was probably a seven or an eight. He was about six feet tall and muscular, a barbed wire tattoo around his right bicep. He had short reddish blonde hair—a lighter shade than my natural color—and a sharp, angular jawline. He kept his stubble trimmed and neat.

We tried to have dinner together at least once a week. We were each other's only living relatives, after all, but part of me dreaded eating in Chris's basement apartment. He was a bachelor, and it showed. His walls were bare aside from a dartboard, and the area rug in his living room had never been vacuumed. There were boxes of Sports Illustrated and other glossy magazines stacked next to the television, and a foosball table that obstructed access to the bathroom. A bathroom with a toilet seat that never went down, by the way. The trash can in the kitchen was damn near overflowing, and its stench assaulted my nostrils from where I stood. But it wasn't all bad news. Animus seldom made an appearance here.

To be fair, the way Chris and I kept house suited our personalities. I kept my place pristine and in order, much like my desk at the library. Chris, on the other hand, worked in infrastructure services for the Town of Wakefield. Manual labor, for the most part, fixing potholes, maintaining sewer lines, that kind of thing. He'd be stinking and filthy at the end of a long day's work, wearing mud-covered steel-toed boots and tattered jeans, a tee shirt decorated with dust and sweat. A total mess, in other words, just the same as how he liked his home.

The kitchen was small and there was no room for a table, so I took a seat at one of two plastic chairs at an island that housed the sink. It was filled with dishes that had been there for at least a week, judging by how they were splotched with scraps of dry food. I glanced at the chair next to mine, surprised to see a pair of lace thong underwear on its seat. I held them up by the edge of the waistband for Chris to see. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

He added pieces of chicken to a second pan and mixed them around, before turning to look. "Uh . . ."

"You're gross, dude. Do you always keep trophies out when you have dinner guests? Fuck." He went to grab the underwear, but I yanked them from his reach. "Wait. Whose are these?"

"Uh, no one's." Chris and I shared the same pale complexion, except that he spent most summers red like a Maine lobster. But even sunburned as he was, I could see him blush.

"Come on, Chris." I held up the panties and pretended to examine them. "These are expensive. If a girl in Wakefield springs for a pair of these, she must really be something. Just tell me they aren't—"

"It's none of your business, Afton. Quit it."

"—Tia's." I let them drop to the floor.

"You're a pain sometimes."

"Oh, come on, Chris. Are you serious? What do you see in her?"

"There's no winning with you. That's why I keep my mouth shut."

It wasn't so much that Chris prided himself on discretion. It was more that he believed men weren't meant to gossip. "You're almost too good at keeping your mouth shut."

He turned off the burners and grabbed plates from the cupboard. "What do you mean?"

"You're, ah, well, you've got this whole macho bullshit thing going on all the time."

"Yeah, but you and me have never been much for talking about feelings and stuff."

"I know. I just figured you might like to open up every now and again. I mean, Jesus, you're fucking Tia Moore. I think that's worth a conversation."

Chris handed me a plate—veggies only, no chicken—and sat down. "I don't hear you sharing details about your love life."

"You wouldn't want to hear about it anyway."

He waited to finish chewing before replying. "You're right. I wouldn't. I hate the thought of anybody touching my little sister."

"See? It's that whole overprotective thing you do."

Overprotective was an understatement. Shit, my brother wouldn't even swear around me. He wouldn't so much as fart or burp in my presence, either, which I found disturbing. I wanted to feel let in, like I was part of his inner circle, but I was forever up against this facade of brotherly love, as though it were his job to protect me from, well, depravity, I guess. It's like he figured out what a man's supposed to be from watching Clint Eastwood movies.

"I know I'm protective of you, Afton. I get that. It's just part of the job, being your big brother. Especially with a little sister like you."

"Like me?"

"Yeah. You're probably"—he finished chewing another mouthful—"the least delicate female I know."

"Thanks."

"What? You think I'm making it up?"

"No, no, I just can't decide if it's a compliment or not."

"Dad always wanted you to be his little girl. Mom, too. She was pretty old-fashioned like that."

I took a deep breath and focused on her memory. All these years had passed, and I still missed her. "I rejected all that girlie-girl shit. Grew up lacking certain feminine sensibilities."

Chris stirred the food around his plate. "It's who you are and there's nothing wrong with that." He set down his fork. "Hey, can I ask you something? Is everything okay with you?"

I stalled by stuffing my mouth with food, hoping to give myself time to think of an adequate answer. I knew exactly what he was getting at, but I wasn't about to let it show. "What do you mean?"

"You've just, er, I don't know. You've seemed a little more on edge lately."

"I'm a bitch, Chris, especially when it comes to the girls you're screwing."

"Nah, seriously, come on, let's be honest here. It's not just about Tia. It's something else."

"So?" I took another forkful of stir fry. "What can I say? I'm hard to get along with."

"I'm just worried about you. You've seemed kind of distracted, even more than usual. Like you've got other stuff on your mind."

"Just work, I guess. Got this volunteer for the summer that makes more work for me than she gets done."

Chris began to nod, resting a hand on my arm. "Is that it?"

"What do you want, Chris? You my shrink now?"

"I just want you to be happy, that's all. Anything I can do to help?"

"You can stop banging Tia."

"Well, I think that's over, to tell you the truth." Chris finished his wine in two gulps. "You know, it wouldn't hurt you to get out every now and then."

"What? Like on a date?"

"Yeah." He winked. "You need to get laid, Afton. You're too uptight."

"What, like with one of the degenerates you work with?"

"I could set you up with someone, sure." Chris slapped his palm on the table, thinking of what to say next. "What happened to that guy that used to chase you around in high school?"

"Jared?"

"Yeah, he's still in town. Why don't you give him a shot?"

"You've gotta be kidding me."

"I'm serious. He's decent-looking enough, for a dude. Friendly, as I recall. Got himself a job as a reporter, too, did you hear?"

"Yeah. It must pay well."

"Why do you say that?"

I rolled my eyes. "He's still living with his mom, Chris."

"Maybe that'll change someday soon."

I rubbed my temples for a second. "Wait, you said it's over with you and Tia? When did that happen?"

"Last night. She was supposed to swing by after her shift at the diner, but she never showed. Got a text from her this morning. Said she didn't think we should see each other anymore."

"Hm."

"What?"

"I just saw her today."

"You did?"

"Yeah, at the library." I finished the last bite of my dinner and pushed the plate away. "Didn't know she could read, to tell you the truth." I was paraphrasing what Pete had said, and it felt awful.

"Hey, that's not—"

"She was in the self-help section."

"What, like psychology books?"

"Not sure. Want me to look up what she checked out?"

"That's a bit personal, isn't it? Violating her privacy like that?"

The concept of her privacy amused me. I had just handled her used panties, after all. "Take it up with The Patriot Act. And look, just so we're clear, I'm not seeing anybody right now."

"No?"

"No, the guys in Wakefield are disgusting. And they aren't into women who are smarter than them."

"That's probably true." Chris cleared our plates, adding them to the heap in the sink. "Why'd you come back, Afton? I was sure after you left for college, you'd never set foot in Wakefield again."

His question caught me off guard. "Better jobs. You know that. Not too many with a master's degree in town, and anyone smart enough to get one wouldn't move here in the first place."

"Always figured you'd end up working at one of the big libraries in Portsmouth."

"The jobs are shit out there, Chris. Long wait lists and lots of part-time bullshit."

"You always say that."

"So why do you keep asking?"

"Because I think there's more to it, Afton. There's another reason you came back."

"I grew up here. We grew up here. It's where Mom and Dad died."

He shook his head, pouring himself another glass of wine. "There's more."

"Maybe I just wanted to be close to you." That part was true, but it felt strange to verbalize it. Chris had been right. We really didn't spend much time talking about our feelings.

He took a long sip. "If you say so."

There was more to the story, of course. When I left for college—an education funded, in part, by Chris, whom, in hindsight, I had never properly thanked—I swore I'd never come back. But it was that last year before I left, when I was seventeen, that cemented my roots in this town. That gave me a sense of belonging here. The incident, as I had labeled it in my head, in a strictly euphemistic sense. More like scarring, perhaps, or what some might call Stockholm syndrome. Somewhere inside, I harbored this crazy notion that returning to Wakefield might help me find a lost fragment of my soul. Closure, wherever it was buried.

"It's coming up soon, huh?"

I snapped back to the moment. "What?"

"Mom."

It would be eleven years next week since we lost her. And it hadn't occurred to me until right then, when Chris had brought it up, even though I had the anniversary of her death inked on my left shoulder blade.

"Sorry, Chris. I've gotta get going."

"Already?"

"Yeah."

"Don't wanna stick around and play some Xbox?"

"You know I'd kick your ass at Madden."

He blushed again. "I know."

"I'd love to, Chris"—and that was the truth, I really would have loved to stay and play video games—"but I can't."

"Hot date?"

"Something like that."

Chapter 6

When Kenneth wasn't at The Corridor that night, I knew something was wrong. His absence, in itself, wasn't abnormal. He sometimes went straight home after work. I'd usually do a quick check by driving past his house and looking for his truck out front. But Becca wasn't there, either, and for the past few weeks, she had worked every weeknight.

I had parked my Corolla in the usual spot across the street. It was another muggy night, and my breath fogged the car window. I slouched in the driver's seat, doing my best to keep my inhalations slow and controlled. Par for the course when doing surveillance from my car, but tonight it seemed impossible. My nostrils flared as I sucked in gasps of boiling hot air, fighting to make sense of what I was seeing.

An old man worked the bar, tall and bald, sporting a faded Hawaiian shirt, serving a few regulars, all of whom I recognized. But I had never seen this old man before. He didn't speak much to the few customers he had, although he seemed to know his way around the bar. There was no hesitation as he served beers and poured the odd mixed drink.

I tried to tell myself that Becca might have just had the night off, but that didn't sound right. Since when does the low woman on the totem pole get time off in her first month? Especially at a dive bar with so few employees? And why tonight, the same night that Kenneth doesn't turn up? That had to be more than a coincidence.

Despite the hot night, chills trickled down my spine, and I knew just what that meant. I could always feel her presence, long before I ever saw or heard her. "What is it?" My voice came out more timid than I would have expected.

Animus offered me a lopsided grin in the rearview, and her singsong tone was intended to mock. "You're too late."

I began to experience a sensation I was as much unfamiliar with as unprepared for. It was hot panic rising in my throat. "No. No, I'm not. I can't be."

"You should've . . . killed him already, Afton."

"I followed him home last—"

"Then where's Becca?"

"I d-don't know." I swallowed hard. "She was still working when Kenneth took off last night, I'm sure of it." But what did I know for certain? Becca would have closed the bar for the night around two or three o'clock in the morning. By herself, probably, and Kenneth could have returned.

I had always had nerves of steel, even as a child. But right then, I wrung my hands together, and my heart hammered against my chest. The air inside the car was suffocating, and I could feel strands of thick hair matting to my scalp with sweat. Fear clouded my judgment, and I had the cruelest, most haunting, most concrete of gut feelings that I was too late. That Kenneth had made Becca his latest target, and only because I'd failed to set my plan in motion sooner.

She leaned forward, brushing her fingertips across my cheek. "What are you going to do about it?"

I climbed out into the blistering night, which felt refreshing after enduring the interior of the car. I had no good options, and listening to Animus toy with me wasn't going to help the situation. I had to find out where Becca was, even if that meant showing my face inside The Corridor. I plodded to the entrance, a step at a time, my legs stiff, as if made of stone.

I approached the old man, conscious of the stares I was getting from the three men at the bar. The only three customers anywhere inside The Corridor, it seemed. Their looks made me uncomfortable, not because I suspected they might recognize me—none of them looked like the type to visit a library—but because of how their voices lowered as I got closer, how their fields of vision honed in and trailed up and down my body. That was all it took in this town, two tits and a heartbeat, for drunk men to start undressing a woman in their minds. Well, to be fair, the heartbeat part was optional. Having both tits, too, for that matter.

The old man behind the bar spoke first. "What can I get for you, sweetie?"

Sweetie. Fuck, I hated that shit. It was demeaning, like I was just some silly child, or some sort of damsel in distress. I was an educated woman, smarter than all four of these nut sacks combined, but all they saw was a sixty-two inch slab of warm meat. I took a deep breath. No, that wasn't it. I was overreacting, and I knew it. Perhaps it was Pete's verbal assault against Tia weighing on me. At least that's what I tried to tell myself. "Where's Becca?"

"Who?"

"The regular bartender. The new girl. The one that's in here every night."

A patron a few stools down from me—he had greasy hair, a scraggly beard, and a lazy eye—cupped his hands in front of his chest, bouncing two imaginary breasts for the old man to see. "You know who she means, Al. Sugar Tits."

Al nodded. "She's not in." That was all the description he needed, I guess. "Can I get you something, sweetie?"

"Is it her night off or something?"

"She didn't come in tonight. Look, sweetie—"

"Stop calling me sweetie." I flinched and hoped it didn't show. And that's when I caught Animus, now seated at the far end of the bar, applauding me. She was lapping this shit up. Afton, the psycho bitch, losing her fucking mind in The Corridor of all places. I softened my tone and did my best to offer Al a convincing smile. "Please."

The three men were listening to our exchange and, as the saying goes, a hush fell over the crowd. I could hear them swapping whispers and low chuckles. Al smiled back and nodded. Not a warm or friendly smile, but a patronizing smile, the kind that's best paired with a click of the tongue. "Didn't mean no offense, honey."

Honey. Much better. If only I'd have been born with a cock and balls. Instant respect everywhere, and accepted more places than MasterCard. I glanced at Animus, who made a slicing motion across her throat. "Can you please just tell me where I can find her?"

He shrugged. "Beats the hell outta me."

"You don't have a phone number or an address for her, or something like that?"

He kind of snickered and glanced at the three men at the bar. It was as if I was their goddamn entertainment for the evening. He looked back at me and shook his head. "No, honey, I don't got nothin' like that. What's this about, anyway?"

"I just need to find her. It's important."

"What's so important, honey? What is it?"

"Don't call me honey, either." I gritted my teeth. Becca was in danger, and my patience was wearing thin. "Please." Animus pointed to a corkscrew behind the bar. I did my best to ignore her, but I knew what she was suggesting. That I ought to leap right over the bar and plunge it into Al's stupid, fat, ugly, hairy chest. And to be frank, the idea was tempting.

"Just bein' nice to a pretty lady. Who are you, any—"

"No, who the fuck are you? And what have you done with Becca?" I was angry enough, all of a sudden, to burn this motherfucker to the ground with these four trapped inside.

The old man's worn face creased with heavy frown lines, and he pointed an accusing finger at me. "I'm Al, the guy who owns this place, honey." He emphasized the word that time, just to remind me who was in charge. "And I think you'd best be off now."

"You know what? Fuck you, Al. And fuck this shithole dump, too."

I turned around to leave and that's when I heard it. "What a crazy bitch."

A second man spoke. "That time, eh, boys?"

And then the third. "Must be. Feel sorry for her husband."

And, of course, all three of them joined in with Al, laughing at their own self-righteous brand of hilarity. And there was me, little ol' Afton, diminutive in size and build next to the four of them, the clear outsider, and the easy target of their crude remarks. Animus, who was now blocking the exit, had her arms folded across her chest. "Are you gonna take that, sweetie?" She cackled, and that's when I lost any semblance of a grip on reality.

I sprinted to the man closest to me. He was still laughing, howling almost, when I grabbed his bottle of beer. With a single smack, I broke it on the counter. Shards of clear glass sprinkled to the floor, and I thrust its jagged edge to his throat. "Say it again. I fucking dare you."

That quieted the bar down. Aside from a local radio station playing pop country overhead, the room was silent. The men all held still, not daring to so much as sneeze. The man I held captive gasped a little, and a thin line of red trickled down his throat. Even seated as he was, he towered over me. He looked down his nose through widened gray eyes, waiting to see what I'd do next.

