Page 48 of Miserable Marionette

Another page rings through the small shop, my attention snagged before I can read it again.

“Sixteen dead. What kind of sick bastard turns human beings into a thing like that? I heard he dresses them up, dyes their hair and all that crap.”

“Hey Gideon, you work up that way, right? What idiots are running the police force down there? Something like that wouldn’t fly ‘round here!”

“You think he has an inside guy?” Another one pipes up.

My teeth score my inner cheek, keeping my expression perfectly natural if not a little grave. Not too hard considering what I just learned about my girl. “I’m familiar. Of course, there’s a lot I can’t discuss.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve worked on ‘em,” Mr. Johnson adds, his voice uncharacteristically muted.

I just nod. “Nearly every one.”

“What kind of twisted luck is that? In a city so big? You’d think after seven years, they’d have gotten the asshole by now.”

Luck has nothing to do with it, though. It’s meticulous planning, attention to detail, city lines, and timing out foot traffic. Of course, I need to work on them; letting someone else examine my handiwork every time would be far too risky this far in. That’s why in recent years I’ve endeavored to stop. Sixteen is a big number for a single state, even if they haven’t found my most recent addition.

“Enough of all this! If I have to listen to another thing about death, murder, and dying today, I’ll gray my hair by sundown,” Mrs. Johnson scolds us, all but shoving a sack of cookies and a garment bag into my arms. Smartly, nobody dares to point out that her hair is already gray. “No offense to your line of work, Gideon. It’s a selfless thing you do.”

I’ve always liked Mrs. Johnson. As much as I like anyone, at least.

I smile down at her. “Thank you. I’ll have Audrey call when she’s feeling up to it.”

23

Razor Blade Revelation

Audrey, Present Day, 1994

For the first time since, hell, who knows how long, I wake up to the smell of food, to the popping of grease in a pan, and a soft layer of smoke from the hall. Not the heavy kind that would signal something was burnt or any kind of danger, but the kind that means bacon is crisping in its own fat. My mouth waters as I stretch, my head snapping up from the pillow when something thuds against the floor.

Krissy.

It’s odd seeing something that used to bring you so much comfort. The desire to pick her off the floor, fix her old, stained dress, and cuddle her close is nearly overwhelming. I’d like to say I’d just grown out of Krissy on my own, that my mom’s snide remarks finally landed. One day, I sat her down for the last time and just never thought to pick her up again, but that isn’t the case. It was a weird sort of self-abuse after Dad died. Why should I be comforted while he was in the ground? It followed no logical thinking, but it kept her in her spot below my side table, close but not in my arms. Less than eight months later, I was the only one left. Mom had dipped with her new husband before Maynard Fisher had even cooled in his grave. After the new guy kicked his wife to the curb, of course. Dad was dead. Mom was pretending Swindon, Michigan, didn’t exist. Gideon… well, that had crashed and burned.

It was only me left.

I was determined to be alone. Most everyone, aside from the Jordan siblings, was fine with that too. Too many topics to skirt around for polite conversation with anyone else.

How was your night? I spent it sobbing on the shower floor with a razor blade pressed into my wrist.

Truck still running alright? No, something's wrong with it, and my dad is dead.

Did you have dinner? Yes, I only eat once a day, and it's so much food that I throw up afterward. Not sure why I’m doing that now, but I can’t stop.

Are you seeing anyone? Not really, I started sleeping with a girl, but I pictured my ex-best friend the whole time.

My eyes slide to the windows, the setting sun beyond them, trying my best not to think of the way his blue eyes tracked over every inch of my flesh. The way it felt as he pressed his lips against my head, how badly I wanted them somewhere else. Everywhere else. I’d been begging him, in my mind. Screaming for him to do it.

It looked like he’d been begging too.

In his own Gideon way, at least, which is more of a demand than anything. As disconcerting and odd as he is, I think it might’ve snapped the last few intact pieces of me that remained had Gideon returned normal. Had he grown out of his dark-rimmed glasses, intense stares, and frank, matter-of-fact way of speaking. A groan leaves my throat as I jerk my pillow off my bed, slamming it over my face. My legs curling up as I release a silent scream into the case.

Bryan is dead.

Gideon is in my house.

And he wants me.