Asked and answered.
I chuckle, and the tired driver eyes me warily in the rearview mirror. I knew the second he repeated my destination back to me when he picked me up that he was questioning why a girl like me would be going to a place like Hells Haven. The posher side of town where the university stands is known for accommodating the wealthiest of Grimmville elite. Shockingly, no one has ever confused me with being either wealthy or elite.
Maybe it’s the clothes, the attitude or theI’ll cut you starethat seems to be permanently etched into myfeatures lately.
Running my hand through my long dark waves, I twirl the ash blonde section that frames my face around my fingers. I can’t remember the last time I even sat in a hairdresser’s chair, opting to bleach and trim it over my bathroom sink when it gets too unruly to manage. I’m a stranger to self-care, and it shows. The dark wash t-shirt I’m wearing is oversized and hangs off one shoulder just the way I like it, the strap of my peony pink bra on show. My style is an eclectic mix of aFraggle Rockrager and aSex Pistolsmeet and greet—you know, the epic ones in the eighties where blow was lined out on glass tables as a party favour. I liked to melt into the shadows where possible, and I would argue until I was blue in the face that black was in fact a colour. Those yelling about the absence of light are usually the same ones screaming at me about my moral thoughtlessness when chowing down a four-stack beefburger deluxe because meat is murder.
I’ve witnessed more murder than most, and growing up the way I did, as long as it wasn’t scraped off the side of the road, it was considered an acceptable meal. Put simply—being morally fastidious didn’t get you fed.
Caroline: Not everyone gets a fresh start, Firestarter. Eye contact is optional. Arson is not. Burn it down if you have to - just don’t get caught this time.
As social workers go, you’d probably be shocked to find out Caroline here isn’t the worst I’ve had. She struggles with boundaries, is questionably qualified, and is holding on tight to that passive-aggressive mum vibe like it’s the only thing tethering her to reality, but to her credit, she’sthe only one who has checked in on me in the past six months. I close the window and wrap my arms around myself.
My life reads like a Freudian docu series on how best to fuck up a kid, the adults at the helm haven’t exactly been stand up members of the community, but Caroline O’Hare is one you’d consider stable—for the most part. Our current text exchange aside. But she hasn’t abandoned me like everyone else, and that has to count for something. It’s a surprise to everyone who knows me that I’m even still here with the shit I’ve already experienced in my short life so far.
‘Resilient, Ebony—that’s what you are,’Caroline stated in her earlier assessment when we met a year ago.How true those words are. ‘A glutton for punishment’feels more apt of a sum-up, but who am I to start self-diagnosing?
I slide my phone into my rucksack, hugging it to my body as though it can give me the comfort I need, left alone with thoughts that have no business haunting me; even now, all these years later, my senses recall every moment of the worst day of my life with perfect clarity. Yet another stab to my already fractured heart as I imagine how differently my life could have played out if I had made different choices.
The cab driver swerves onto the motorway, green and brown scenery like never-ending paint strokes on a bleached-blue canvas rushing past the partially open window. The melodic thumping bass of Alex Warren’s “Burning Down”spills out of the speaker, each note tugging at something buried too deep inside me to be reached by human hands. Returning to Hells Haven wasnever going to be an easy decision—it feels like forever since I’ve been in my hometown, and honestly, forever will never be a long enough amount of time for me to forget everything that happened there.
My chipped, black polished nails absentmindedly pick at the frayed fabric of my jeans pulled taut across my thighs, the pad of my thumb skating over the rough raised skin of the scars that decorate my legs. Quiet echoes and a dull burn of a time when pain was the only way I knew how to feel, each one a reminder I’d happily forget.
Then it hits me—the acrid stench of smoke in the air, soot and ash seeping down my throat and filling my lungs like a sand timer. The ache of pressure making my head light as a hot pain sears behind my eyes. It’s not real. Not now. But it’s real enough to have me lowering the window in a panic and spluttering for a mouthful of clean air. Ambushed by the memory. The sirens. Shattered glass and smouldering wood. Heat from the flames licking at my flesh; my socks soaked through with rain on the pavement. The screams are too loud, too far away to place, as the nightmare unlatches its hold on me, the memory slipping away. But their eyes—those striking emerald green eyes—they stay. I cling to them, desperate, as if staring long enough could ever bring them back to me. Eyes that once looked at me with trust, with adoration, with respect…before I shattered it. Before I betrayed them. And still, I miss them with a kind of ache that no sleep, intense therapy session, or waking hour can dull. Time doesn’t heal all wounds—sometimes it’s a blade that brutally reopens scars until you just can’t take it anymore.