"Put it down, hon—" Al thought better of it. "Please, just put it down. We don't want any trouble."

"Fuck you, Al. Not so brave now, are you?"

My captive wriggled in his seat, head tilted back. "Please." He whispered, trying to distance his windpipe from the weapon. It only encouraged me to press it tighter, harder, letting it dig in deeper.

"Shut up. Just shut your mouth, all right? Don't move, or I'll fucking end you. You've done enough talking for tonight. All of you have."

Al raised his hands to signal surrender. "Wh-what do you want, miss?"

"Tell me where I can find Becca."

"I don't know. That's the God's honest truth." He waved his arm around the bar, motioning to its worn and mismatched fixtures. "Does it look like I give a crap about this place?" He took a long breath, trying to steady his nerves. "I hired that girl a month ago, and she pretty much took over running things for me at night. But she didn't come in today. I don't know why, and I've got no idea how to reach her. It's my wife that keeps the records, miss, and she's not here. That's the truth of it. I swear."

I stared long and hard at my captive, debating my next move. The logical and pragmatic choice—the one I would have made under typical levels of stress—would have been the same choice as most stable human beings. I would have put down the makeshift weapon, freed the man, and walked out the door. Men like these weren't going to report me to authorities, that much I knew for certain. None of them would ever admit to having been powerless to a woman. But Animus was out for blood, working double time, staring me down from her new position behind the bar. And she was urging me with clenched fists to complete my first kill.

The man whimpered and writhed, gripping the edges of his stool with white knuckles. My hand trembled as I pictured the next few seconds unfolding before me. I'd twist the cold shards of glass into his throat and watch him recoil, grasping at the gaping, gushing wound. I'd savor the spurts of his warm blood covering my hands and face, spilling down my neck to my chest. And then I'd watch him tumble to the floor, next to the cobwebs and dust, as his friends looked on. He'd expire seconds later, overtaken with fear and adrenaline.

Animus, growing impatient, pounded her fists on the surface of the bar. "Do it! Kill him, Afton. Do it! End him, and end him . . . now." Her voice grew deeper, throatier, more of a growl, and it blurred my senses. "Take his life, Afton. Kill him! He doesn't . . . deserve to live. Don't think twice. Just do it, Afton. Do it!"

But I couldn't. Kenneth was the priority. No, Becca was the priority. I had to be patient. And my first kill had to be done right. It had to go according to the plan. I stepped back an inch at a time, brandishing the broken bottle, fleeing into the night once I got close enough to the door. I still didn't know where to find Becca, but I did know where to find Kenneth.

Chapter 7

Animus had taken up residence in the passenger seat. "Well, this night isn't going . . . so hot." She sneered at me, lording over me the debacle we'd just fled, and savoring every minute of it.

"Fuck you! This is all your fault."

"Oh?" She covered her open mouth in make-believe shock. "Is that so? It wasn't me that just caused that scene."

I slapped my palm on the steering wheel, hard enough to make it sting. "Fuuuck!" Slap. Slap. Slap. "No, but you wanted me to do it. You encouraged me to do it. You put the thoughts in my head!"

She leaned to my side of the car, her face mere inches from mine. "But you made the choice. And you were the one who waited so damn long to kill Kenneth. You've had . . . all the time in the world to get it done. Hundreds of good opportunities." She returned to her side of the car and rubbed her hands together. "All that surveillance, and for what? So it could all come down to this? Hunting for him when his guard will be up at its highest. And when he has a hostage, too." She laughed. A shrill and cold laugh, and gripped my leg. "And besides, it's you doing all of this. I'm not real, Afton. I'm you, remember? I'm—"

"Enough!"

She shrank in her seat, a modest attempt to placate me, and I did my best to tune out her sharp and depraved giggles. Snorts, almost. God, she was getting off on all this chaos, and I needed a moment to think. I didn't have time to shield my clothing and body from coming into contact with trace evidence, let alone the inside of the Corolla. I wouldn't have a chance to alter my appearance or arrange a suitable alibi. And I didn't have a proper weapon with me, either, aside from the broken beer bottle somewhere in the backseat. This was going to be a risky operation not only for me, but for Becca, too. I thought for a moment about calling the police, but after the stunt I had just pulled at The Corridor, it would have been akin to turning myself in. The last thing I wanted was to link myself to Kenneth Pritchard, or one of the women he had assaulted.

Even if Becca did somehow return to work tomorrow, safe and sound, I could never go back to the bar to watch Kenneth. At least not without an elaborate disguise, which would render me that much more conspicuous. Best case scenario, those guys at the bar would remember me. Worst case scenario, they would be out seeking retribution. Either way, they would almost certainly tell Kenneth about our little standoff, which would, no doubt, put him on extreme edge. Al would talk to Becca, too, asking about the crazy bitch who had almost murdered one of his customers. So much for trying to convince authorities I was innocent of murder, if it ever came down to that. Al would show up at my trial, testifying about the night I threatened to butcher a man in cold blood, driven by nothing more than what he would call raging female hormones.

"The longer you wait"—Animus swatted at an air freshener hanging from the rearview and watched it flop around, just to show me how trivial she found this entire situation—"the more mistakes you'll make. You're . . . acting without thinking, Afton. You're losing control. It's nothing like you, and I love it."

Slap. Slap. "Fuuuck!" I gripped the steering wheel and shook it with all my might, and tried to consider the circumstances from a different angle. So what if Kenneth did brutalize Becca tonight? What did it matter to me? I was going to kill him regardless. Why stick out my neck now to save hers? But something about that sentiment didn't sit right with me. I was no psychopath, after all. I was a killer with a conscience, even if I hated to admit it. I was also a killer who had never actually killed, and for the first time, I questioned if I'd be able to go through with it.

I turned down Kenneth's street, rampant with cracks and potholes. The neighborhood was quiet and almost pitch black. The town had never supplied it with proper streetlights. The houses, which I had passed dozens of times before, were bungalows, for the most part, outfitted with old brick exteriors and peeling forest-green shingles, concealed behind a row of mature elm trees at the edge of the sidewalk. His house, on the other hand, was two stories tall and covered in white vinyl siding. I parked a few houses down on the opposite side of the street, noting that his lights were turned off. So were the lights at the houses on either side of his. His truck was parked out front, too. He was home.

I collected the beer bottle and exited the car, aware that I had neither the physical prowess nor the weaponry to take on Kenneth in a direct confrontation. He would overpower me and Becca with nothing more than his bare hands. I had one advantage, however, and that was stealth. I was fast on my feet, nimble, and I felt at home blanketed under darkness.

I looked left and right and detected no movement. Aside from the dissonant chirp of crickets, I couldn't hear a thing. Not the distant growl of a dog, the cries of a baby, or even the sway of a tree branch. I was accompanied by nothing more than the thickness of the calm, clear night, and guided by nothing more than the light from an emaciated sliver of moon. I put one foot in front of the other—heel, toe, heel, toe—taking light steps, hunched over out of sheer instinct, head down and eyes forward. A thin bed of crushed stone blazed a trail to his front door, which I avoided in favor of the lawn, hoping to mask the patter of my footsteps. I took one last look over my shoulder as I approached the edge of the house, scanning for action among the shadows.

With my back pressed to the vinyl siding, I inched forward, cupping my ear next to a closed window. Its shades were drawn, and I strained to hear something, anything. A few feet closer to the back, I halted once more. My own sharp breathing notwithstanding, and the hammering of a rapid pulse in my throat, there were no indications of human life near me. I stepped around to the backyard, now immersed in the night. The moonlight was all but blocked by a tall expanse of trees, and my eyes fought to adjust to the dimness. I couldn't see a damned thing, just blackness. I took slow and careful steps, ensuring there was nothing beneath my feet but solid ground.

I approached the back door, a faint shimmer of moonlight refracting on its glass surface. I clutched the broken bottle in trembling hands, realizing that I really was alone. I could feel it in my bones, and something about that didn't sit well with me. I had no expectation that I would hear cries of distress as I drew nearer, but, I don't know. I expected to perceive sensations of some kind, even the crinkle of a newspaper being folded over, the leftover smells of dinner, or the glow of a muted television. But instead my heightened senses floated in a murky sea of obscurity. It seemed that even Animus had abandoned me.

What if Becca wasn't in there? I doubted my plan all of a sudden. My lack of a plan, to be more accurate. What if Kenneth really had just turned in for the night, skipping The Corridor, and Becca was someplace else? I couldn't just turn around and leave, though. There was a chance my instincts had been right, and I had to follow through. I debated the few choices available to me. I first considered breaking in, searching the house for evidence, possibly even catching Kenneth by surprise. I could kill him right then and there. But if he was in there, and I went bursting in like that, a fight would ensue that I was bound to lose.

I next considered rapping on the door. If he answered, I could invent a story about collecting money for a church fundraiser, or some other bullshit just as vanilla and forgettable. It would at least give me a chance to snoop around for a second. I raised my hand but stopped short of making contact with the door. At the back of the house? At this time of night? Holding a broken bottle in my hand?

"He's not home."

My heart skipped a beat, my stomach lurched, and I struggled to keep my balance. The voice had come from somewhere behind me. It was a man's voice, but as I spun around, I saw no one there. My head darted left and right, back and forth. My ears tried to pick up on a disturbance in the tall grass, a movement of some kind. "Wh-who's there?" But I knew just who it was. It was the ubiquitous Man in Shadows. He was real, and he'd caught up with me at last.

My question was answered only by a long stretch of calm. No motions or sounds or smells, not so much as the trickle of warm breeze. Then after a moment, he spoke again. "An old friend."

That voice. It sounded distinguished, familiar somehow, and deep. He almost had an accent, the way American scholars inevitably start to sound British. His words came out slow and unassuming, non-threatening, no hint of panic or worry. But someone was back there with me. And that meant someone had seen me prowling about with a weapon. I held up the bottle, allowing it to guide my impaired line of sight. "What friend? Who are you?"

"Glenn."

"I, ah, d-don't know a Glenn."

"Yes, you do."

I had known just one Glenn in my entire life. It had been Dad's name. "No, I don't. Who are you really? Who's there?"

"Darla."

Mom's name. I took two long strides forward, using the bottle to carve a path in the void. I couldn't pinpoint his exact location. He could have been standing a foot in front of me, for all I knew. "How do you know my parents' names?"

"I know a lot about you."

"How?"

"I know a lot about you, and your twin sister, too."

My face was thick with sweat, and the feeling of faintness returned. "I d-don't have a s-sister." The blood was rushing from my head to my core, and I wobbled on my feet.

"Well, not that anybody else knows about. But you know she's real, don't you?"

"No. No, she's—"

"You're not the only one who follows people, Afton."

The fucker knew my name, too. "Who, ah, what d-do you want?"

"There's no reason to be alarmed. If I wanted you dead, I would've killed you by now."

I hoped that closing my eyes, useless to me as they were, might help me to regain balance and composure, not to mention a boost in concentration. I was certain I had heard his voice before, but I couldn't place it. It wasn't Kenneth, that much I knew for sure. Kenneth wasn't nearly so articulate and distinct. "What, ah, do you w-want with me?"

"I told you. I'm an old friend, and I'm trying to help. Kenneth isn't home. You'll have to kill him some other time."

"How c-could you possibly know that? Why do you, ah, think that?"

"Go home, Afton."

There! I picked up on a break in the shadows at last. The silhouette of a tall and lean man, the same shape I had seen the night before, retreating to a wide grassy lane behind the house. He took shallow steps, almost with leisure, each one with pronounced care, as though he had no place else to be. I charged after him, bottle extended, but watched him slip from sight, farther into the tall grass and weeds, then disappearing altogether.

I stumbled into the lane, tripping on branches and overgrowth, falling to my knees. I dropped the bottle somewhere in the grass, but I wasn't sure where, and I knew better than to start feeling around for it. I studied the emptiness for clues, but saw nothing. "Where'd you go?" I couldn't tell how close he was. I was shouting, forgetting all about the neighbors. "Where'd you—"

A few houses down, I heard it one last time. "Go home, Afton."

Chapter 8

It took me four tries to get the security code right. The keypad glared at me, its rubber buttons glowing neon green, its perpetual beeeeep driving a stake through the heart of my remaining sanity. I tried to tune it out, but a single thought persisted, piercing my consciousness. His voice, telling me, "Go home, Afton." It didn't help that I had Animus behind me, giggling, breathing on the back of my neck. And I couldn't help but wonder, just for a second, if I might find The Man in Shadows waiting for me inside.

After taking a seat at the circulation desk, I tried every variation I could think of—Becca, Becka, Rebecca, Rebecka, Rebekkah, Becky—and not a single result came up in the library database. None under the age of forty-six, at least. And even as I came up with one final spelling to try, Beckie, I instead typed go home afton and clicked submit. I gave my head a forceful shake, deciding it was time to switch strategies. I instead sorted the library records by recency. She had moved to Wakefield a month ago or so, but we had only three new registrations in that period of time, and all three of them had been men.

I hung my head in frustration, feeling angry and defeated in equal measure. On edge, too, thinking that I was being watched without knowing it. Paranoia had to wait, however, because I had just one shot left at locating Becca, and it meant doing one of my least favorite things in the entire world. Asking for help. I dialed an old contact stored on my phone and heard it start to ring.

A sleepy voice answered. "Hello?"

"I thought breaking news never sleeps."

"Wh-who is this? It's almost midnight."

I took a deep breath. "It's Afton, Jared." I was agitated, of course, panicked even, and I hoped it wouldn't show.

There was a long pause before I heard him clear his throat. "Afton? As in, Afton Morrison?"

"No, the other Afton in this area code." It probably wasn't the best time to be facetious. "Jared, I'm calling because I need your help."

"What is it? Want to come over?"

"And risk your mom catching a girl stopping by at this hour? Think of the scandal."

"Very funny."

"Do you know a girl named Becca? She started at The Corridor about a month ago. Just moved to Wakefield. About my age."

"Becca?"

"Yeah, she's, ah . . ." I thought back to the man at the bar, and how he had described her to Al. "Big fucking tits on her, Jared, she looks like a cheerleader." My heart sank, describing her in such undignified terms. Especially after having taken issue with being called sweetie and honey.

"Oh, her."

"Yes, her, Jared." Jesus, women should just start being called by their cup sizes. It would be easier for most men than bothering to learn our names. "Do you know where I can find her?"

Jared slowed his speech and raised his tone. "What's this about?"

"Don't worry your pretty little head about that. I just need to know where I can find her."

"And what makes you think I know that?"

"Isn't it your job, Jared?" I figured appealing to his precious male ego couldn't hurt. "It's what you do best, isn't it? Gather the kind of information people want to know?" I could have sworn I heard a soft moan as I made that remark, as though stroking his ego had just brought him to orgasm. "Or should I try someone else?"

"No, no." He cleared his throat a second time. "Hang on a sec."

I closed my eyes and tried to appreciate the seclusion while I waited, the silence of my surroundings, but all I could hear echoing in my brain was, "Go home, Afton." I opened them again to find Animus standing before me at the circulation desk. "I told you . . . he was real, Afton. The Man in Shadows." She puckered her dead lips, pretending to pout, before a thin and sarcastic smile spread across her pale face. "And he thinks I'm real, too." Her voice turned to a harsh growl. "Isn't that nice?"

I leaned forward on the desk and held my head in my hands. My temples throbbed so goddamn bad. I was shaking and stinking with sweat. I had no idea what a nervous breakdown felt like, but I was sure I was nearing one. Yes, I had to find out who had been there tonight, and not only how he knew me, but how he knew what I'd been up to. And, of course, why he thought I had a twin sister. But, for now, I had more pressing matters to attend to. I chewed my bottom lip and focused on my breathing, wishing that Jared would hurry his ass up.

Chapter 9

The door opened, and there she stood in a pink nightgown made of silk that left little to the imagination, her hair tied back in a loose ponytail. "Yes?" She snapped on the porch light to get a better look at me, and in turn, it gave me a better look at her. She was fine.

