Hurt people hurt people.
Eventually, it comes back. Some call it karma. I call it life.
Sooner or later, life always catches up. If not on you, then on your loved ones.
TWO
Emily
Eureka Springs is one of those towns that has gotten stuck in time. People here believe in their own ghost stories, convinced the town is haunted, but they also believe it could be a better place. And somehow, it becomes home to someone who lives only to prove them wrong.
The Ozark woods surround it, and to me, someone who has just arrived, it seems like the perfect little town. Crooked buildings. Too ornate. Too stubbornly carved. Almost like they have secrets of their own to hide.
And they do hide things.
People. Corpses. Secrets buried deep in the soil at the edge of the woods.
And I came here to see if I can answer the question of why.
Why this town? Why these people? Why this man?
I exhale deeply and glance at the clock on the wall, five in the afternoon.
The apartment I rented for the month is bare. Cherry red walls with dark wood paneling beneath. Old oak furniture.Porcelain plates line neatly inside the cabinets. Worn carpets hide scratches carved into the wooden floors over time. It has a small balcony with a wooden table and two chairs.
Even the flowers hanging from the rusted iron fence are completely dry, yet they still add a touch of charm to the place. More charm than my modern, monotone black and white apartment in the center of New York, overlooking foggy streets and constant motion.
I walk into the kitchen wearing black satin pajama shorts and an oversized black sweater that could have fit me three times over. It slips off my left shoulder, brushing against the single braid resting there. I tiptoed to the fridge to grab a glass of whitePinot Gris.
I bite my lower lip and pour the wine into a glass from the cabinet near the fridge, in the hope that at least the wine will blur my vision enough that I won’t notice half the broken things in this place.
“I just quit the job I came here for,” I exhale. “Emily, you can be a real stupid bitch.”
I take a sip.
“But hey, at least you didn’t let that asshole call you a dumb blonde slut.” I lift the glass in the air, then bring it back to my lips. “I am dumb. I wanted to be the one to close the case.”
The words come out loud.
My eyes sting, yet my cheeks stay dry.
I haven’t cried in years. Work and study filled the space where grief should have been. I didn’t even cry at my father’s funeral—a decorated detective who cared more for cold cases than his own daughter. I used to wait for him every night, until he stopped coming home altogether.
Everyone carries trauma. Some numb it with alcohol or sex, I bury mine in books, studying psychopaths instead.
“Maybe that asshole was right,” I say, leaning against the kitchen cabinet. “Maybe I do want to get laid.” I exhale. “This was supposed to be easy.”
A low bark comes from the living room.
“Daisy,” I call, rushing forward with the wine glass still in my hand, leaving a thin trail across the floor as I run toward myCavalier King Charles Spaniel.My ex’s idea of a birthday surprise, two years too late.
I drop to my knees. She rises from her bed and pads over, resting her small head in my lap the moment I hit the floor.
“Oh, baby,” I say softly. “Mommy forgot about you.” I stroke her head. “You must be hungry.”
I lift her into my arms and carry her to the kitchen.
With her still held against me, I grab the dry food from the cabinet and pour small granules into her bowl. Then I open a can of wet food and layer it on top. Her tiny nose is already sniffing, excited.
