For the first time in eight months, I feel satisfied. I wipe the knife on his pants and snap it shut. I stand up, delete the folder on his computer, moving it first to the recycle bin before emptying that. Then I leave the store.
Moments later, I return to grab the pink teddy bear.
10
Seraphina
Present.
Ispend the rest of the day spiraling.
That image of the devil, etched on Bill Henson’s forehead, was for me. I know what it means. It’s a warning sign.
I found you, and I’m going to kill you.
I call the police, because I can’t think of anything else to do, then go sit on the front step, covered in cold sweat.
He’s here. He’s here, and he’s going to kill me.
There’s no room for interpretation. No room for hope. I’ve spent these past eight months forcing myself to believe Noel’s words, because rationally, I knew they were true. But my heart never accepted them. My heart never accepted the idea that Damien wanted to kill me. That he had ordered my death twice, and that, if he discovered I was alive, he’d try once more to end me.
And yet, this is the proof that everything Noel told me was right.
Somewhere deep within me is the urge to seek out Damien. To find him, and accept his worst, because to be killed by him somehow feels less unbearable than to live without him. Yet that instinct in me won’t let me. It screams at me to hide, to run away, to live.
Even though living feels more like surviving, these days.
I rest my head on my knees and let myself cry, my body shuddering with the loss of Damien all over again. The last remnants of that illusory love are gone. It hurts beyond belief.
I don’t know how long I stay like that, but at some point, I feel the vague warmth of a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I close my eyes, trying to believe it’s Damien. But I know Damien will never comfort me again. And when he did before, he never meant it. I don’t know what’s worse: the hopeless future, or the false past.
When I look up again, I see a police car parked out front, and two or three officers walking around the gas station, talking in low voices. They all seem shocked. They’ve probably never experienced a real crime scene before.
One of them comes out when he sees I’m sitting up, and crouches before me, gazing at me with a sad little smile. I assume he’s the one who places the blanket on my shoulders.
“How ya doin’?” he asks. “Feel up to answering a couple of questions?”
“She’s mute,” says a shrill voice beside me, and I see Wendy, the waitress from the diner.
In that moment, I feel a surge of gratefulness for the woman who up till now has only ever inspired deep apathy within me, tinged with disgust.
The police officer frowns. “I see. Maybe we can set you up with a pad and a pen at the station? I’ll let the others finish up here. You can come with me.”
__
Twenty minutes later, I find myself in the police station that serves the entire county. The man who put the blanket on my shoulders introduces himself as Sheriff Jackson.
I’ve already written out my day.Started work at 8 a.m. Didn’t see anything abnormal. Went to the diner, was served byWendy. Burger and fries. Left at 12:30 p.m., returned about 1 p.m. I found him dead.
“Does this devil symbol etched on his skull mean anything to you?” he questions.
I hesitate, then shake my head.
“Know anyone who might’ve had it out for him?”
Not for him, no.
I shake my head again.
