Chapter 12 Shay #2
He wiped his hands on a dish towel and took it from me, studying it like he’d never seen it before. His brow furrowed slightly. “Ah, yes. Someone must have given it to me or something.”
He returned to the stove, but I kept looking at the flyer in my hands. The dove. The address printed in neat serif font. The name at the top, arched over the dove’s wings in letters that seemed to pulse with sudden familiarity.
St. Joseph’s Catholic Church
“Want me to toss it?” I asked.
“Sure. It’s just clutter.”
But I didn’t throw it in the trash. I set it on the counter, picked up the knife again, and pressed it against another carrot, the blade biting into orange flesh.
The flyer drew my eyes back to it. To that dove with its wings spread wide, to the name that seemed to echo in some hollow space in my memory that I couldn’t quite reach.
And then, all at once, I could.
Tom was saying something about the onions, about timing, about when to add the wine, but his voice seemed distant. Muffled almost, like I was hearing him through water.
I nodded without really hearing him.
That was the name of Alfred Thorne’s church.
“Shay?”
“Hmm?”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m just—” I picked up a carrot, turned it over in my hands. “Just thinking.”
He came up beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched. “About what?”
“Nothing important.” I shook my head, smiling up at him. “How much longer until dinner is done? I’m wasting away here.”
“Ten more minutes.”
I moved to the sink, ran water over my hands just to have something to do. Behind me, Tom started plating the food, the scrape of spatula against the pan cutting through the quiet kitchen.
Alfred Thorne continued to circle through my mind. The church. There was also a coffee shop he liked to visit, wasn’t there? Yes. Harlowe’s Café on Charles Street. I could picture it in my mind with sudden, crystalline clarity—brick exterior, green awning, a cold and rainy day.
I dried my hands and turned back to face the kitchen. Tom had finished plating—two servings of risotto with perfectly circular carrots (his) and chaotically shaped ones (mine) scattered on top. He’d even added fresh herbs, the green bright against creamy rice.
“Looks great,” I told him.
Tom shrugged, but I could see he was pleased by the compliment. He carried the plates to his small dining table, and I followed, settling into the chair across from him. The first bite was perfect—rich and savory with just enough bite from the wine.
Martin Baker…
The name surfaced unbidden.
Martin Baker was killed on the 16th of January.
The first time Tom and I had slept together.
What had made him come to me that night?
I’d always wondered, in the quiet moments when my mind wandered.
It had seemed a bit out of character, to just appear like that, out of the blue, and ask me out for a drink.
I took another bite. Chewed. Swallowed. “It’s delicious. Seriously, where did you learn to cook like this?”
“I’m self-taught. But it’s mostly practice.”
I let out a small hum in response.
Linda Fell… Tom had always been interested in Linda Fell. More so than the others.
I looked at him from across the table, and for the first time, really let myself see him.
I took in the strong line of his jaw. The breadth of his shoulders beneath his immaculately pressed shirt.
The way the light hit his eyes, making them appear darker than they usually were, almost a completely different color.
Seemingly sensing himself being observed, Tom glanced up from his plate.
Our eyes met.
There was a moment.
Not an obvious one. Not a loud one. Just a quiet, suspended beat where everything settled into place.
I moved first.
My hand shot across the table, grabbing the knife beside my plate. He reacted instantly—his palm slamming down on my wrist, pinning it to the wood with enough force to make the dishes rattle. The knife clattered away, spinning across the table before falling to the floor with a metallic ring.
For a heartbeat, we were frozen like that. His hand clamping like iron around my wrist. My pulse hammering against his fingers, wild and frantic.
Then I yanked backward, tipping my chair as I lunged away from the table.
He came after me, faster than I expected.
His hand caught the back of my shirt and I twisted, throwing my weight sideways.
Fabric tore. I stumbled into the counter, and my hip cracked against the edge hard enough to make pain burst behind my eyes.
He was already there, reaching for me.
I grabbed the first thing my fingers found—the pan from the stove, still hot—and swung it at his head.
He ducked and it whistled past, missing him by inches.
The momentum carried me around and I used it, driving my elbow back toward his ribs.
It connected. He grunted but didn’t let go, his arm locking around my waist from behind.
I drove my heel down onto his instep, twisted out of his arms, and ran.
Three steps toward the door. That was how far I got.
His hand fisted in my hair and yanked me backward. Pain exploded across my scalp, and I reached back blindly, clawing at whatever I could find. He made a sound, low and angry, and shoved me forward. I slammed into the refrigerator face-first, the air punching out of my lungs.
The world tilted. Blurred. Stars burst across my vision like fireworks.
I pushed off the fridge, spinning around just as he closed in on me again.
His hands went for my throat, and I clawed at his wrists, trying to pry his fingers away, but they might as well have been made of stone.
His thumbs pressed into my windpipe and the pressure was immediate, crushing.
My legs kicked uselessly, heels drumming against the floor.
Tom’s face was close to mine. I could see every detail with horrible clarity—the scratch marks I’d left down his cheek, already welling with blood. The set of his jaw. The focus in his eyes, clinical and detached, like I was a problem to be solved.
I wasn’t going to survive this, was I?
My vision started to darken at the edges, tunneling inward. My hands were still clutching his wrists, but they felt distant now, disconnected, like they belonged to someone else.
I tried to hold on. Tried to stay present. But the darkness was spreading, warm and inexorable, pulling me lower and lower.
The last thing I saw was Tom’s face above mine, expressionless and cold.
Then, there was nothing.