"Oh, I, ah, I'm so sorry. I must have the wrong house."

She rubbed her eyes, but made no effort to close the door. "Who is it you're looking for?"

"Ah, no one." I climbed down the first step, walking backward. "Sorry about that."

"Wait a minute." Becca came outside, following me. "Don't I know you?"

Fuck! "I don't think so."

She placed a hand on the small of her back and pointed the other at me. "Yeah, you're that chick from the library."

"I think you've got me confused with somebody else." I tilted my head down, hoping she hadn't got a detailed look. "I'm no one. Have a good night, okay?"

I took another step backward—"Mommy?"—but froze. A boy joined Becca on the porch. I recognized him at once, and he recognized me, too. It was Neil from storytime and, I pieced together, Becca was his absentee mother. He stood at the height of his mother's armpit and looked straight at me. "Hi, Miss Afton. What are you doing here?"

"Just leaving."

Becca placed a loving hand on her child's head. "What are you still doing up, mister?"

"Couldn't sleep."

She bent down to her son's level. I couldn't be sure if she had forgotten that she wasn't wearing underwear, or if she was intending to give me a free show. "Go on up to bed, Neil. I need to have a word with Afton, okay?"

The boy nodded and kissed his mother's cheek before returning inside. He didn't even put up a fight, which I found unnerving. Boys that age aren't supposed to be so agreeable. Then again, he was advanced, articulate and well-mannered. Not to mention, he had drawn me that eyeball. Had I heeded its warning, I might not have landed myself in so much trouble tonight. There was always somebody watching, after all.

Becca stood upright again and folded her arms. "Afton, is it?"

I gave her a sheepish nod. "Yes."

"You show up at my door after midnight and wake my son, and then you lie about who you are and why you're here? Should I be calling the cops?"

I shook my head. "No, please don't do that."

"Then tell me why you're really here."

What choice did I have? "You weren't at work tonight."

"And how do you know where I work?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Oh, I think it does. I think if I placed a call to your boss or whoever and told 'im how you like to follow children home, he'd probably be concerned."

"It's not like that." But I knew Becca didn't believe me. She snarled, exposing her teeth, and I realized this woman, who I'd taken to be nothing more than a flirtatious bartender, was, in fact, also a fierce mama bear. And she would have no problem defending herself and her son. I was out of cards to play, and I could only dodge the truth for so long. "I've been following somebody. One of your regulars." She tapped her bare foot on the porch, coaxing me to elaborate. "He's dangerous, and he wasn't there tonight."

"And?"

"And neither were you." I pressed my hands together, pleading with her to fill in the blanks. "Thought you might be in danger."

"And why's that?"

I couldn't tell if she was being aloof, or just plain fucking stupid. "Because he's dangerous, Becca, like I said." There was an edge to my tone, but I didn't care. I couldn't conceal my exasperation, or, for that matter, my desperation to return home tonight a free woman.

"And you know my name, too. Perfect."

"Look, I was just trying to do the right thing."

She studied my face and blinked several times, not dissimilar to how she batted her eyes at customers. I couldn't tell what was going through her head, but her shoulders appeared to drop a little. "And that's the whole story? The whole truth of it?" I nodded and fought like hell not to break eye contact. "Well, I appreciate that."

"You do?"

"Look, there's some real creeps that hang out in that bar." She rocked her head back and forth, signaling contemplation. "Jealous ex or something?"

"Huh?"

"Abusive boyfriend?"

"No, it's nothing like that."

"Then what makes you so sure he's dangerous?"

"I just know, all right?"

"Which one is he?"

"What?"

"Which creep from the bar are you talking about?"

I stared at the ground. "Look, that part I can't tell you."

"How come?"

"Because I don't like spreading rumors, all right? What if I'm wrong?"

She gave me a shallow nod and pursed her lips. "You seemed pretty certain a second ago."

"I am certain, but I've been wrong before."

She placed her hands on her hips and peered up at the night sky. "Makes me wonder why I moved out here with my son in the first place. Spent the first six years of his life living in the big city, you know, thinking he might have a relationship with his dad."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, Neil Senior."

I couldn't help but wonder what kind of douche bag thinks it's a good idea to name his son after him. I've always found the concept not only outdated, but more than a touch narcissistic. "Got it."

"He's a deadbeat, it turns out. No real surprise there. I shoulda seen it coming, huh? Guess I'll never learn." She sniffled before continuing, a trace less interrogative than before. "Thought we might start over fresh out here, but I don't know. We'll see how it goes."

"Can I ask why you weren't at work tonight?"

"Called in sick. I just needed a night off is all. Been feeling run down lately."

Unbelievable! I gave my impulsiveness a mental reprimand. This entire night had been for nothing, and now I'd just revealed my identity to a woman who not only spoke to Kenneth almost every night, but worked at the bar where I'd almost slashed a man's throat. Animus was right, as horrible as that was to accept. The longer I waited to kill Kenneth, the more erratic I was becoming, and the more mistakes I was making. And I couldn't afford to make mistakes. That's why I'd come up with a plan in the first place.

"And you thought someone in there was going to try and hurt me? Why me?"

"He's, ah, done it before."

"Attacked a bartender?"

I shook my head no. "Yes."

"Well, you said he wasn't there tonight. Maybe he found a new place to start drinking at. Maybe I'll get lucky and he won't come back."

"Yeah, let's hope." I descended the last step and looked back at Becca. "Can I ask for just one thing?"

She swiped her fingers past her mouth, zipping it, and made a throw-away-the-key gesture. "You were never here, right? Your secret's safe with me, Afton. Neil, too. I'll talk to him."

"Thanks, but that wasn't what I was going to ask."

"Then what?"

"Think you can start having someone there with you when you lock up at night?"

She smiled and turned to head inside. "Sure thing. Goodnight, Afton."

Chapter 10

I think I might have better enjoyed being a librarian before modern technology came along. There was a time not long ago when people visited libraries for education as much as entertainment. Not to mention community engagement. Fast forward to today, however, and when I wasn't babysitting Wakefield's fine assortment of unwanted brats, I was wrapped up in teaching seniors how to check their email or send a fax. They never seemed to have a problem navigating gambling websites, though. And if it wasn't online slots or poker, it was playing solitaire until the mouse pad was worn threadbare.

Literacy had taken a massive nosedive over the past couple decades. Parents kept their kids occupied by sticking them in front of the television or an iPad, and busied themselves reading junk like Us Weekly, glorified picture books for grownups. It's no wonder we elected President Donald J. Clownshoes last year. Alternative facts were labeled as such because they couldn't be found in a book anywhere.

I could have spent the morning lamenting the sad state of literacy in Wakefield, but instead I filled in on front desk duty. It was something I generally preferred leaving to the public service staff, but after the night I'd had, mundane tasks were just what the doctor ordered. It gave my brain a chance to wander, to try and make sense of The Man in Shadows. "Go home, Afton." I could still hear his voice reverberating through my skull, and it made my heart skip beats. Although it didn't help having Animus traipse past the circulation desk all morning with no expression on her face. Just glaring, and never speaking.

A woman resembling an Oompa Loompa waddled up to me, frowning and muttering to herself, making it seem like an utter chore to be checking out new reading materials for her and her son. Well, reading materials might have been an exaggeration. She mumbled something—all I caught were the words "shit" and "nonsense"—and dropped a stack of compact discs on the desk, everything from Ace of Base to Alanis Morissette. Why the library doubled as a retro record store, I'd never understand.

Her son was every bit as round as she but a whole foot shorter. He flopped a stack of comic books and graphic novels next to the discs, titles like The Walking Dead. It was my job to inform the mother that his selections might not be age-appropriate, but I didn't give a flying fuck. At least the kid was reading something.

Just as the pair departed, Kim scurried over with thin worry lines webbed across her face. Her features were straight and serious most of the time, but she was also rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet, making a show of her blatant discontentment. She went to speak two or three times, parting her lips with no sound coming out. She held up an index finger after what felt like a minute, as if she were about to deliver an important declaration.

Her antics grated at my nerves. "What is it, Kim?"

"It's, uh . . ."

My mind darted to all sorts of exciting possibilities. It was clear that something was bugging her. Were there two boys fighting in the parking lot again? The summers were hot in Wakefield, and it made pubescent boys somehow even angrier and stupider than usual.

There was an old bum who came around every now and again to steal bikes from outside our front doors. Maybe he was back. He wasn't even discreet about it, either. He'd walk right up with bolt cutters and start clipping locks with people watching.

It was possible, as well, that she had caught two or more teenagers hooking up in the bathroom. It always kind of amused me when that happened. Kids these days, huh? No respect, and no protection, either. Sure, they'd drop forty dollars on a case to protect their precious phones, but three dollars for a box of condoms was asking too much. God, I'm so fucking glad I became a children's librarian.

"Spit it out, Kim. What's the matter?"

"It's, um, do you know Lawrence?"

It took me a second to recall who that was. "Pimply face, greasy, reddish hair, twelve or thirteen?"

"He's, uh, on the computers, looking at"—she leaned in close and whispered—"pornography."

Kim had been volunteering at the library for weeks now. It struck me as odd that she hadn't encountered this kind of thing before. Kids, boys for the most part, loved to see what kind of adult content they could access online, despite our not-so-rigorous security settings. Obvious terms—pussy, blow job, gang bang, and the like—were all banned. But kids these days were nothing if not resourceful, at least when it came to doing things they knew they weren't supposed to.

She slid me a piece of scrap paper. "This is what he searched for."

"Too nasty to say out loud, huh?" I chuckled as I saw what she had jotted in pencil: goatfucker, all one word. "Ah, so he's into zoology."

"That's not funny."

"Did you give him directions to a petting zoo?"

"Afton—"

"I've always liked sheep better myself. They're just so damn soft. Warmer than goats, too, and I hear they put up less of a struggle."

Kim folded her arms. "We've got to do something." Her face was turning red. "We can't just let—"

"What should we do, Kim? Tell him to go home?" In my head, I could hear myself tell him, "Go home, Lawrence." Those words. Christ, how they haunted me. I scanned the library floor for signs of him, The Man in Shadows, then gave my head a shake and stood, hoping to be closer to eye level with Kim. "Do you know how official policy works for this sort of thing?" She opened her mouth, but shut it before anything came out. "First, we'd have to tell him to leave. Then we'd write up an incident report, and prepare a letter telling him he's banned from the library for six months."

"Yeah, so?" Her emphasis on the word so was just what you'd have expected from a sassy teenage girl. But sassy was not a word I would've used to describe Kim. She was flustered, and it showed.

"So, if he tries to come back in before then, we'll have to give him that letter and show him to the door. Now"—I placed a hand on her shoulder for emphasis, lowering my voice—"the library is probably the only productive place in Wakefield Lawrence can go, especially during summer when school's out. He likes to hang out with the wrong kinda kids. The kinda kids who'll get him into all sorts of trouble." There was more, but I paused to give Kim a chance to soak up the bigger picture. "He likes to hide out in here sometimes, too, when his alcoholic mother's had one too many." I pointed to a large clock on the wall. It was approaching noon. "Right around now, I imagine, she's on a bender."

"Like, she gets drunk and hits him?"

"It's happened at least once, that I'm aware of. He came in all black and bruised. His mom's one stone-cold bitch, that's for sure. Social services got involved, but they didn't do much about it." I shrugged, pretending that none of this was a big deal. "Oh, and I almost forgot one part. After we ask him to leave today, we'll have to give his mother a call and tell her what happened. How do you think that'll work out for him when he gets home?"

She swallowed, and I spotted a tear glistening on her cheek. "So we just do nothing then?"

"Sometimes the best thing to do is nothing, Kim." God, I wish I'd given myself that advice the night before. "We gotta pick our battles, that's all. Can't win 'em all, you know." She hung her head and nodded. "How about I take you out for lunch? I promised, after all. Fair's fair."

* * *

We chose a cafe-bakery hybrid called Dough Re Mi. It had sat dormant for decades, until a couple of local hipsters, calling themselves entrepreneurs, invested into having it reopened. Same name, same chipped wooden chairs and wobbling tables, but a new coat of marigold paint on the walls.

Kim stared at me with expectation, ignoring the croissant on her plate. It hadn't taken her long to forget all about our goat-fucking friend. "Well?"

She must've asked me a question, but I hadn't been listening. "Well, what?" Concentration was damn near impossible. I'd picked the wrong day to invite Kim out for lunch and it showed, because I almost couldn't listen to her. I just wanted to be alone with my menacing thoughts, back at the circulation desk. But the more isolated I was, the more I knew I would hear from Animus, which was just about the last thing I needed. "What? What did I miss?"

"Are you okay?"

"I'm just a bit, ah, well, I didn't sleep much last night. Let's leave it at that."

She picked up her croissant and played with it, before setting it back down. "I was asking if you still think I should study criminology." Much to the chagrin of her controlling parents, Kim had no desire to study medicine in college. She would never be Dr. Kim Zhang, PhD.

I tore off a chunk of crumb cake and popped it in my mouth. "Yes, Kim. For the thousandth time, you should definitely study criminology. Just, ah"—I carried on with a mouth full of food—"tell me again, what's it all about?" I was humoring her, of course. I had a sneaking suspicion that I was better versed on the topic than she was.

"Well, it's the scientific study of crimes and criminals."

"So it's an exact science?"

"It's getting there. Pretty soon we'll be able to explain everything about serial killers. Why they do the things they do, and even how they choose the people they kill."

"For real?"

And that, right there, was my cue to check out again. She'd prattle on for a few minutes and it would give my mind a chance to travel someplace else. For instance, if I would be making a huge mistake by going back to kill Kenneth. The stakes were high, and that meant I'd be more apt to make serious errors.

Before last night, I thought I had an advantage. The urge to kill, for me, was a lot like the desire to eat or sleep or have sex. It was built into my physiology somehow, and it demanded that I act upon it. No criminologist could predict the behavior of a woman with no clear motive. Well, no motive, aside from the persistent torment of her imaginary twin sister, which warranted its own psychological assessment.

The point, however, was that I had no ties to Kenneth before last night, and he had no idea who I was. And I stood to gain nothing from murdering him. The crime was supposed to appear random, which would make it that much more difficult to solve. Just a few days ago, I would've said that Kenneth was the perfect target. But somewhere out there was a man who not only knew that I intended to kill Kenneth, but who also knew my family. He knew Mom and Dad—their names, at least—and had reason to believe I had a real living twin sister.

"Did I tell you I'm going to be taking a psychology class this fall?"

Her sudden change in topic grabbed my attention. I savored another bite of crumb cake before answering, allowing it a chance to melt in my mouth. "No, I don't think so."

"Yeah. My school just started offering it for seniors. Been reading ahead."

"About what?"

"Freud. Jung. That sort of stuff."

"Learn something new?"

"Yeah, I've been reading up on archetypes and the collective unconscious. That kinda thing."

"You finding any of it interesting?"

"Oh, yeah. For sure. Like, Jung had this idea about anthropomorphic archetypes. The anima, he called it in men, or animus in women, the expression of her inner masculine personality."

She had me now, hook, line, and sinker. "You don't say."

"Yeah, like, I don't know. I just think it's interesting." She took the first bite of her croissant. Minuscule, but a bite nonetheless. "Like, do you think all women have an inner animus? Something in our minds controlling us, uh, unconsciously or whatever?"

"That's a good question, Kim. Maybe you'll find out next semester."

Another bite. The smallest bite possible, I was sure of it. "Jung said if we become aware of our animus, it gets easier to tell it apart from reality."

"Yeah, well, Jung didn't know everything, now did he?" I finished the crumb cake and pushed the plate a few inches from me. "You know how else the word animus is used? It's the root of animosity, too." I brushed the crumbs off my hands. "Maybe all Jung was trying to say is that most of us have demons to face. We all have reasons to ponder who we are on the inside."

"That's kind of an elementary way of looking at it." She tapped arpeggios on the table as she pondered my words, and looked out the window next to our table.

