7. Swear she might kill me, but at least I’ll die with a smile
7
Swear she might kill me, but at least I’ll die with a smile
Moth
S omehow, I slept that night, though I don’t know how. Maybe it was because I locked every door, even the door to the guest room, and pushed the dresser in front of it.
I woke with a start, sitting up in bed and looking around the room, my heart fluttering in my chest, but it was for nothing. Everything was exactly how I’d left it, down to my crumpled sundress on the floor. My breathing slowed and my heart fell back into a normal rhythm.
I flopped down onto the pillow and lay there, staring at the ceiling as thoughts circled in my head. I was safe, but was that because of something I’d done or what someone else hadn’t done?
I sighed. There was no denying it now, not after that phone call. I had a stalker. I wasn’t safe here, and yet I couldn’t leave. I was willingly staying in the wolf’s den, eyes closed and throat exposed.
And for what? To sell my dad’s house ?
I didn’t have to do this. I could leave, go back home, and manage things from afar. I’m sure Barrett would help oversee anyone I hired.
That thought sent a fire of rage burning through me.
No. I wasn’t doing that. I wasn’t gonna let someone force me out of Cottonwood Falls. Not again. I’d done that before, even knowing the perpetrator was safely behind bars. I had let my fears and my bad memories force me out.
I wasn’t doing that again. I was going to fight, with everything in me, until my very last breath.
I threw back the comforter, scurried out of bed, and pulled on a pair of cut-off shorts, a tank top, and one of Dad’s old flannels. Somehow, having that part of him with me made me feel safer.
It took a little more than a grunt and some determination to move the dresser I’d used to barricade the door. Maybe my fear had made me stronger. Either way, I’d broken a sweat and a couple of nails by the time I finally moved it back into place.
Stepping out into the hallway, I stood in the dim light for a long while, listening to the sounds of the house and staring at the faded, green-striped wallpaper. When nothing sounded out of the ordinary, I made my way down the hallway and into Dad’s den. The pistol I’d found yesterday stayed right where I’d put it, in the top drawer of his desk beside the box of shells. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest place to keep it, now that I knew I could have someone sneaking around in the shadows.
I had a better place to keep it.
It took some trial and error, but I managed to pop the slide out and check the bullets. It was loaded .
This couldn’t be that complicated. I’d gone with my dad to the target range enough times to know how to use it—basically.
Point and squeeze.
Careful to keep my finger away from the trigger, I stuffed it down the back of my waistband for safekeeping.
Let him show up here now. I’d turn him into Swiss cheese and solve both of our problems.
Barrett had said to call him, but I wasn’t ready for company. I’d had more than enough of that for the entire past week, and I needed some time alone with myself, my memories, and my thoughts. I could do some cleaning by myself and leave the heavy lifting for when Barrett got here… maybe tomorrow?
Looking down, I saw the only other thing in my dad’s desk drawer and plucked it out. It was a tarnished brass key, scuffed and dirty. Did anything in this house even take a key like this? Where the hell had this come from? I couldn’t remember ever seeing it before.
While I wracked my brain, I pushed the key down the front of my shirt and into one cup of my bra. As my mom had always said—tits were nature’s pocketbook. If I found something I thought the key would fit, I’d try it then.
I busied myself with cleaning out the long, low bookshelf beneath the window. It was mostly old police manuals—some of which dated back to the 1940s. I’d keep those. They could be worth money. The rest were various copies of TV Guide and random magazines. Behind some of the books, I found a small stack of Playboys, and I gasped and squealed, tearing my hands back and wiping them across the carpet .
“Oh god, I touched that,” I squealed, shivering. “Please Dad, tell me you didn’t?!”
Pulling a nauseated face, I used a single finger to pull the wastepaper basket from under his desk to in front of the bookshelf and pushed them off of the shelf and into the garbage.
“Gross.”
I knew he was a man, and men had needs, but the last thing I wanted was to know anything about it.
It took me over an hour, but I finally got the bookshelf cleared. I checked every book, using my phone to do some research, and found a couple of Stephen King books that were first editions. I would keep those, too.
I piled everything else into whatever evidence boxes they would fit into and pulled the shelf away from the wall. It was cheap plywood, and the back was missing. I could carry it out to the curb myself. The minute I lifted it away from the wall, I stopped.
