3. Jael
I Don’t Like My Mind - Mitski
“ W ould you like more sugar?”
Detective Laurent barely contains the grimace making its way onto her face. “No thank you. I’d like to get started if you don’t mind.”
“Oh. Um. Sure. I’m not the best host. But I always try to keep in mind what my mother told me—always offer guests a beverage and bite to eat. Are you sure you’re alright? That’s a big bandage you have on. It must be covering a nasty scrape.”
The detective’s hand shoots up to her neck, running her fingers over the edges of the bandage. “My throat was slit. I would’ve died if I’d bled out anymore and the emergency responders hadn’t reached me in time.”
“That sounds traumatizing.”
“It has to do with what I’d like to talk to you about today. Please have a seat so we can go over my questions.”
I wipe my hands on the kitchen towel and rush over to join her at the table. “Sorry, I don’t mean to drag this out. I’d love to answer your questions. You said they were about my sister?”
“Yes, Lyra Hendrix.” Detective Laurent narrows her eyes, her brows squished together. “You mean you haven’t heard the news?”
“Not really. I don’t keep up. But who can, you know? I’ve been very busy with school and my friends. I’m applying to law school at the end of this semester.”
“What about your family?”
“We’re a small but busy family. Lyra most of all. You know she plays at the Opera House. She was hired by Fyodor Kreed himself.”
Detective Laurent pauses as if unsure how to broach the topic. “Well… I’m sorry to say… Ms. Hendrix, your sister has passed away. She was… she was murdered by Kaden Raskova, the Cleaver. Here’s a few copies of recent newspapers from the Times if you’d like to read for yourself. They’ve been reporting on the investigation nonstop.”
My gaze drops to the sensationalized headlines on the front page of the Easton Times . Not unlike the copies of the papers I have. Headlines like:
The Cleaver Claims His Final Victim in 24-year-old Lyra Hendrix
What Made Him Do It? Childhood Friend Weighs In
More Bodies Found—The Cleaver Death Toll Rises
And the latest?—
Bondage, Whips and Chains—Oh My! The Secret Late-Night Sex Parties Hosted by the Cleaver, Kaden Raskova
I snort back a laugh and then shake my head side to side.
“This isn’t about my sister.” I slide the papers back toward her. “She’s not dead.”
“Ms. Hendrix?—”
“You know what this coffee needs? Coffee cake.” I pop to my feet and dart toward the counter to fuss with the plastic container of pound cake.
Detective Laurent rises to her feet, arms crossed. “When was the last time you were in contact with your sister?”
“I just told you I’m busy, detective.” I pluck the large kitchen knife out of the wooden block resting on the counter. Fingers wrapped around the handle, the blade glints attractively under the kitchen lights. I’m entranced by it for a second as I ask, “Would you like some cake, detective?”
“No… thank you. I’d like to get back to the questions. Did Lyra ever mention anyone by the name of Kaden Raskova to you?”
“That doesn’t sound familiar. Probably because my sister had nothing to do with some guy named Jaden Kaskova.”
“Kaden,” she says. “Kaden Raskova. Did you know any of Lyra’s friends? Anyone you might be able to point me in the direction of? Someone who kept regular contact with her?”
“Nope.”
“What about a young woman named Imani Makune? From what I could find about your sister, they were very close friends.”
“ I’m her friend. Her best friend.”
The detective heaves a sigh like she’s frustrated by my answers but can’t admit as much. I keep my back turned to her, my hand shaking as it cuts an uneven slice of cake. It’s no different from the vocal cords quivering in my throat.
I’m hot all over. Irritated.
Mad that mother taught me to be so polite.
You should never be rude to guests in your home. It reflects poorly on no one else but you.
Detective Laurent wanders from the kitchen area to the framed photographs hanging on the wall. Her left brow cocks higher and she directs a probing glance my way.
“Who are they?”
She’s talking about the family of four posed in matching Christmas sweaters.
I grip the knife tighter and hack off another lopsided piece of cake. “Family friends.”
“Hmm.”
The sound isn’t an agreeable hum. It drips with suspicion. With unmistakable deep thought.
Detective Laurent is doing what all cops do—she’s drinking in every moment, every single detail. She’s nosy and rude and has no business showing me newspapers about my sister and some maniac who hosted sex parties.
The radio attached to her hip suddenly goes off, interrupting the tense silence in the apartment.
“Calling in a Code 187 on Vale Street,” comes the fuzzy voice over the radio waves. “Male. Early 40s. Found disposed of in an alleyway dumpster. All officers in the area respond.”
Detective Laurent curses under her breath, dialing down the volume. “This thing never shuts up. A city this big? There’s always something going on somewhere.”
The knife slips out of my hand, clattering onto the counter. I spin around with a broad smile pasted on and my insides twisted into knots. “It sounds like you’re busy. I think it’s time for you to leave.”
“Ms. Hendrix, if you don’t mind, I would like to return to my quest?—”
“I’ve answered what I can. But I’ll reach out to you when I hear from my sister. Does that sound good? Goodbye, Detective! Thanks for stopping by.”
I walk her to the door, thoughts scattered, head spinning. The door rattles shut before the detective can edge any more words in, but she doesn’t leave straightaway. I sense her on the other side of the door, waiting a few more seconds before she gives up altogether.
It takes everything in me not to collapse on the floor.
Instead, I lean against the wall and huff air into my lungs.
The quiet in the apartment feels suffocating now, thick and oppressive, like the walls are closing in. I can feel eyes on me, even though the detective’s gone and I’m all alone.
The family photographs.
Rushing across the room, I rip them off the hooks nailed to the wall and stuff them inside the first drawer I come across.
But it’s not enough.
I’m still being watched. How else would the detective know to find me here? How else would she know to bang on this door and ask me about my sister?
I spin toward the large window to wrench the curtains shut. Heart hammering in my chest and breaths shallow, I pause to scan the street first.
The city bus happens to glide by, its long length obscuring the other side of the street. Once it passes and the buildings across the street come into view, I find nothing suspicious.
No one watching. No one lurking.
The sidewalk’s empty.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because even if the shadow were there, he wouldn’t show himself. He doesn’t ever let anyone else see him but me.
I tug the curtains shut and let darkness fall over the room like it’s night and not day. The unsettling feeling goes nowhere, gnawing at my insides, eating me up.
The only thing I can do is focus on my sister.
Retreating into my room, the four walls feel like they’ve shifted. The room feels smaller, the shadows thicker. My bed sits in the corner, the sheets a tangled heap.
I notice something I hadn’t earlier. Among the wrinkled sheets is a sleek black card. I lurch forward to scoop it up in my hand and turn it over.
It’s a room key from the Winchester.
It belongs in the trash. I must’ve forgotten to throw it away.
Just like I forgot to clean up last night and didn’t bother with PJs.
I toss it back onto the bed and move to pick up my dress from the floor. My gaze falls on the closet in the corner, the door cracked open.
The door had been closed before. I closed it once I had changed and then walked out to see who was knocking.
My stomach hardens to lead.
There’s nowhere left to run to or hide.
There’s no use pretending I don’t know what’s going on or where this is headed.
The agonizing silence is his precursor. The shadows spreading out across the room are dark and invasive like him.
No one else would ever believe me. Why would they when I’m the only one who ever sees him?
But I’m certain as my legs move like heavy stilts and I step toward the closet battling the cold wave of nausea washing over me.
I’m no longer alone. I’ve never really been alone. My shadow goes where I go.
He’s here.
I can feel him. Hear every slow, ragged drag of air into his lungs.
“It’s you,” I whisper, my voice trembling, barely audible. “You’re there, aren’t you?”