That suited me fine, because my mind was racing to figure out my next move. I couldn't go back to The Corridor, I thought, but the good news was that Becca was all right, and Kenneth was still out there somewhere. And I couldn't spend the rest of my life acting out of fear that someone was watching me. That's what I told myself, at least. Kenneth deserved to die. The world would be better off without him. I just had to be careful. Meticulous to a fault.

I couldn't help but wonder where the hell he'd been last night. If he wasn't at home, as The Man in Shadows had claimed, and he wasn't at the bar, it was conceivable that he had developed a new routine right under my nose. A new routine that would, no doubt, force me to revise my original plan. But, if I played my cards right, soon enough he'd be mine. All mine.

Kim tried again to interrupt my thoughts. "I talked to Tia for a minute yesterday. She . . ."

And that's when I should have been listening, but I was too self-involved. I'd need to follow Kenneth home from work. That would be my best chance at learning where else he was going in his spare time, and what new company he was keeping. He finished work around four o'clock on weekdays, which meant I would need to leave the library early.

". . . said it was nothing, but I don't know. Like, she seemed—"

"Wait. Did you just say you talked to Tia yesterday?"

She furrowed her brow, doing her best to demonstrate concern. It was tough to tell whether that was concern for me or Tia, but it made no difference. She'd just given me an idea, and I had to get back to the library. All that was standing in my way was her hardly-touched croissant.

* * *

I stopped by my desk after lunch, reviewing the tasks that remained on my to-do list for the day. There was just one, ordering new children's books, which was straightforward enough. I'd already asked Kim to do it. The girl was seventeen and wore a pink Winnie the Pooh wristwatch, its strap made out of Velcro. I figured she was more in touch with what kids wanted to read than I was. Not to mention, she lit up like the Fourth of July whenever I asked her to do something she deemed important. I crossed it off and then got to work on something more pressing. Looking up what Tia Moore had checked out the day before.

I don't know why it mattered so much, or why I'd rushed back from lunch to do this. Tia had come in acting strange and walking crooked, sure. She was a strange girl to begin with, the daughter of a businessman who had divorced her mother and relocated them both to Wakefield a few years back. Tia lived at home with her wealthy father, and for reasons I couldn't explain, held down a part-time job at a diner opened twenty-four hours for truckers. She needed her own spending money, I guess, to purchase expensive lingerie that she'd just end up forgetting at my brother's apartment.

But if I were being honest, it was that involvement with my brother that made me most interested in her behavior. I'd caught her browsing the self-help section the day after she stood up Chris, after all, and I somehow doubted that she'd been perusing books on cooking or gardening.

I pulled up her records and, at first, had trouble making sense of what I was seeing: Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson. Asking For It by Louise O'Neill. The Survivor's Guide to Sex by Staci Haines. And the list went on. Jesus, the bitch could read, and she had checked out just about every book we had on a single topic, sexual assault. Fiction and non-fiction.

I left work right then. Not to go find Kenneth—I'd get to that later—but to go find Tia. But as I rose from the chair, something caught my attention and held me in place. It was Neil's drawing on my cork board. The eyeball and its ominous warning. It was staring a hole almost clear through me, and for the briefest of moments, I could have sworn I saw the red droplet of blood at its edge drip-drip-drip down onto my desk.

Chapter 11

I maneuvered my car up a winding paved drive, passing through tall, wrought iron gates. Two hundred feet from the road was what looked to be a modest palace, built of magnificent stone. Its tall windows were divided into rectangular panes, both portrait and landscape, trimmed in black, like a collage of photos. A peak at its middle stretched upward to the sky, like a castle tower in some fairytale, a balcony of tinted glass spanning its front.

The drive led to a roundabout with a fountain at its center, jets spouting thick streams of shimmering blue in all directions. I could see, through my window, sturgeon and goldfish in the shallow depths of its reservoir. Some of Twinkie's distant cousins, perhaps. Its edges were flanked by lush gardens of orchids and lilies, tulips and saffron. I half-expected a valet to approach the car, offering to park it for me below ground next to a Rolls Royce or a Lamborghini, or both.

As a woman of less discriminating tastes—frugal, in other words—I made a point of glancing in the rearview mirror before climbing out, to make the best of what some might have called a bad situation. There wasn't much to freshen up, but I gave my lips another dab of cherry red. I stepped out of the car, smoothing my attire before approaching large double doors, reaching for the massive brass knocker over the bell. Salespeople ring doorbells, I'd once heard, not friends. But I had no idea if this would turn out to be an amicable visit. I needed information from her, and I'd get it one way or another.

It felt uncomfortable visiting Tia, especially at her home. I was pretty sure she knew that I didn't care for her, even if she did like to pretend that we were best friends. As I stood there waiting, I imagined her opening the door in one of her usual outfits. She'd be wearing yoga pants today, perhaps, three sizes too small, suffocating two round bongos protruding from her posterior. She'd have on a bikini top or a tank with spaghetti straps, and she'd have her hair and makeup done to perfection, just to sit at home watching reruns of The Real Housewives. At least, on some level, that's what I was hoping for. And she'd extend the same disingenuous and exuberant production as always, shrieking, "Oh my God, Afton! It's been soooo long. How've you been, girl? You're looking so good. I love that skirt. Wow! And how's—"

But as the door inched open, that's not what greeted me at all. It was Tia, but she had on baggy pajama pants and a worn tee shirt, a baseball hat, and for the first time since I had known her, I was able to see her true face. No concealer, no eye shadow, and no fake lashes. Just dull and blemished skin, like the rest of us. She let the bill of the hat shield her eyes, which told me she had been crying, and she gripped the door's edge as though it were some kind of impregnable shield. With her head lowered and her voice not more than a gruff whisper, she said, "Afton." And that was all she said, nonchalant and unnerving, as though somebody had kidnapped Tia Moore and replaced her with a cardboard cutout.

"Hi, Tia."

A long pause followed before she spoke again. "What're you doing here?"

I looked around the perimeter of the house out of sheer instinct, almost thinking I'd see The Man in Shadows lurking not ten yards from me. "Is it all right if I come inside?"

Tia hesitated, but nodded after a moment, and opened the door just a little farther, ensuring half her body remained barricaded behind it.

"Thanks."

"I'm, uh, surprised to see you here, Afton. Uh, well, surprised in a good way, you know."

I didn't know. Tia could be sweet, sure. Kind, even, and in good spirits most of the time, but otherwise a total flimsy flake. I somehow doubted my presence was a good surprise. "Is there someplace we can talk?" Tia closed the door and stood there, looking at me, her face stark and without obvious feeling. "Look, if it's a bad time . . ." I knew it was a bad time, to be fair, but I wasn't sure what else to say.

"No, it's f-fine, Afton. It's nice to s-see you." She covered her mouth and cleared her throat, hoping to mask the shaking in her voice, I suspect. "There's, ah, nobody home. Dad's gone, finishing up a property deal in the city, I think. It's just me."

I glanced around. The vestibule was constructed of marble, and our voices echoed as we talked. There were two stone pillars erected on either side of a six-foot portrait mounted to the wall. The familial similarities—the slender face shape, narrow eyes, dark hair and skin tones—of the two painted figures suggested they had been relatives of Tia's, her grandparents or great-grandparents, perhaps.

"Awful big house for a girl by herself, isn't it?"

She shrugged. "I guess so."

"You don't have family in town you could go stay with, or friends?" I almost suggested giving Chris a call, but that was the last thing I wanted to encourage her to do.

She shook her head. "It's just me and Dad. That's it." She motioned past two French doors to a lavish reception area, decorated with plush white carpet, a hutch filled with fine crystal next to a gas fireplace, and a baby grand piano in one corner. I followed her lead, understanding all at once why she still lived at home. This place was a goddamn castle. I was more than just a little awestruck, but I snapped out of it and returned my attention to Tia, who still seemed to teeter as she walked, although not as pronounced as the day before. An extravagant burgundy sofa made a soft crunching noise as we sat next to each other, suggesting it was seldom used or brand new. Tia faced me, but angled her body away from mine, folding her hands in her lap. "You want something to drink? Coffee? Tea?" As she asked the question, her eyes fixated on a glass decanter on the mantel with an inch of brown liquid at its base. Bourbon, I surmised, and I wondered if Tia had already helped herself to most of it.

"I'm fine." I took a deep breath and pressed my hands together, bringing the tips of my fingers to the bottom of my chin. "Look, I don't know how else to ask, so I'm just gonna ask. Where were you two nights ago?"

"Monday?" Her eyes, which I got a good look at for the first time, were both puffy and red, and she shifted them down and away. "At w-work." She sniffled. "Why?"

"I mean, after your shift at the diner."

She raised her head and looked straight through me. "Why? Is this about Chris?"

I shifted positions on the sofa. Its surface was hard, to be frank, but most of all, I didn't care for discussing my brother with her. "I know you didn't end up making it to his place, Tia, and that's fine. But that's not what I want to know. Where did you end up going instead?"

"Nowhere. Uh, n-nowhere but home. I just forgot." She shook her head as she babbled. "Didn't mean to h-hurt his feelings, Afton. I like your brother, you know that."

"I know, but . . ." I extended my hand and placed it on hers, thinking a friendly gesture might get her talking. Tia's hand resembled an ice box, and it made me think of Animus. The sensation didn't last long, however. She twitched on contact and pulled her hand from mine. "What?"

"Nothing, Afton. Nothing. Sorry."

"Tia, look. I think somebody hurt you that night." That got her attention. She perked up and held my gaze, then defaulted back to shaking her head. Was she still in denial, or was it shame I was seeing? "It's okay, Tia. It wasn't your fault."

"It isn't okay," she said, her eyes glistening with moisture. "And it was my fault. That's what people will think, anyway. What's that phrase I heard Pete use once? Cum dumpster, I think?"

"Pete Albright?"

"Yeah, Afton. Come on. Don't play dumb with me. I'm no genius, I get that, but I'm not stupid, either. I've heard the things people say about me when my back is turned." Her entire jawline clenched, and she opened and closed her fists, but I had a feeling her anger wasn't directed toward me. "You're no different. You think I'm just some dirty slut, like everybody else, and I'll bet you think it's my fault that, well, like, like I w-was asking for it."

Something was bubbling inside of me as she spoke, and it wasn't guilt, I don't think. But something was gnawing at my stomach, and it didn't feel right. Tia was being truthful. A lot of people, me included, had said all kinds of things about her over the years, and, as expected, a lot of those remarks made their way back to her. The whole thing reminded me of the eyeball hanging at my desk. There was always someone watching, someone listening, and that person wasn't always hiding in the shadows. Sometimes that person was right in front of us.

"I'm sorry." It was the only thing I could think to say, even though I doubted it would help.

Tia cupped her head in her hands. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does."

She looked up. "Why do you even care, Afton? Why are you here? And how could you possibly know, um, that." She wiped tears from her cheeks and waited for me to enlighten her.

"I took a peek at what you checked out from the library."

"You were spying on me?"

"No, no, Tia, look, it's a good thing. It's good that you're seeking answers, I mean. Getting help. It's gonna take time, and—"

"What do you know about it?"

My whole body tensed, mirroring the way Tia sat on the edge of the sofa. A beat passed, unnatural in length, and all I could muster in response was, "Nothing."

Tia leaned forward and studied my face. "I don't think it's nothing, Afton. What happened?"

Thousands of memories came flooding back through my consciousness at once, each one an image I had fought like hell to forever banish from my psyche. Demons, that had laid in wait, were seething at my core, and came breaking to the surface in flashes of white-hot anger, rushing to my head and neck.

"Afton?"

Him, forcing himself inside me, gripping the back of my head with one hand, pressing it tight to the rough concrete. My face, drenched in a cocktail of tears, spit, and blood, writhing, straining to break free, and him laughing, making no effort to conceal his pleasure.

"Afton, you're scaring me."

He used his other hand to pin my arms behind my back, to restrain me, and his skin felt soft, cool, and dry. He wasn't alarmed in the slightest. He was humiliating me, using me, hurting me, and it was routine for him, normal somehow, acceptable, and that was what haunted me most.

"Afton, please . . ."

I had this visceral urge to scream for help, but the reality of what was happening crippled me. Intense fear filled me with shock, disbelief, and shame. I prayed to a God I didn't believe in for help, that Mom might return right then as a guardian angel, and put a stop to it. But she never came. Instead, cackling in the darkness, appeared Animus for the first time, mocking me, taunting my defenselessness. As though I should have somehow been prepared to fight back. As though I should somehow have seen the incident coming.

"Afton, stop it!"

I knew he'd kill me afterward. I knew, when it was all said and done, and he'd got what he wanted, he'd kill me. Dead at seventeen. And it was almost what I wanted right then, too, because I knew I'd never be the same. I just held my eyes closed and waited for it all to be over, waited for me to be over . . .

I gasped, choking on the stale breath I had been holding, and shifted forward on the sofa. "What just happened?" Tia was covering her mouth, sobbing and watching me do, well, whatever it was I had just been doing. I couldn't be sure.

My vision came back into focus, and behind Tia on the sofa was Animus. She was shaking with exuberance and frothing at the mouth. "What a . . . wonderful night, Afton." She laughed, giving her knee a dramatic slap. "That's how we met, you and me, wasn't it? A match made in Heaven." Her face, as animated as a cartoon one moment, pulled taut and serious the next. Her eyes narrowed into slits, and her voice turned ragged. "Wasn't it? I was the one . . . there with you, Afton. Me! It's always been you and me!"

Tia, more disturbed by what had just happened than I was, wiggled a few inches from me, a few inches closer to Animus. "You were c-convulsing, Afton, like, l-like you were having some kind of s-seizure or something."

I wiped saliva from the corners of my mouth, making no effort to conceal the anger on my face. It was intended for Animus, but Tia had no way of knowing that. "It was a long time ago, Tia."

Tia nodded and muffled sobs with her hands. "When?"

"The year before I left for college. Happened one night after I had finished volunteering at the library." I rubbed my temples. "Right in the parking lot."

"No one saw?"

I thought again of Neil's drawing, and the message written beneath it. i see you. If someone had seen something that night, they certainly hadn't felt like intervening. Animus saw all of it, of course. The incident had been an important part of her genesis story. "No."

"Who was it?"

"I never found that out. Didn't know him. Didn't get a look at his face, either."

"And you didn't report it?"

"No."

"Afton . . ."

"I never even told Chris." I stuck an accusing finger in her face. "And you'd better not, either."

She shook her head back and forth, more times than necessary. "Never. I won't. I promise. That's your business." She sniffled again. "I reported it. Mine, I mean."

That made me sit up straighter, a reminder as to why I was there in the first place. It hurt, though, to hear her characterize the attack as hers. It was as though she was internalizing the entire thing, finding a way to take ownership for it, to make it her own fault. "You recognized him?"

"Not by name. Just by what he looked like." I beckoned her to continue with a wave of my hand. "He likes hanging out at this bar a couple blocks from the diner. The Corridor."

"I know the place."

"You do?"

"Yeah, but I had no idea you liked hanging out there."

"I don't go there much. Just sometimes because it's close to work." Tia shrugged. "It was this middle-aged guy, and I'd seen him in there before. Blue collar type, kinda smells bad. He didn't—" She shut her eyes, and I was sure she was seeing his image on the back of her lids. I thought I saw her flinch in horror, but it lasted just a fraction of a second, almost like a shiver. "He didn't cover his face when it happened and, um, I remembered just enough of what he looked like to pick him out in a photo."

"A photo?"

"Yeah, found out his name was Kenneth something. Well, I found out after the cops picked him up."

"They picked him up . . ." If the police had Kenneth, I wouldn't be able to get to him.

Animus whistled to get my attention. She folded her arms across her chest and puckered her lips in a fat pout. "I told you we were . . . too late, Afton. You waited too—"

I cut her off. "When?"

Tia continued. "Yesterday, at some point. Afternoon, I think. I reported it first thing in the morning."

Kenneth really wasn't home last night. "Did they, uh"—there was no delicate way to ask this—"do a rape kit or whatever?"