Laid into the floor beneath the shelf, the face of a safe glared up at me.
“What the fuck?” I muttered, placing the shelf off to one side. Had this always been here? I couldn’t remember ever seeing it before. It was deep, matte black, and looked new. Was this something that he’d had installed?
Unlike most safes I’d seen that had a digital reading and keypad, this one only had a single hole for a key. Reaching into my bra, I pulled out the key I’d found in his desk. I slid the key into the lock, and with a soft twist, it popped open. I pulled the door open carefully, almost afraid of what I would find. A small light clicked on inside, illuminating a stack of books and several overstuffed manilla envelopes. I pulled out the stack of books first. They were small, leather-bound journals tied shut with long, twisted black shoelaces. I put them off to the side and reached back into the safe. The envelopes were heavier than they should have been, and it was a struggle to pull them out. I placed them on the carpet in front of my crossed legs and opened the first one.
It was a stack of papers, and right on top was the deed to the house, printed on tattered, yellowish paper. That saved me a little trouble, anyway. Next was his birth certificate, along with mine and mom’s. After that, the title to his car, still sitting in the barn outside. I continued to thumb through the papers, and nothing else seemed significant, so I sat them atop the desk to save for later.
The next envelope was full of bands of cash. After a few minutes, some cursing, and losing my place several times, I counted over one hundred thousand dollars, in different stacks of hundreds and fifties. Why was he keeping so much money in the house?
The next envelope was full of bank statements, and the numbers on them drenched me in a cold sweat. Dad had multiple millions of dollars in a bank account downtown. I had already been told that there was no will, but since I was the last surviving family member, everything was already mine.
I sucked in a deep, shaking breath and shook my head.
All these years, Dad had never told me.
Then, a sudden thought struck me
Maybe I didn’t have a stalker at all. Maybe I was wrong.
What if, whoever this was, knew about the money, and was willing to go through me to get it ?
A shiver crawled up my spine, and I set the envelope aside, beside the other one. Right now was not the time to think of that. Right now, I needed coffee.
Piling the journals in my arms, I stood up and made my way out of the room, making my way downstairs. I didn’t bother to put the money or the envelopes back where I had found them. I didn’t need to. I had protection now.
As I stepped past, I sat the journals on the kitchen table and immediately turned to the coffee pot. A few scoops, splashes of water, and mug selection later, I had my steaming hot mug and was ready to look at whatever Dad had written in these books.
Sitting the steaming mug on the table, I took up the first journal and began to untie the lace. It took some frustration and more than a few curse words. He hadn’t wanted anyone to get into this. The first page was marked with a four, dated April 17th, 2014.
Four? That must mean this was the fourth journal, right? Untying the next one, I discovered I was right. Before reading, I’d have to put them all in order.
A few minutes later, it was done. I had them laid out left to right, oldest to newest.
I took a deep drink of my coffee. Was it right for me to go through these? Was it an invasion of his privacy, even if he was gone and buried? What would I find, and would it be something I would wish I never read?
His therapist had suggested he start journaling after losing mom, as a way to vent his frustrations since he had lost the person he loved, and his support system. He’d suggested the same thing to me, but as a temperamental pre-teen, I’d opted out .
Now that I was older, I wish I hadn’t.
Steeling myself, I opened the first journal.
It was dated just a month after Mom’s death, December 2008. Just seeing the date brought back the memories and set me on edge. Maybe I still hadn’t come to terms with it myself.
I am so proud of my daughter. She is the strongest person I know, and certainly stronger than I am. She’s been there for me through all of this, even when I wasn’t there for her. I will do better. We will get better.
I could feel the tears swimming in my eyes, and I had to fight to blink them back. I was so mad at myself. I was mad about moving so far away. I was mad that I let a stupid fight keep us from talking for years, and I was mad that I wasn’t there for him when he needed me the most.
He died alone, and that was my fault.
Once I managed to get a hold of myself, I continued to read. I flipped through the journals, reading every word I could get my hands on. Maybe, in a way, it would make up for what I had lacked. I smiled at some pages and cried at others. I had good memories and bad, guilt and pride. It was a melting pot of emotions that I had to try my best to wade through.