They hate me, and honestly, I don’t blame them. I hate myself for what I did.
CHAPTER TWO
COOPER
“The Headless Horseman, so aptly named for his fascination with severing his victims’ heads and taking them with him, has struck again. Locals are on edge as this is the second body to be discovered in as many weeks. Experts suggest the change in pattern is due to an unforeseen trigger, and with the increase in timeline, people should be aware that other changes to the killer’s MO may also occur. The latest body has been identified as twenty-year-old Stella Faye Waters, an American transfer student studying Literature at the local university, discovered early Sunday morning near an off-campus trail, with eerie signs suggesting the Horseman’s trademark theatrics.
“Police sources have confirmed that the scene included a plastic horse figurine left at the site, echoing similar items found with the previous victims. Bruising patterns and damage to the bodies have also been made public knowledge. The police are currently investigating a leak in the medical examiner’s office. Despiteincreasing patrols and the use of behavioural profiling experts, the killer continues to evade capture, leaving behind a community steeped in fear.
“Students are being advised to travel in groups, avoid walking alone at night, and if you see anything suspicious, anything at all—please report it to your local authority.
“Detective Silas Turner is with us now; are there any insights?”
“This should be good,” I quip, turning up the volume. Detective Turner hasn’t changed much since the last time we saw him; sure, he’s a little rounder around the midriff, and there’s a little less hair on his head, but I see the grimace permanently etched into his face is still standing strong.
“We’re dealing with a man deviating from his routine, a man unhinged and unpredictable.”
Caleb’s boot flies past my head, and the TV cuts out as it hits his target.
“You had enough of that then, brother?” I remark, turning to face Caleb as he continues on with his client, ignoring me completely and looking like an idiot wearing only one shoe. Of all the people we have issues with, Detective Silas Turner is up there at the top of our shit list. Corrupt as they come, this man has abused every law going to get his way, and he doesn’t care who he hurts in the process.
“They look like her, you know, the victims.” My voice is so quiet I almost question whether I’ve spoken the thought aloud. Caleb won’t address the elephant in the room. If he agrees with me, he won’t be able to hide theslither of worry that coats his words at the thought of anyone harming our Dove.
So I let it go.
I glance over at the faded photo with the torn edges pinned to the corkboard on our trailer wall. A photo of two boys each flanking a smaller dark-haired girl protectively, the small soft smile on her face warming my soul even now as my heart lurches in my chest at the memory of her. Ebony Trevel-Vanvello was at one point the axis that kept my world spinning. Now she’s just a stranger who double-crossed us and threw us to the wolves. I glance back at my phone on the coffee table, and Caleb clears his throat, bent over the makeshift clingfilm-wrapped tattoo table as he concentrates on a small patch of artwork detailing on Rodney’s neck piece. The machine continues to buzz in his hand as he presses strokes of colour into the traditional eagle with wings spread across the entirety of his client’s throat. I grab for my phone, checking for the umpteenth time that it’s still got enough charge—56%, good enough.
“Ever heard that a watched pot never boils, Coop?” Caleb grins, applying pressure on Rodney’s chin when he squirms in pain, the needles dancing over the soft sensitive flesh of his jugular. “Ezra said he’d call when he had something. If anyone can find her, he will,” Caleb adds when he catches me bouncing my knee nervously. Impatience and my anxiety go hand in hand—especially where she is concerned. We’d tried tracking her ourselves for three weeks, and every time we thought we’d found her, we hit a dead end. Utilising Ezra’s new business ventures means weshould have an answer soon, but most of the people he tracks end up buried four feet deep, and that particular job is ours. Six years is a long time to wait for a stab at revenge, and the thought of not taking that for ourselves has my body thrumming with annoyance.
Before I can lose myself to all the reasons why our Dove deserves to pay for her transgressions, my phone buzzes with an incoming message. Swiping at the screen, my eyes land on the grey eyes flecked with violet that haunt my dreams. I lean across Rodney and flash the photo at Caleb; he grumbles, that mixture of frustration and lust heavy in his gaze as the photo of our raven-haired Dove lights up the screen. The grease splattered waitress uniform does nothing to hide her shapely hips and long legs.
“He found her,” I announce, even though it’s obvious, trying hard to hide the relief coating my tone. The torniquet that has been wrapped around my windpipe for the past three weeks loosens its grip as I gaze down at her face. It’s not enough, I know it isn’t. I need to see her flesh, blood, and bone, to convince myself she’s actually real.