She nodded, and my spirits sank. Kenneth had been let off all those times due to insufficient evidence. If they had real evidence this time—semen, especially—it would mean game over for me. I'd never get the chance to kill him. Most disheartening of all was the eerie realization that The Man in Shadows had been telling the truth. Kenneth hadn't been home last night. That entire hunt for Kenneth—holding a man hostage, showing up on Becca's doorstep and frightening Neil—had been for nothing.

I frowned. "Let's just hope he goes away for a long time."

"Yeah, let's hope." This time, Tia extended her hand and rested it on mine. It felt a tad warmer now, as though her blood had started flowing again. It probably was cathartic for her to talk about the trauma, and I didn't know how I felt about that. I hadn't come here to do Tia any favors, after all, let alone comfort her. She forced herself to smile. "Guess we're both victims, huh?"

What happened next, I'll never be able to explain with mere words. All I knew for certain was that I shot up from the sofa and grabbed the first heavy object within arm's reach. It was a candy dish, I think, and I held it straight over my head. "I'm no fucking victim, Tia, do you hear me?" I was hunched over and shouting, my nose only inches from hers.

"Afton, Afton, I'm sorry, I'm—"

Animus stood next to me and pumped her fists in the air. "Do it, Afton! Yes! Bash her—"

But I wasn't listening to Animus that time. I really wasn't. All I could hear rolling around in my head was that V-word. That dirty fucking V-word. "I've never been a victim, Tia, never! You understand me? I'm nobody's motherfucking victim. Nobody's!"

"Okay, okay!" Tia pressed her palms outward, urging me to retreat, and shielding her face. "Okay, just, please calm down, Afton. Please."

Animus grabbed my hand and tried to force it down to Tia's skull. I resisted, which made her wrestle with me that much harder. "End this fucking whore. Now! Nobody's . . . gonna miss her, Afton! Kill her!" The chants got louder and deeper. They multiplied, a whole chorus of antagonists emerging from her throat, shouting at me in dissonant unison. Animus foamed at the mouth and her eyes rolled back to reveal nothing but whites. "Kill this bitch! Do it!" She dug her fingers into my wrist. Her skin felt cold, as expected, but her breath roared out hot like fire.

I struggled to control my breathing, to keep my hand above my head, beading in sweat. "No, no, she doesn't deserve it! She doesn't—" And without warning, Animus was gone. The object, whatever it was, fell to the floor and shattered into pieces. "Oh, fuck. Tia, I'm so sorry."

To my surprise, Tia was still there, shielding her face. I figured she would have fled the house, or pushed me to the floor, or at the very least, moved out of striking distance. But she was right where she'd started, on the sofa, huddled beneath me. After a few seconds, she looked up, her cheeks stained with wetness. "I don't deserve, what?" She wiped her face and blinked in rapid succession.

"Look, I'm sorry. Really, I am, I mean it. Let me help you clean this up. I didn't—"

She stood, shaking on unsteady feet, and faced me. "It's fine. Look, I had—"

And right then, I did something strange, something I would have never predicted in a million lifetimes. I hugged Tia Moore. I wrapped both arms around her without reservation and held her tight. "He will pay for this, Tia." She took a step back and nodded, but she must have wondered how I could have been so certain. "But there's one thing I don't ever want you to forget, all right?"

"What's that?"

"We're not"—the term sounded repulsive and vulgar—"victims, Tia. We're more than that." I touched her arm. "We're survivors. Remember that, okay?" She nodded again. "I've gotta get going." I pointed to the mess around my feet. "You sure you don't want—"

She shook her head. "I'll take care of it. The cleaning lady comes by tomorrow."

"Want me to call your dad or something, so you don't have to be alone?"

"I think I'd rather be alone right now."

I walked out to my car, which looked an awful lot like a trash can next to its decadent surroundings. After I was back on the main road, the tears began flowing uninhibited, because for the first time, I could place his voice, The Man in Shadows. "Go home, Afton." It wasn't until the episode on Tia's sofa that I had been able to connect those words to the second part of what he had told me, that night I had first met Animus. The night of the incident. Just as he zipped up, leaving me face down, exposed, and bleeding. "Go home, Afton, and clean yourself off."

It was him all those years ago, the man who had made me a survivor.

Chapter 12

Nothing could cheer me up. Not even a repeat of Forensic Files.

"It was a crisp October night in the sleepy town of Wakefield when a young mother's body was found . . ." The husband did it. It was always the husband, or the boyfriend. Besides, I had seen this particular episode at least a dozen times. It was one of my favorites, in fact, set right here in town more than twenty years ago. And it was loaded to the tits with gore.

". . . it would take more than ten years for forensics to exonerate Corbyn Thurber . . ." That part was true. New evidence would exonerate him, but only after the state had already murdered him for a crime he hadn't committed. It would have been a bit like winning a footrace right off the edge of a cliff. ". . . and it would leave a small Midwestern town reeling for years to come."

God, how I loved that voice. Peter Thomas, the narrator, describing death and dismemberment at length, in that sultry voice of his. The way he spoke was so calm and even and matter-of-fact. It was almost orgasmic, and under normal circumstances, it would have had me tickled. But I had come to two very depressing conclusions that afternoon. First, I would never be able to take Kenneth's life, and second, The Man in Shadows was still out there somewhere. He wanted something from me, and I somehow doubted it was my forgiveness.

It was a regular habit to lock my apartment door, both the handle and the deadbolt, regardless of the time of day. But tonight, I'd slid an Ikea bookcase in front of it, too. It felt a bit like I was being punished for a crime I'd never had the privilege of committing, and it was as frustrating as it was a blow to my self-esteem. I'd been planning Kenneth's demise for so long. I sulked, deciding to flip through channels, pausing on local access cable news, where Jared was standing outside the police station.

I tuned in just in time to hear him say, ". . . where Mr. Pritchard, forty-four, a local construction worker and respected member of the community, is expected to be released at any moment."

Whether I was more confused about the word respected or released, I wasn't sure. I looked over at Twinkie, who was hovering around his favorite thinking spot. "Did I just hear that right, Twinkie-Dink?"

I turned back to the television to see Animus standing next to it, rubbing her lifeless hands together. I wanted to scream, but settled on, "Not now."

"Released, Afton." Her nostrils flared. "He's . . . going home."

I focused on the screen and, just like that, the back door to the police station opened, and out walked a man in uniform decorated with detailed frills and stripes. The chief of police, I guessed. There was a man with him in a cheap-looking striped suit, and the two of them walked on either side of a third man, Kenneth. Jared half-shouted into the microphone, "It looks like he's coming out now." He and his cameraman blended in to the media scrum, which, in this town, was only three or four reporters strong. There was a lot of indistinct chatter for a moment, until I heard Jared say, "Mr. Pritchard, this isn't the first time you've been accused of assault. What do you have to say for yourself?"

But it was the man in the checkered suit—a discount lawyer, by the looks of it—who answered the question. "My client is innocent of this crime and each crime he was accused of before it, just as he's maintained from the start. And the police department here in Wakefield has been deliberate and malicious in its continued vendetta to smear my client's good standing in the community. We intend to file a civil harassment suit first thing in the morning."

Animus slapped the top of the television, just to get my attention. "Let's cut this motherfucker's head off . . . tonight! His cock, too! Let's hack him to bits." I could've sworn she was salivating again, the way she panted and licked her lips. Her words came out in a sharp growl. "No more fucking around."

There were more indistinct rumbles from the reporters, louder this time, and the lawyer escorted his client to a black Town Car waiting at the curb. The scene turned back to the police chief. He was an older, graying man, with blotchy cheeks and a bushy mustache. "On behalf of the entire police department, and the Town of Wakefield, I want to issue a sincere apology to Mr. Pritchard and his family for this terrible misunderstanding."

"Family?" He had no fucking family. That much I knew. I looked to Animus, and she nodded in what appeared to be agreement, but it could've been murderous intent, too. I looked to Twinkie next, and, although he didn't answer me in English, a few air bubbles trickled from his gaping mouth to the surface of the tank.

"No charges have been laid at this point," the police chief continued, "but we will be thoroughly investigating the young woman who laid these false accusations against Mr. Pritchard."

I thought for a moment I was hearing it all wrong. I had seen Tia today. I had talked to her, and as much as I didn't care for her puddle-deep persona, there was no doubt that she had been telling the truth. She'd even made it clear there had been a rape kit done. What more evidence did the police need? It struck me right then that Tia Moore shared a lot in common with Corbyn Thurber. Local law enforcement would serve as her judge, jury, and executioner, without a shred of hard evidence. This had nothing to do with truth and lies, innocence and guilt, and everything to do with telling a backwards and narrow-minded public the kind of narrative they wanted to hear.

It wasn't all bad news, though. Quite the opposite. In the next few minutes, Kenneth would arrive home. I felt like celebrating, but it was premature. Foolish, even. I shut off the television and sat forward, pressing my hands together. "No." Animus glared at me, and I did my best to avoid making eye contact. "We can't."

"What? Why?"

"I'm serious. He's watching us, Animus. Well, watching me, at least. And he knows what I'm about to do. I can't go—"

"Yes."

"—back to Kenneth's."

"You must. You . . . have to."

"No, I don't. You don't control me, Animus. You never have. And I'm not dumb. Trying to kill Kenneth, at this point? I might as well turn myself in. And that's if The Man in Shadows doesn't kill me first, or do God knows what else to me."

"He won't. He's—"

"We'll choose a new target. Someone out of town, maybe. Someone just as bad as Kenneth, or maybe even worse."

Animus trudged to the couch and lowered herself next to me. She first tried to put a supportive, albeit cajoling, arm around my neck, but I moved out of instinct. She then touched my leg. I could feel the pulsating frost of her fingertips through my skirt. She dropped her voice to a more reasonable tone. Well, more reasonable for her, at least. "You want to . . . let Kenneth keep on raping?"

"Stop it."

"You saw how . . . upset Tia was."

"What do you care?"

"I don't. But you do." She leaned in close, her lips almost brushing against my ear, and I felt my resolve begin to wane. "You do, Afton. And it's time."

Chapter 13

"What are you doing here, Afton? I thought you were at home sick?" Kim spoke through the passenger side window, leaning on the frame of the Corolla.

"I am sick."

"But you're—"

"Just get in, Kim. We've got an errand to run."

"But . . ." She glanced back at the library. "I'm not supposed to leave if it isn't break time."

"I'm your boss, Kim, and I'm telling you it's okay."

Her forehead was creased with worry, but she relented with a sigh. "Yes, ma'am." She moved in slow motion, fastening her seatbelt before pulling the door closed. "Where are we going?"

I shifted into drive. "We're taking care of a loose end."

"What loose end?"

"You'll see."

Kim hammered imaginary piano keys on the door. "Am I going to get in trouble for this?"

"Probably."

"How come you didn't come in today?"

"I told you, Kim. I'm sick. Think you can hold down the fort if I never come back?"

"What?"

"I mean, at least until tomorrow, Kim. Think you can manage?"

"I guess so. I'll just keep working through the to-do list you gave me."

"Good girl."

We arrived a few minutes later at a brick bungalow not far from Kenneth's house. It was an older home, but maintained well, a decorative straw wreath with a welcome sign adorning the front door. The lawn had been mowed not long ago, and I noticed a small bed of flowers near the house, guarded by a pair of lawn gnomes, dressed in red and blue. I parked next to a detached garage, its sides rife with peeling and faded chips of brown paint.

I pulled a Gatorade bottle from the cup holder, which was filled about halfway with light yellow, and warm to the touch. "Take this." I pointed to the far side of the garage, which was buried in hedges and faced away from the house. "And go fill it up some more."

She took the bottle from me out of strict obedience, gripping it between the tips of two fingers, and staring at its contents. "Is this—"

"It's piss, Kim. We all gotta go sometimes. I got it started, but let's see how much fuller you can get it. There's a funnel in the glove box, if you need it."

She set the bottle back down in the cup holder. "I can't do that! I can't just pee."

"Jesus, Kim, you take bathroom breaks every twelve minutes. You've got a bladder the size of a walnut. I'll bet you have to go right now."

She shook her head, tossing fine strands of shimmering black back and forth. "I can't."

"I believe in you."

"This isn't funny."

"Sure, it is."

"And what are we going to do with it after?"

"Well, remember how I said the cameras don't work outside the library?" She nodded, waiting for me to continue. "Turns out, I was wrong. I know who made that little donation you had to clean up."

"You do? Who?"

I pointed to the house. "His name is Eric Conway. You know Jared Conway, the wannabe reporter?"

"Wannabe?"

"It's his little brother. Well, little is a bit hyperbolic. He's sixteen and he knows better. And we're going to teach him a lesson today."

"I don't know, Aft—"

"We're going to teach him a lesson, Kim. Just think of all those poor defenseless books he slaughtered."

That seemed to work, even though it was the kind of passive aggressive trickery I would've expected from Animus. Kim sighed, more of a hiss and a groan, and picked up the bottle. "Is this gonna be gross?"

"Probably."

"Do I have to do it?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell anyone?"

"Not a soul. I promise."

Still she hesitated, bobbling her head. Poor, sweet kid. She didn't have a mean bone in her body. But she was almost too sweet. Submissive, even. I was almost jealous of her. She saw the good in everything, never complained. I wondered what it would be like to have such an abundant supply of innocence, hope, and decency. But I also knew that if things didn't go to plan, tonight could end up being my last night on earth. My last night of freedom, at the very least. And if I were going to leave Kim with anything, it would be a valuable lesson about standing up to assholes and bullies. To be strong, smart, and take no shit.

After a moment of whispering to herself—I thought she might have been praying—she grabbed the funnel from the glove box and disappeared around the far side of the garage. I got out of the car and sucked in a deep lungful of humid morning air, enjoying how the sun beat down on my face. Kim came out from around the garage a moment later and she'd damn near filled the bottle to the top.

We set off across the lawn. I had no real fear of being caught. Worst case scenario, Eric's mother would see us and start shouting obscenities. Next to the consequences for killing a man, petty vandalism and trespassing seemed insignificant. Kim, on the other hand, looked nervous as hell. She was taking short strides behind me and peering all around, chewing on her fingernails. I think, more than anything else, she feared disappointing her parents, should they ever find out what we were about to do.

She caught up to me. "What happens now?"

I stopped dead in my tracks and nodded to a window at the side of the house. "This is Eric's room."

"Is he home?"

I grabbed Kim's left wrist and held it up for her to see. "What time is it, Winnie the Pooh?"

"About nine-thirty."

"A teenage boy on summer break, Kim. You tell me. What's he doing right now?"

"Sleeping?"

"Right." I again nodded to the window. "Sleeping." I grabbed a box cutter from my bag and extended its blade. "But not for long."

"Wait, are you gonna cut him?"

I didn't answer her. I instead pulled the blade straight through the mesh screen, cutting out the portion beneath the raised window. I peeked through the hole I had just made, confirming my suspicion. There was Eric, big dumb baby that he was, sprawled out on his back, snoring, mouth open wide.

"Fast asleep." I unscrewed the cap on the Gatorade, and handed it to Kim. "Ready?"

She shook her head with vehemence—No, no!—but I didn't care. This was going to happen. I placed her hand on the bottle and we guided it upward. Even though Kim's hand was shaking and she held her eyes closed, she was moving the bottle, at least a little, on her own. There was some part of her that wanted to do this. I half-expected Animus to join us in the spirit of meanness, or something like that. She'd want to put a hand in with us, but I guess this was too much fun for her.

We rested the bottle against the ledge of the window, and I counted down. "Three, two, one."

And just like that, we tilted the bottle in unison, fighting to suppress laughter as its contents emptied with a glug-glug-glug sound. It took Eric a whole two seconds to stir, much to my surprise. There was a soft grunt, then a rustle of the sheets, and then the bottle was empty. I pushed it straight through the opening, heard it go thunk on his wet head, and we took off running.

