The only choiceI’dhad was to leave the memories buried.
“I didn’t want to say anything until I was able to present you with the rattle and tell you exactly how long that bastard had bled and sobbed before death finally took him. Lenore tells me that it is customary in the human world for a new father to present a gift to the mother of his child, and I’d hoped you’d find the tale of the thin man’s agonizing death appropriate for such a joyous occasion.”
“Lenore...?” I laughed out loud at the sudden realization that Gallagher was describing a warrior’s version of a push present.
Then, suddenly, I wanted to cry. “Gallagher, we haven’t made any preparations at all for this baby.” Other than reading the dog-eared copy ofWhat to Expect When You’re Expecting, twice each. But the longer my pregnancy continued, the less convinced I became that anything in that stupid book was relevant to me and my nonstandard gestation. “We need somewhere for her to sleep. Something for her to wear. Something for her to eat, in case I’m unable to nurse. Or in case I’m not here to nurse her.”
“Delilah, you’re not going to die in childbirth.”
“Are you willing to give me your word about that?”
“You know that is not the kind of thing I can swear to. But I truly believe it.” Gallagher stepped closer, as if he wanted to pull me into a hug, but wasn’t sure it would be welcome. Which left him standing awkwardly about a foot away, looking helpless against my tears, when he would have easily ripped apart any other foe. “I’m much more worried about you waking up covered in blood than about you giving birth. Human or not, you have the strong heart and fearsome fortitude of afear deargwarrior, and no matter how he or she came to exist, our child could not have wished for a better mother.”
“Thank you.” Though I lacked his confidence in me. “But you wouldn’t worry about me waking up covered in blood if I were actually a redcap.”
“Delilah, if you werefear dearg, your cap would have consumed the blood, and there would have been none left to stain your hands and clothing.”
“But I’m not, so why the hell did I wander into the woods in the middle of the night, and how on earth could I have done that much damage without a weapon? Did I use my bare—”
The body lies on a bed of dirt and dead leaves. His throat is a gaping mass of torn tissue, glistening bright red in the moonlight.
My right hand comes into view, and it is drenched in blood. Dripping with it. My fingers tremble. I kneel and wipe my hand on the man’s left pant leg, and when I stand again, I see his face. Wide-set brown eyes. Dark hair. Narrow nose. No freckles...
Oh my God.
“I did it.” My voice sounded hollow with shock. “I saw it. The aftermath. The body. I really killed someone. A man.” I don’t know why I expected to find judgment in Gallagher’s gaze, but there was none. There was only concern. “Gallagher, this is not okay. I’m not a murderer.”
“Do you remember actually killing him, or just seeing the body?”
“I don’t need to remember the act itself. I remember looking down at him andknowingI’d killed him. His throat was ripped out and my hands were covered in blood.” The memory was so real I felt like I still needed to wash my hands. “I don’t want to remember any more of it.”
I just wanted to be sure it would never happen again.
September 6, 1986
Rebecca Essig sat on her grandmother’s front steps, picking flakes of white paint from the iron railing while her sister played in the front yard with a little girl from down the street. Encouraged by a mother who felt sorry for the Essig girls, eight-year-old Meredith Cooper had brought over her Pogo Ball and a couple of Hula-Hoops on that bright, hot Saturday afternoon.
She’d also brought her big sister.
Sara Cooper sat on the step next to Rebecca, chewing and popping a fragrant hunk of grape-flavored bubble gum. She hadn’t said a word in nearly half an hour, but Rebecca knew it was only a matter of time before she worked up the nerve to start asking questions.
“You want some gum?” she finally asked, poking Rebecca in the shoulder with what remained of the pack.
“No, thanks.”
Sara gave her purple bubble an extrahard pop, then took a deep breath. “So, is it true? Did your parents do it? Did Erica really see the whole thing?”
Sara Cooper was a year ahead of Rebecca in school, and though they’d often seen each other in the halls during the first few weeks of class—an inevitability in such a small town—they’d never really spoken before, because varsity cheerleaders didn’t typically have much to say to mousy freshmen.
Until the slaughter of that mousy freshman’s siblings by her own parents had thrust her into suburban notoriety.
Seven other families in Greenville had suffered similar tragedies on that very same night, but while two of the other surviving children were in Erica’s first grade class, none of the other families had had kids in high school.
Rebecca Essig was the only source of legitimate, gruesome gossip available to the other teenagers in town.
“Yeah,” Rebecca said at last. “It’s true.” She’d thought about lying. She’d even thought about not answering. But as tired as she was, both of those other options seemed like more work than simply telling the truth, consequences be damned.
They’d been saying that much on TV all week, anyway.