"Hey, what the—what the fuck? Wh-what is this? Hey!"

Those were the last sounds we heard before slamming our car doors, firing up the engine, and getting the hell out of there, tires squealing back onto the road. Kim was damn near hyperventilating. She had her head between her knees, doubled over in hysterics. Her tan skin had turned beet red, almost purple, and I had never seen her face stretched so wide with delight.

"You gonna survive over there, Kim? Or should I drop you off at the hospital?"

"I, I—oh, oh my God, oh—Afton, I—I've never done something like, like that. Never! Oh my God . . ."

"Get a grip."

"Oh my God . . ." And that's how it went for the next minute or so, until she managed to catch her breath. "Thank you."

"For what? That?"

"Yes. You're, um, kinda like the big sister I never had."

"I don't know if that's a compliment. You're kind of a dweeb."

"It is. I mean, I know I'm uptight, but, uh, I don't know. That was fun."

"Why do I get the feeling you're going to be the one telling other people about this?"

"Would you be mad if I did?"

"Not at all. You deserve to have a bit of fun sometimes, Kim. You're too serious. A girl your age should be getting into some trouble every now and again."

She hesitated. "H-have I ever told you how much I look up to you?"

"What? You do? Why?"

"It's, uh . . ."

I glanced over, and Kim was turning beet red all over again. "What?"

"It's just that, well, you make a difference. There aren't a whole lot of successful career women in Wakefield I can look up to, you know? You're kinda like my role model."

A role model? Jesus, the last person this girl ought to be emulating was me. "I don't think I'm a role model, Kim. I don't even like kids, for fuck's sake."

"Well, they seem to like you. You know Neil?"

Know him? I knew his elusive mother now, too. I'd even seen her junk the other night. "Sure."

"Do you know why he drew that eyeball for you?"

"Why?"

"He wants to be just like you one day. He wanted to make you smile, the way you make him smile."

"He told you that?"

"Yes. He had chocolate all over his face at the time, but yes."

Oh, the feels. The goddamn feels. I prided myself on being a bitch, and here was this peppy little summer volunteer, doing her damnedest to infiltrate my blackened heart with warmth and love and sunshine and puppies and rainbows. "Stop it, Kim."

"I mean it. I'm serious. You make a big difference to so many of us. You're strong and smart and funny and pretty, and a lot of people look up to you. You inspire us."

I let the rest of the drive pass in silence. If I had tried talking right then, I think I might have cried.

* * *

The wooden slats leading down to Chris's basement apartment were cracked and uneven, and I always had to focus to avoid tripping and breaking my neck. Just as I raised the lid to his mailbox, he opened the door in nothing but boxer shorts. "Afton, what're you doing here?"

I raised the two books I had been clutching under my arm, All the Birds in the Sky and Borderline. "Just dropping these off for you. And for the love of God, put on some pants."

"Shouldn't you be at work?"

"Shouldn't you?"

"Ten days on, five days off, remember?"

No, I hadn't remembered that useful tidbit. I thought Chris wouldn't be home, which is how I would have preferred it. Fewer questions that way, because the last thing I wanted to hear was Chris pressing me on why I seemed out of sorts or on edge. I decided to take advantage of the situation, though. It might have been the last time I would see him without bars or glass between us. Or six feet of dirt, for that matter.

He took the books. "I didn't even finish the last two yet."

"Just, ah, stocking you up for a little while. These two are always getting checked out, it seems."

"Want to come in?"

"No, thanks. I've, ah, gotta get back to work."

"All right. Well, it was good seeing you." He examined the woman's face on the cover of Borderline. "Are we still on for dinner next week?"

"You bet." I swallowed hard. "My place this time, though. I'll make Thai noodles."

"My favorite."

"I know." That was my cue to leave, but I didn't budge. "You got a hug for me?"

"A hug?" He looked at me sideways. "Since when do you want hugs, Afton?"

"Don't be a douche, Chris. Just—"

But before I could finish the thought, he wrapped both his arms around me, squeezing me tight enough to cut off the circulation. "Always got a hug for my baby sister." His broad shoulders mashed my glasses right up to my forehead, too.

His embrace made me feel safe, and I thought if I let it go on any longer, I might never pull away. I stepped back and pinched my nose. "Jesus, Chris, take a shower. You stink."

"I wasn't expecting company." He traced his jawline, drawing attention to patches of thin stubble. "Living that bachelor life."

"Sure, sure." I began climbing back up the broken steps. "Chris?"

"Yeah?"

"Give Tia a call some time. I think she'd like to hear from you."

I looked over my shoulder, and Chris had his eyes squinted at me. Not just on account of his poor vision, I don't think. He was confused, as though someone had kidnapped his sister and replaced her with a decent human being. "Never thought I'd hear you say that. Thought you hated—"

"Just do it, Chris."

"All right, then. Maybe I will. Uh, love you, Afton."

I resumed my ascent. "You, too."

Chapter 14

I was submerged to my neck in a tub full of bubbles, taking in the majestic sounds of Modest Mussorgsky. Night on Bald Mountain, to be exact, its vigorous tempo taking my senses on a thrill ride elevated with raging peaks, accented by the crash of powerful cymbals, contrasted against stretches of soft and introspective melodies. Mussorgsky painted a vivid landscape of highs and lows, one that mirrored the ebb and flow of time. I felt it all through my body. The arduous rise to eternal glory, the perilous descent to fiery devastation. Aside from the music, however, the place was quiet. I hadn't seen Animus all day. A first in a long, long time, and I couldn't decide whether to be grateful or alarmed.

Candlelight flickered at the edge of the tub, casting long, warm shadows across the tile and linoleum. I took a sip of wine, the glass near finished, and allowed my neck to relax, lowering the back of my head beneath the hot water. My body had been tense, much tenser than I had realized. The tub soothed my aching muscles, and the rising steam filled my nostrils with serenity. This was my happy place, the equivalent of my last supper, enjoying a moment of peace and calm before the main event. I'd just returned from a second run, and I craved the timeless works of Handel, Vivaldi, Nevsky, and Verdi, to name a few. I'd leave Bieber and The Weeknd to all the tasteless twats of my generation, lacking the good sense to appreciate the gifted composers of yesteryear.

That isn't to say I rejected all forms of pop culture. Part of me had wanted to watch one last romantic comedy before heading out that night, a classic I had already seen. Silver Linings Playbook, perhaps, or When Harry Met Sally, or even Chasing Amy. I might have enjoyed another candlelit encounter with Bradley Cooper or Billy Crystal, but I was scared to death that I might forget to erase my Netflix history. The last thing I'd want in the paper tomorrow would be some posthumous descriptor like: Wakefield Rom-Com Fanatic Goes Bat-Shit Crazy

If something were to go wrong tonight, that is. But this night had been a long time coming. I'd laid awake countless hours over the years, plotting every last detail of how I'd commit my first murder. And it was going to happen tonight, at long last. And if The Man in Shadows was waiting for me? Well, I didn't want to think about it. If he ended up being there, I'd deal with him, too. Who knows? Maybe I'd get two kills for the price of one.

I'd laid out all my tools before getting in the tub. A clip-point hunting knife with a carbon-steel blade sat out on the coffee table, one that I'd picked up a year ago at a garage sale a couple towns over. A town even smaller than Wakefield, if you can believe it. It looked ancient, its handle wrapped in cracked leather, which was a good thing. It had been used and worn, sharpened and honed countless times, altering the shape of the blade itself, which would make identifying the murder weapon difficult. And even if forensic experts could determine what type of blade had been used in Kenneth's murder, tracking down when and where it had been purchased would be damn near impossible.

Guns are a popular option when it comes to delivering fast and effective death. The problem is that guns are loud, ammunition is easily identifiable, and grooves on bullets can be traced and matched. Bashing heads with a bat or a club works, but it would take me more than one blow, and if Kenneth intervened after the first strike, it was possible I wouldn't land a second. Not to mention, castoff patterns reveal a lot about the height and build of the assailant.

Female killers often depend on poisons, but that could be tricky business. Say I poisoned Kenneth's milk. Who's to say he would drink it, let alone enough of it for the poison to be effective? And who's to say he wouldn't detect something wrong with the milk, and realize someone was trying to kill him? And if I attempted to inject him with poison while he slept, what if he woke up? It would take a moment for the poison to do its job, and any number of things could happen in that short window of time.

A blade, as far as I was concerned, would be the most effective and silent way to do it. It would require steady nerves, of course, and a single, precise, clean cut, but afterward, his heart would do the rest of the work for me. Besides, there were certain nuances to cutting a man's throat that just couldn't be duplicated with a gunshot or poison or blunt force trauma.

I had purchased the clothing I would wear in almost the same fashion as the hunting knife. A pair of small men's work boots, coveralls, a turtleneck with long sleeves, leather gloves, a ski mask, all in black. Each item had been purchased from someplace different over the span of several months, from thrift shops and yard sales, all paid for in cash, and sealed in plastic wrap ever since. I'd don a hair net tonight, too, beneath the ski mask, and swap my glasses for contact lenses. And by morning, all of my attire, and the murder weapon, would be long gone. I couldn't be too careful.

The hardest part, I thought, would be remaining objective. My mission was to get in, kill Kenneth, and get out. I didn't want to be ceremonious about it, or to stick around and admire my handiwork, or to collect a trophy to bring home with me. Even though the idea of slicing off an ear and pickling it in a jar had a certain appeal, I had to remain detached if I wanted to get away with this. And if I wanted a chance to be able to do it again. That could be the hardest part for someone like me, someone who had spent so much of her adult life fantasizing about the perfect first kill.

The candles I had positioned on the edge of the tub were beginning to burn low, and the water was cool. I climbed out of the tub and began to towel off, still wondering why Animus wasn't there to cheer me on. Death was her sustenance, after all. With the towel cloaked around my body, I leaned in close to the mirror, and that's when it dawned on me. Animus was nowhere to be found, because I was Animus. It had always been me. I was "Animus" Afton Morrison, the insatiable vigilante murderess, and it was time to give in to my darkest desires.

Chapter 15

I parked two streets over at a dead end, an abandoned paint factory on one side, a clearing of open field on the other. The closest house was fifty yards from my car, but just to be safe, I loosened some soil at the edge of the road and plastered it over most of the license plate. I was dressed in the all-black getup I had laid out at home, a satchel slung over my shoulder, but had the ski mask rolled up for now. If I happened to pass someone en route, the shadows would be enough to conceal my face. The last thing I wanted was to look like I was about to commit some kind of bank heist.

Across the clearing I sojourned, guided by the clear night sky, serenaded by a chorus of chirping crickets. I kept a small flashlight pointed at my feet, its dim beam illuminating a load of garbage before me that someone had dumped in the open field. I stepped around it, avoiding a tree branch that had succumbed to high winds, and arrived at a stretch of dense overgrowth. A dark wooded area, its floor lined with jagged rocks, tree roots, and hollowed logs. An owl hooted an indecipherable transmission, and a small rodent rustled a sparse pile of dead leaves. I kept my pace brisk and steady, navigating through to the other side, taking soft steps.

I stepped into the back lane behind a row of houses, thinking it would be best to approach Kenneth's from the rear. It was possible that police had his street under surveillance, after all. The tall overgrowth I had to traverse proved to be tiring, however, the Town of Wakefield seldom extending the effort to keep its residential lanes cleared for pedestrians.

Most of the homes I passed were dark. I came upon one that had its entire property line fenced off, suggesting the presence of a dog. Now that was a hazard I had hoped to avoid. Startling a fierce protector that would, no doubt, bark to alert every human on the street. But the yard was empty, and I pressed onward. The next house had on a kitchen light, and I saw through a narrow window what looked to be an old man moving about. He was fixing himself a midnight snack, perhaps.

I arrived at the edge of Kenneth's backyard and hesitated for the first time. It came back to me all at once. The suffocating black of total emptiness, the pale moonlight cut off by the peaks of old elm trees, and I heard it. I heard his voice in my head. "Go home, Afton." What if The Man in Shadows was hiding somewhere, waiting for me? What would he do with me? If it really had been him who had perpetrated the incident all those years ago, and I was certain it was, why had he made no effort to so much as touch me the other night? He had had every chance in the world to grab me, rape me again, torture me, kill me, cut me into pieces, and yet he offered up nothing but idle chitchat. Why?

I debated my next move, chastising myself for allowing fear to creep into my consciousness. I hadn't come this far to turn around and go back, scared of a man playing mind games in the shadows. I was a survivor, after all. And so I extinguished the light in my hand and returned it to the satchel, grasping the hilt of the hunting knife, in case I needed it. I'd panicked the other night, racing to do the right thing, but without a clear plan. And without a clear plan, I was out of my element. But tonight, I was a more prepared Afton, more assured, about to execute a serial rapist in cold blood. I pulled the ski mask down over my face, giving my field of vision a chance to adjust to its new restrictions.

I thought, given that Kenneth had spent twenty-four hours in police custody, that he might still be wide awake at his kitchen table, diluting his problems with a dozen tall cans of Bud. But the house was dark and silent, as were the houses on either side. Just like the other night, there were no sounds permeating its walls. No smells, no lights, and no discernible movements. I crept forward, one pace at a time, allowing my arm to lead the way, should I bump into something. Each step was taken with precision and care, in case there was a foreign object beneath my feet. My skin felt damp, my heart accelerated, but my nerves were bedrock. Everything was going to plan.

And then, a rustle. Something moved near one of the trees! I was fucking sure of it. And even though I had hoped to keep the light off as I made my final approach, if something—or someone—was out there, I had to know. I withdrew the light from my satchel and flicked it back on, keeping its soft beam close to the ground, scanning back and forth. I was positive the sound had come from an elm tree just nine or ten feet to my left, but I saw nothing there. A squirrel, I suspected, or a chipmunk, but it seemed improbable at that late hour.

I took a deep breath, turned out the light once more, and traveled the remaining distance to the house. I opened the outer storm door with extreme caution, half an inch at a time, hoping to avoid squeaks and creaks, and held it with my forearm. I reached in the satchel for a small lock picking kit I had put together, but before using it, I thought first to try the knob, and, to my delight, found the second door unlocked.

I opened it just enough to let myself in, careful to guide the storm door closed behind me without making a sound. Fuck, this house stank. It was just as I remembered it, after all the lunchtime visits I'd made to learn its interior. I could never describe exactly what I was smelling, though. It was almost like a cat's litter box that hadn't been cleaned out in months, except that I knew Kenneth didn't own a cat. But it had this stench, as if the floorboards had been soaked in urine. It was what some might have called musty or pungent, except the inside of the house was hot and dry. Damn near desert-like conditions, and I could have sworn I felt my lungs absorb a coat of dust and debris each time I drew a breath.

The lights were all turned out on the main level, as I had expected, suggesting that Kenneth was asleep somewhere upstairs. This was going to be the hard part. Even though I'd seen the inside of this house half a dozen times, none of it looked familiar at night. It was old, so I had to be deliberate about taking slow and ginger steps across distressed floorboards. And as usual, the drapes were pulled taut around every window, depriving me of moonlight sufficient enough to brighten my path. I scanned the void for something, anything, that might lead me to the stairs. I couldn't go feeling about. I'd end up knocking something to the floor, or disturbing some collection of junk, and it would startle my prey. And then, not far up ahead, I caught sight of a trickle of sparse white light glistening at the edge of the banister, forming a scant diagonal line that stretched upward to the second floor. What stood between me and those stairs was uncertain, however. I slid one foot forward at a time, ensuring the floorboards beneath me offered up no protest, and that my body avoided colliding with furniture.

When I'd made it to the spot where the shimmer was at its most intense—weak as that was—I leaned forward and felt with my hand, hoping to get a sense of where I'd need to take the first step. I then raised a foot and brought it down, keeping my balance concentrated at the edge of the stair. I had hoped to eliminate the chance of creaks, but to no avail. The step made a pronounced groan—creeee—near silent, but not totally silent. And so began my perilous ascent. I raised the other foot, bringing it up to the same level as the first, and it, too, made a noise—creeee—on contact.

I was certain I'd find Kenneth in bed. He had to be up there on the second floor. If he had been on the main floor, he would have detected my presence by now. And besides, what kind of fucking weirdo sits in his living room in the complete darkness after midnight? But just because he was, in all likelihood, upstairs, did not mean he was fast asleep. It seemed probable that he would be passed out in a drunken stupor, dreaming of the next woman in Wakefield he'd assault with impunity. But there was the off chance that he was wide awake, having trouble catching restful slumber, and listening to each creak as I climbed up to greet him.

I tried to get in his head, to put myself in his shoes, living in an old house like this. A sound in the night. So what? This house probably made all kinds of strange noises. He'd hear it and dismiss it, thinking his senses were deceiving him. It seemed unfathomable that a grown man would get up to investigate a few minute sounds emanating from the stairs. At least I hoped that's what would be going through his head. I took another sideways step, bringing my foot to the next stair. Creee. Several seconds passed before I repeated the process with my second foot, moving as evenly as I could manage. Creee. And then another step. Creee. And another. Creee. It took me two whole minutes to climb halfway to the top.

I strained to listen, trying to command my ears to open up wider, my senses to be more acutely perceptive. I saw nothing but black at the top of the landing, and heard nothing anywhere around me—not the crinkle of bedsheets, not a snore, not even the tick-tock of a wall clock. And so I took the remaining steps one at a time, pausing between each, expecting at any moment for my plan to come to a halt when a light would turn on above me, or when Kenneth's groggy voice would call out, "Who's there?"

I arrived at the top of the staircase. A small window, with just a trace of light peeking through a crack in its drapes, offered me a faint outline of three different door frames to choose from. Short door frames, I might add, the second level to this old house having been built for dwarfs. I shuffled forward a little, focusing on the door frame to the left. That was where I'd find him. I was sure of it, even though I couldn't see anything beyond its boxy edges, at least not at first. But as I stared in that direction longer, I picked up on a soft reddish glow. It was the face of his digital alarm clock.

I'd had ample practice at controlling my breathing under stressful conditions, thanks to all the driver's seat surveillance, and so far, my nerves, tense as they were, had remained even and under control. But it felt like the final shuffle to Kenneth's bedroom took eons. It was almost as if I were inside some kind of dream sequence. My legs felt weighted and immobile, and forward progress seemed impossible without being able to see in front of me. I had no concrete assurance that I was moving forward at all. And each time I slid a foot in front of me, I half-expected it to make a violent and thunderous explosion. And, of course, each time, it made no noise at all.

As I shuffled into the room, I again stopped to listen for a snore, a motion, or even for the sounds of breathing. But again I heard nothing, aside from a distant drip-drip-drip of a leaky faucet. And with one more shuffle, I was standing at the edge of the bed. I couldn't be sure how I knew it for certain. It was like my feet came to a dead stop, not wanting me to move an inch farther, almost as if glued to the floor. I tried to make out shapes, which was difficult, but in the reddish glow of the alarm clock—it was 12:24 am—I detected Kenneth's vague silhouette stenciled out before me, and in the perfect position, straight on his back.

I did nothing for several seconds, just stood there, concentrating on my own breathing, my pulse, and my posture. The ski mask clung to my face, thick with sweat, because I knew this was it, the moment I had been waiting for. It would all come down to this. I reached to my satchel, careful to keep my movements gentle and deliberate, and slid my fingers around the hilt of the weapon. I unsheathed it with care, desperate not to give away my position at this close proximity. I thought, just for a moment, that I had heard it again—drip-drip-drip—but ignored it, keeping focused on the task ahead of me. I raised the knife in both hands, holding it straight over him, its edge parallel to his throat, and began to lower it, imagining a thin dotted line drawn out exactly where I needed to make the incision.

A dull blade would have required firm pressure, more downward force to sever his windpipe and carotid artery. But I'd sharpened the blade of this knife to be like a razor's fine edge. It would be a simple matter of one clean, delicate, even slice, and his life force would drain from his neck within seconds. And I'd turn on the lights right then, and raise the ski mask, so that I could watch him battle to resist death, and he, in turn, could watch me savor the sweet finality of his demise, making him the final victim.

I lowered my body with the blade, aided only by the red glow on the nightstand, trying to get a clear view of his throat. And as I got lower, lower still, I held my breath out of fear of him feeling the sharp exhalations. But then I paused, because I saw that something was wrong, and I paid sudden attention to the drip-drip-drip sound. It wasn't originating from the bathroom. It was coming from the bed.

There was no perceptible rise and fall to the covers, draped over his chest, and there was something strange about the pattern on the sheets. It was as though they were cow-spotted. Light in color, or white, perhaps, with dark blotches spread throughout. And as I scrutinized his silhouette, something else caught my attention, something protruding from Kenneth's throat. It was small and jagged, and it gave off a slight glint, almost a sparkling pinprick that pierced the darkness. I brought my face closer, still holding my breath, my nose just an inch from the object, and that's when I figured out what it was. A single shard of clear glass, held in place by a raised chunk of torn flesh. Kenneth Pritchard was already fucking dead.

I stood straight up, almost choking on the breath I had been holding, and released it in short bursts, reaching for the flashlight in the satchel. I flicked it on and studied his corpse, flooded with mixed emotions. It was me that was supposed to kill this goddamn degenerate lowlife. Me, not someone else. Kenneth was supposed to be mine, and he was supposed to be my first. I was enraged, livid enough to tear the whole fucking house apart.

But part of me was overtaken with curiosity. I was turned on, to be honest, all hot and bothered, alone with a fresh corpse that was mine to use and abuse and explore and violate. A corpse that, when living, had inflicted so much cruelty and suffering on people like Tia. A vapid girl, sure, but a girl so defenseless and vulnerable. And I was free in that room from the judgmental observations of outsiders, and already shielded in clothing I'd soon destroy.

I sheathed the hunting knife and returned it to the satchel, bringing the light closer to the wound. It looked almost like ground beef, uneven and raw and messy, a mound of distorted pinkish-red flesh enclosing an uneven hole. Whoever had done this had caused Kenneth terrible pain in his last moments, and for that, I was grateful. There would have been a struggle. An attack like this must have been carried out by someone strong enough to hold Kenneth down while grinding a sharp glass object into his neck. Was it a glass bottle, perhaps? That sudden thought struck a dissonant chord with me. The logical side of my brain, the part that controlled my meticulous need for rhyme and reason, thought that must have been more than a coincidence. I was just here the other night with a broken beer bottle, and—

But that line of thinking would have to wait. The pleasure-seeking part of my brain was occupied. It couldn't be slowed or stopped, fascinated by streams of deep red that coated the underside of his chin, staining the sheets, the pillow, his chest, and—drip-drip-drip—leaking right down to the floor. Fuck! I shone the light downward and understood then why I'd felt my feet come to a halt right at that exact spot. I was standing in a puddle of thick and sticky blood. I raised each boot in turn—schlop, schlop—realizing my soles were now painted with evidence.

I tried to remind myself that nothing had changed. No, I hadn't been the one to kill Kenneth, but I hadn't left behind evidence of my own, either. But as my plan began to venture south, so, too, did my nerves. I felt a sense of haste and impulsion start to overpower me, and again I turned the light back to Kenneth's neck. I extended the tips of my gloved fingers, tracing the deep wound. Small spurts of fluid oozed forth as I fingered its edges, still warm to the touch, and then I dug a second finger in just a bit deeper, feeling a sense of euphoria wash over me. And, on some level, I knew this was exactly what I had told myself not to do. I was savoring the kill, even if it wasn't my kill. If I ever wanted a chance to do this again, I had to turn around and leave. And so I went to war with my better judgment, debating how much longer I could allow myself to remain there, but my thoughts were interrupted, because I noticed something else for the first time. It was on the far wall of the bedroom.

I raised the beam of light, little by little, and words came into focus, letters twelve inches tall, painted in what I could only assume was human blood. I muffled a scream that would have been loud enough to wake the neighbors, as though a stranger had walked up behind me and startled me. I dropped the flashlight, too, and it landed in the puddle beneath my feet, because the message on the wall had been left especially for me: go home afton

I dashed to the wall and started scrubbing at the letters, whimpering and feeling sick to my stomach and shaking, unable to think straight, my whole body now soaked in sweat. I rubbed my hands up and down as hard as I could, and some of the wet surface smeared, but the letters were dried on, having seeped deep into the walls. And that was when I knew it for certain. The weapon that had been used to take Kenneth's life had been the broken bottle I'd lost in the back lane two nights ago. And here, in crimson letters, was the graffiti equivalent of, "Afton Was Here." My mind struggled to conjure a suitable solution, what to do next, and the first and only reasonable measure that came to mind was incinerating this whole fucking house. Burning all the evidence to the ground.

But my frantic thoughts were disturbed by the distant wail of police sirens. Someone had called this in, I was sure of it, and the cavalcade of law enforcement was due to arrive at any second. I heard their cars drawing nearer. It wasn't a long street, and when the sirens crescendoed around the corner, I knew I was out of options. I grabbed the flashlight off the bloodied floor and fled down the dark stairs, two at a time, my boots—schlop, schlop—gripping the floorboards beneath me with each hurried stride, blazing an evidence trail right out the back door. My senses had been overtaken by sharp panic, and the only thing I could think to do was to run. Not to run home, though, as the message had advised me—threatened me, dared me—to do. Just to run.

"Hey, you! Hey! Stop! Stop right there!"

I didn't even bother trying to identify the voice calling for me. I just ran with all the conviction I could muster until—wap!—I collided with another body, just short of reaching the back lane. It was a man's body, and he was a few inches taller than me.

He fought to restrain me using both arms, shouting, "Stop it! Stop resisting!"

But I writhed and kicked and struggled with every ounce of strength I had left. At first I thought I had been captured by police, but then an even worse thought entered my head. The Man in Shadows had got me at last. He'd set a trap for me, and I'd walked right into it, arrogant and cocky as I was. Fuck, what a mistake this had been. He was the only one that knew I'd be back to kill Kenneth, after all. And I'd let Animus talk me into it.

Flashing blues and reds and whites came to a screeching halt in front of Kenneth's house, their sirens breaking the otherwise serene night. I looked up. "Jared?"

He loosened his grip at the sound of a woman's voice, or so I thought. He let go with one hand and used it to tear off the ski mask. "Afton? Afton, what—"

With one final and forceful shove, I managed to buck Jared's grip, and he reeled, stumbling backward a couple paces. I heard doors to the police cruisers open. The first cops on scene were getting out, and I had to make my escape. But Jared regained his balance in a flash and stood blocking my path. He lunged for me, and so I raised my hand, streaking red fingers down the front of his collared shirt. "You're covered in Kenneth's blood now, Jared. Look. It's all over you."

"Afton, what the hell?"

"You wanna go talk to the cops right now? Tell 'em there's a dead man upstairs, and then you can explain why you're covered in his blood."

"Afton . . ."

The cops were stomping up to the front door. I could hear the not-so-distant crunch of the gravel beneath their feet. "There's no time, Jared. I can explain everything. Just follow me."

"Afton, no, let's—"

"There's no time, Jared!" I raised my voice louder than I had intended to, and I was afraid the police had heard it. I had to flee, but I couldn't leave a witness behind. Jared would have to be dealt with, just not here. Not with the police so close, a couple of them already inside the house. There were just mere seconds to go until they would discover the human remains upstairs. I grabbed Jared by the shoulders. He was paralyzed with fear, and I shook him hard, transferring more evidence to his clothing. It forced him to look straight at me. "Jared, listen to what I'm telling you. Kenneth Pritchard is dead, and I didn't kill—"

"I know, Afton. I've been standing here all night. I've got videos and photos of—"

"Just shut up, Jared, and listen to me. This isn't what it looks like. You can come back and talk to the cops later, if you want, but you need the whole story first. Please, Jared, just follow me. I have to show you something. Please. Now. Let's go." He was torn and it showed. He looked back to the house, and I followed his line of sight. A light had turned on upstairs. I punched Jared in the chest. "Jared, fuck, are you listening to me? Follow me, now! You can do whatever you want after, but you have to see this first."

He grumbled and moaned and nodded. I led us back down the lane into the night with the sounds of sirens waning behind us. "Afton, slow down, you're—"

"You run like a fucking girl, Jared. Man the fuck up." It was tough going, though, through the tall grass, the pitch blackness of it all. I stumbled once or twice as we passed houses that had, just a half hour ago, been dark, but now had lights on, hoping to discover what was causing the commotion down the street.

We arrived at the edge of the dark woods and I glanced over my shoulder, making sure that Jared had kept up. It was hard to make out his expression, but I could hear him sucking in gasps of air, wheezing, and saw that his hands were clutched around the large camera that hung from his neck. I'd have to deal with Jared, sure, but I'd have to take care of whatever was on that camera, too.

We crossed the open field, sprinting toward the abandoned paint factory, careful to circumnavigate the pile of trash I had encountered earlier. And as we reached the edge of the road, I made a point to look in all directions. There was no one nearby, no one following us, not so far as I could tell. Then again, if The Man in Shadows had been watching us, waiting for us, I doubt we would have known it unless he wanted us to.

Jared was out of breath, and I wondered if he might pass out. "What, Afton? Wh-what . . . are, ah . . . wh-what do you, ah . . . have to sh-show me?"

"Right here." I pulled off the leather gloves and opened the trunk, motioning for him to take a look inside. "Go ahead. See for yourself."

He approached with trepidation, looking to me for confirmation, and I nodded for him to proceed. He lowered his head to get a better look. The inside of the trunk was empty, aside from sheets of clear plastic wrap. It was spread across the entire car, in fact. Everything that could be shielded had been, including the doors, the steering wheel, the seats, and the stick shift. I wasn't about to let any evidence come into contact with the Corolla itself.

Jared studied the interior of the trunk, running his fingers along the plastic lining. "I don't get it, Afton, what's this—"

I brought down the trunk lid as hard as I could, its cold steel edge making direct contact with the base of Jared's skull. His knees buckled and he toppled, and I hurried to stuff his unconscious body, camera and all, inside the trunk.

Chapter 16

I pushed a beige cart down an aisle the next morning, returning printed titles to their rightful homes. It wasn't my job, but I was lost in the haze of my own mental fog. The library had opened its doors just a few minutes beforehand, and keeping myself occupied seemed like the simplest method of avoiding human interaction. That was the plan, at least, until Pete came marching down the aisle, cornering me. "You doing returns, Afton?"

I glared down at the cart, slow and dramatic, and then back up at him. "Looks like it."

"You're one hell of an ass-kisser, huh?" He touched my elbow, and it made me want to puke.

"What do you want, Pete?"

He pushed his round spectacles back up his freckled nose. His face sometimes reminded me of a disheveled, redheaded Harry Potter. The alcoholic edition, thirty years after Hogwarts. "Saw that video you uploaded last night. I hate to say it, but that was some nice work you did. The kids are gonna love it. The parents, too, I bet."

He was referring to an online video I had recorded for the library. It was a live stream that stretched on for almost three hours. Me, narrating a whole slew of different children's books, dozens in all, from the comfort of my living room. That was how it was supposed to look, at least. Sure, I'd narrated those books from home, and the time stamp would claim that it had happened last night, live, between eleven o'clock and two in the morning. But the video being fed to my webcam had been shot weeks earlier, and no one would ever be able to prove it. A few lines of code, and—boom!—instant digital alibi.

"Yeah, thanks. I felt bad about taking a sick day. Thought I'd at least try to do something useful to make up for it."

"Where's your little protégé this morning?"

"Kim?"

"Yeah, the Asian chick."

"I don't know. She isn't in yet?"

"No."

"No idea."

"You, ah, still look like shit, Afton. You sure you don't wanna take one more day?"

"I don't know." I slapped the book cart in make-believe disappointment. "I might head home after I'm done with this. Haven't decided." In truth, I had every intention of leaving within the hour. It wasn't because I hadn't slept. It was, perhaps, because the events of the night before had left me feeling frustrated and inadequate. It was the equivalent of blue balls for murderers, I guess.

It had been a short drive to the outskirts of town last night where, about half a mile from the road, I'd constructed a crude fire pit. It was there that I destroyed all the evidence. The sheets of clear plastic wrap, the satchel, even degrading the unused murder weapon to nothing more than a smoldering hunk of metal. I incinerated all the black clothing I'd had on, too, changing into a second, albeit temporary, outfit until morning.

As the sun began to rise, I collected the remnants of ash in four different trash bags, depositing them in four different cans on the drive back into town. Cans at rest stops, for the most part, with no cameras on them. Then I'd made a stop at the twenty-four-hour gym in Wakefield, where I'd done a fast and halfhearted cardio workout, before hitting the showers. I had scrubbed my hair and body free of evidence for almost half an hour, bagging the second outfit I'd worn to the fire pit, and discarding it in a fifth trash can behind a convenience store near the library.

But even now, after a thorough cleansing and two changes of attire, I could have sworn the ripe scent of the fire pit had soaked into my skin. It meandered into my nostrils each time I took a step, following me like the Grim Reaper, or, better yet, the twin sister that I hadn't seen in more than a day. The smell, however, was a bitter reminder of all that had gone wrong with my plan.

I was sure that, by now, the police would have taken an interest in the message painted for me in blood. I had teased Jared the other night, asking him how many other people he knew named Afton in our area code, but that was only because I already knew the answer. Zero. I hadn't left behind any evidence at Kenneth's house, but I was the only Afton in town. Sooner or later, the police would end up looking into how I had been connected to the murder. And I had to hope the live video stream would alleviate their suspicions, at least until I could sort all of this out.

And then there was the small matter of the actual murder weapon used. No doubt, the broken beer bottle I had dropped the other night, its surface coated in smudged fingerprints that belonged to me. Was it at the scene of the crime, or did The Man in Shadows still have it for some other purpose?

Pete had taken his leave without me noticing, and there was Tia, coming down the aisle toward me. I recognized her scent before I saw her. "Afton?" The old Tia was back, after having taken a brief hiatus. She once again smelled like a wilted botanical garden, doused in her favorite cheap body spray. She had on a white skirt that barely covered her snatch, and a low-cut top. Her hair looked like it had just been blown out.

"Hi, Tia. Wakefield's finest didn't already lock you up?"

She winced and ignored the remark. "Chris called me last night."

I tried to feign surprise by forcing my jaw to drop, but I couldn't have been bothered to be convincing about it. "He did, did he?"

She nodded and smiled, twirling hair between her fingers. "Did you have something to do with that?"

"I didn't, Tia. It was all his idea, I'm sure of it." I started to push the book cart down the aisle. "I'm guessing you aren't here for a social visit."

She raised her penciled-on eyebrows, pulling them tight together. "Did you hear the news?"

"What news is that?"

"Kenneth Pritchard's dead. It's all everyone is talking about. Someone killed him last night."

"You don't say?"

"You don't sound surprised."

"He's fucking dead, Tia." I shrugged. "That's all that matters. And I'm glad of it."

"Don't say that, Afton!"

"What? I'm serious. I hope he rots in hell."

"Don't say you're glad he's dead."

"But I am. Aren't you?"

"No, no, I'm not glad. He was a terrible, terrible man, but, well, I don't think he should've been murdered."

"What the hell is wrong with you, Tia?" I dropped a stack of books I had been holding onto the cart. "After what he did to you and all those other women. You don't think death was a little too good for him?"

"No." She leaned in close. "Was it you, Afton?"

"What?"

"Did you kill him?"

I'd practiced this line in front of the mirror umpteen times. Just in case, one day, I ended up having to lie about Kenneth's murder. But, as much as it pained me, I didn't have to lie to Tia. "No, of course not." But she wasn't buying it. She shifted her weight to one foot and folded her arms, never breaking eye contact with me. "Tia, I swear to Christ, I didn't kill Kenneth Pritchard."

"But you were following him."

"What makes you say that?"

"I've got, uh, a friend. A bartender at The Corridor. She said a librarian showed up at her door the other night asking about one of her regulars."

Gee, why didn't I see that one coming? "And she pieced together that it was the same regular you'd just reported to the police. The one that she'd seen on the news."

"Yes."

"Fuck, I told that bitch not to say anything."

"Knock it off, Afton."

"What?"

"That language."

"You don't fucking like swearing? How come?"

"It's not that. You can swear. I just don't like hearing women call each other names like that. It's just, like, degrading, and disgusting, and, you know, a successful woman like you, you should be building other women up, not tearing them down. Especially someone like Becca. She's a sweetheart."

"If it makes you feel better, Tia, I'm not much nicer to men."

She pressed her glossy lips together and studied me for an instant, having to look down her nose due to the tall heels on her boots. After a brief moment of deliberation, she extended a hand and placed it on my shoulder. It felt as much contrived as patronizing. "You're angry, Afton."

"No shit, I'm angry."

"Why?"

"Why am I angry? Are you serious?" I pulled free from her grip. "What can I say, Tia? I'm a psychotic bitch. Just an angry, psycho bitch." I shook my head at the absurdity of it all. "Is this because I smashed your shit the other day? I told you I was sorry about that. I said I'd help clean up the mess. Want me to pay for it, too? How much—"

"That's not it, Afton. It's all just stuff. I don't care about that. It can be replaced. But I care about you, and I know how much you're hurting. More than you let on, at least, and you need to find a healthier way to let it all out, or it's going to consume you."

"Thanks for the life tip, Dr. Phil."

"I'm serious, Afton. That much anger . . . if you let it keep building up, who knows what damage you could end up doing? You could end up really hurting yourself, or, um, someone else, even."

Whatever. I returned the subject to more pressing matters. "You think Becca is gonna keep running her trap about my little visit the other night?"

Tia took in a breath and rocked her head back and forth, massive hoops dangling from her ears. "I'm not sure. I can talk to her about it, but I didn't let on that I knew you."

"You didn't? How come?"

"I wouldn't do that to a friend. I wouldn't sell you out like that. Especially since I know you were only concerned for her safety. And mine, most likely. You were just trying to help." She began to walk away, but stopped just before reaching the end of the aisle. "Afton?"

"Yeah?"

"One more thing."

"What?"

"Don't forget that you're only human, okay?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She again folded her arms, this time tapping her foot as she thought of what to say next. "You act tough. You push people away. You put up walls and keep people who care at a distance. You think it makes you strong, or independent, but deep down, I think you're actually a nice girl."

"Am not."

"You are. Chris thinks so, too. You don't have to keep up the act all the time. It's okay to be hurt and it's okay to be angry. But sooner or later, you're gonna have to make peace with it. You're not just some psycho bitch, Afton. You're a good human being with a good heart who just needs time to heal. And help, maybe, when you're ready."

Her lingering fragrance softened and dissipated, and I stood in that aisle for a good five minutes before returning the last two books on the cart to their rightful homes, The Psychopath Test and Columbine. I hadn't got around to reading either of them again, and I thought that might have been for the best. After all, I was no psycho bitch, at least not according to Tia. I was a human being, just like her. What she didn't know, though, was that I'd finger-banged a man's gaping throat wound last night, diddling his mangled esophagus like some horny teenager at junior prom.

No, I probably wasn't a psychopath, but I wasn't sure that "human being" quite fit the bill, either.

Chapter 17

I climbed the stairs to my apartment two at a time, surprised to see that the door hadn't already been smashed in by a SWAT team. I turned the key and walked inside, and that's when I heard it. Thud-thud. A banging sound, and it was coming from the bedroom. Warm daylight poured through my cream-colored blinds, and I almost wished that I could again be cloaked in the blackness of night. I took short steps to the kitchen, pulling a chef's knife with a six-inch blade from the block on the counter.

"About time."

My whole body deflated at the sound of her voice. "You're back."

"That's because you . . . need me, Afton. You just couldn't get it done on your own."

I brushed passed her to the bedroom where—thud-thud—the sound was coming from the closet, its door shut tight. "There was nothing to do when I got there, Animus. Or didn't you know that?"

"Oh, I know." She motioned to the closet. "But you can redeem yourself right now."

"No."

"He saw you, Afton."

"So? I didn't kill Kenneth."

"But does he know that?" She breathed on the back of my neck, and her voice broke into a hoarse cackle. "What's to stop him from accusing you? Pinning . . . the whole thing on you?"

I gripped the knife in one hand, placing the other on the knob—thud-thud-thud—and swung the door open with a single forceful effort. At the sight of the knife, he stopped thrashing. "You're gonna bug my neighbors, Jared." He was just as I had left him. Stripped down to his briefs, bound in fuzzy pink handcuffs to a vertical rod that supported an overhead shelf, and a rag tied across his mouth. He tried to shout at me, but I had tied the rag tight, and his noises were garbled nonsense. He hadn't managed to get his hands free, either, so I dropped the knife on the dresser. He glared at me from the floor, supporting himself on one elbow, his whole face contorted with anguish.

I knelt down beside him, examining his wet and red features. "Now, Jared, if I remove this, are you gonna cause problems?"

"Hurrrmaahhffffhagaaahh."

I grabbed the knife from the dresser and pressed its point to his cheek. "Are you?"

He hesitated and then shook his head, squirming to distance his face from the tip of the blade. It took me a few tries to undo the knots I'd tied. I was proud of that, but after long last, the rag fell from his mouth, warm and soggy. I fetched a bottle of water from the nightstand and unscrewed its cap. He smacked his parched lips and flexed his jaw. But just as I again knelt beside him, he shouted, "You crazy bitch! You stupid, crazy, fucking bitch!"

I pulled the bottle back. "Not off to a great start, Jared. I thought you'd be excited to spend a night locked in my bedroom."

"Go fuck yourself, Afton! You're fuckin' nuts."

"You want some water or not?"

He just stared at me in disbelief, almost trembling, and I glanced down to his crotch, half-expecting to discover that he'd pissed himself. He answered me in a soft whisper. "Yes, please."

"What's that?"

"Please, Afton. I'd like some water." I pressed the bottle to his lips and tilted it, and he gulped it down as fast as I could pour it. He offered up a huge sigh of relief afterward, before looking down at his exposed body. "Where the hell are my clothes?"

"I burned them."

"Why?"

"Did you really want to walk around town wearing Kenneth's blood?"

He wiggled around the floor, trying to position his knees in front of his package. Jesus, even tied up and threatened at knife point, men still somehow can't stop fussing over their dicks. If I were being honest, though, he wasn't a bad-looking guy. He was much more toned than his younger brother, and had a broad, hairless chest, dark brown hair and eyes, and high cheekbones. And I had no idea why he was working so hard to cover up his junk. He had nothing to be ashamed of.

He rattled the handcuffs behind his back, fastened around the metal post. "Think these can come off, too?"

"Not a chance."

"Afton, I'm serious, I think you cracked my skull last night."

"I double-checked. All you've got is a bump. It's a bit swollen and maybe you have a concussion, but I'm pretty sure you'll live."

"Pretty sure?"

"Well, I don't know for certain. I'm not a doctor, but I'll get you some Advil in a minute. Sheesh." I nodded to the handcuffs. "You like those, by the way? They're soft and comfortable, huh?"

He tried to peek at them over his shoulder. "You're into some kinky shit, or what?"

"They're not for me. I put them on whoever I bring home, as infrequent as that is. Men just get so damn grabby sometimes, you know?" I shrugged. "Women sometimes, too, I guess."

Jared started to shake his head, but stopped, on account of the searing pain, I imagine. "Why'd you do this to me?"

"You know why. I couldn't risk you talking to the cops."

"So, what now? You're just gonna keep me tied up forever?"

I glanced at the knife on the dresser, which Animus was showcasing with her hands like some model from The Price Is Right. She picked up the blade, flicking her tongue on its tip. "I haven't decided what I'm going to do."

"Great." He sighed again, and let his body sink back to the hard floor. "What is it you think I'm gonna tell the cops, exactly?"

"Oh, I don't know. That you caught me fleeing the scene of a crime, covered in blood?"

He started to shake his head again, but winced and groaned. "That's what I was trying to tell you last night."

"What?"

"I know you didn't kill Kenneth, and I have proof."

"Proof?"

"Well, I had proof."

"I don't follow."

"The camera, Afton."

His camera had been sitting right next to the water bottle on the nightstand when I left for work that morning, but when I looked again, it was gone. In its place was a plain white envelope without an addressee on it. "Where the fuck did it go?"

"He got it."

"Who?"

"I don't know his name, Afton. The guy who was in Kenneth's house last night before you got there."

"You saw him? The Man in Shadows?"

"The man in—" He had no idea what that meant. "A white guy. Tall, six feet or so, I think, a bit on the lanky side. In his thirties, maybe? Forty? I don't know. I didn't get a close look, but my camera takes some pretty amazing night shots, even without the flash."

"And, so, where is your camera, Jared?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you. That guy, the man I saw go in before you last night. He was here today in your apartment." He licked his dry lips, and I poured him another mouthful of water before he continued. "He opened the closet door and peeked in at me just for a second."

"Did you get a good look at him?"

"He was a tall white guy with a beard, Afton. I don't know. Been fading in and out all morning"—he stared right into my face—"for some damn reason."

"Fuck."

"You know him?"

"You said he took the camera?"

"Yeah, and"—he peeked over at the envelope—"looks like he left you a little something, too."

I moved to the nightstand and reached inside the envelope, Animus peering over my shoulder, and retrieved a single Polaroid photograph. It had been taken of a small teenage girl. She was of Asian descent and had long black hair. She was on her knees, arms tied behind her back, and a gag in her mouth, not dissimilar to the rag I had used on Jared. Her face was rife with tears, and she held her eyes shut tight. Next to her head, a man's hand held a pink wristwatch, adorned with Winnie the Pooh, between his thumb and forefinger. I moved the photograph closer to examine the face of the watch. This Polaroid had been taken at 12:24 am, or so the photographer wanted me to believe. Either way, it happened to be the exact same time I had been standing in the dark at Kenneth's bedside.

"What is it?"

It took a moment before I was able to respond. "He's g-got Kim."

"Who?"

"The Man in Shadows. He's—" I flipped over the photo and found a message scrawled in red, what appeared to be dried blood: see you soon, afton

"What? What is it?"

I opened the drawer to the nightstand and pulled out a small silver key. "Don't try anything stupid." With a single click, I freed Jared and helped him to his feet. He bobbed and swayed and tipped against the wall. I had given him a vicious whack on the head, after all, but he was tired, too, both sore and dehydrated. I held the photo in front of his face.

"Who's that?"

"Her name's Kim Zhang. She's a volunteer at the library."

"What happened to her?"

"The man who came in here this morning, the man who stole your camera. He's got her."

"What does he want with her?"

I flipped over the Polaroid to the message on the back. "It isn't Kim he wants. It's me."

Book 2: See You Soon, Afton

Suspected of a murder she didn't commit, Afton searches for an abducted teenage girl, leading her to unravel dark secrets from her own past.

See You Soon, Afton is the second of four books in The Afton Morrison Series, a new serial thriller by author Brent Jones.

See You Soon, Afton is available everywhere eBooks are sold. For a list of online retailers, please visit:

AUTHORBRENTJONES.COM/BOOKS

About the Author

From bad checks to bathroom graffiti, Brent Jones has always been drawn to writing. He won a national creative writing competition at the age of fourteen, although he can't recall what the story was about. Seventeen years later, he gave up his career to pursue creative writing full-time.

Jones writes from his home in Fort Erie, Canada. He's happily married, a bearded cyclist, a mediocre guitarist, and the proud owner of two dogs with a God complex. Subscribe to his newsletter (AuthorBrentJones.com) or follow him on social media (@AuthorBrentJ) for updates.

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A Book With No Pictures

An Honest Day's Work

The Matchbook: A Short Story

Fender: A Novel

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