I read for so long, that I ignored the growling in my stomach and hours passed with each flipped page. I downed my cup of coffee and didn’t bother to stand up and get another one. It could wait. I had to do this for Dad.
I only paused when I made it to one of the last entries in the journal. It was written in the summer of 2015, and it mentioned the Firefly arsonist. Odd, I don’t remember him mentioning it to me way back then. It wasn’t until I read the last paragraph that I became more confused than I thought was possible.
…and while I can’t say I understand why he’s doing it, I told him I could look the other way as long as no one got hurt. He’s like a son to me, and after everything he’s done for this family, I feel it’s not my place to come down on him like a hammer.
Everyone has their demons.
I sat there, staring at the passage over and over again, and trying to get it to make sense. So he not only knew who the arsonist was, he supported his crimes? I read the passage one more time just to make sense of it in my head.
My dad, the strict and sullen police officer who believed in justice above all else, knew who the arsonist was, and was just… allowing him to continue?
That couldn’t be right. I had to be reading this wrong.
Closing the journal, I sat it down on the table, running my hands through my hair. I was more confused than ever, and somehow I had a feeling this was one riddle I’d never have an answer to.
“Dad, what the hell?” I asked out loud. A loud growl from my stomach interrupted my thoughts. I looked up, catching sight of the clock on the wall. It was 7:30 at night. I had spent all day reading and cleaning, and aside from coffee, hadn’t put anything in my stomach. I sighed, standing from the table and moving across the room to the fridge to throw a sandwich together. I wasn’t in the mood to cook or go out. I just needed something to quiet the painful grumbles.
I realized I had a headache after the first bite, and I groaned.
I hadn’t gotten as much done today as I would have liked, but that’s okay. I had, as Tammy had said, ‘a couple of months’ to get it all done, anyway.
I hurriedly stuffed the sandwich into my mouth, chewing and swallowing as fast as I possibly could. Damn, I didn’t realize I was so hungry. Reaching into my pocket, I grabbed my phone and thumbed it on, only to realize I had fifteen unread texts from Barrett and four from Amelia.
Whoops.
Barrett was wondering if I still wanted him to come over and then dissolved into telling me he hoped everything was okay and if I didn’t answer, he’d be over bright and early in the morning. Good old Barrett. Amelia was just sending me funny memes and asking what I was up to.
“Oh, just confusion,” I muttered, clicking my phone off and shoving it back into my pocket. Downing the last swallow of my sandwich, I just so happened to look up through the kitchen window, and a wave of nausea spiked through me.
There was a shadow beneath the old elm tree in the front yard, and it was unmistakably human. How long had it been there? Had they been watching me reading all day?
It was him, wasn’t it? The stalker?
With the sun setting behind them, their face was a mass of darkness .
A pulse of anger chased away my fear, and I marched across the kitchen and into the foyer, reaching into my waistband, my shaking fingers grabbing Dad’s pistol and ripping it out. I tore the front door open and jumped out onto the porch, the pistol raised. Even so, the figure stood stark still.
“Hey, asshole!” I screamed, jumping down from the porch and landing my bare feet in the jagged rocks lining the gravel driveway. “Get the fuck out of here!”
Still, they stood just as still as they had been, and a tiny voice in the back of my mind began to wonder if it was a person at all.
Was the darkness playing tricks on me?
Was I just some crazy lady waving a gun at shadows?
Still, I couldn’t let him see me hesitate.
“Answer me!” I screamed, marching across the lawn, the cold, dark grass licking my feet and sending shivers up my legs.
Finally, when I was less than ten feet away, the shadow moved, head cocking to one side as if listening.
What if it wasn’t human? What if it was some monster from the forest that would come take me and—
I stopped, hesitating, and within seconds, the figure closed the gap between us. My arm trembled as panic consumed me, pistol in hand, ready to fire.
“D-don’t move!” I screamed, bringing up my free hand to cup the one holding the gun. Still, he kept coming.
My brain was going a million miles an hour, my hands shaking and my stomach twisting in painful knots.
“I mean it!”
He kept coming .
I did the only thing I knew to do—I squeezed that trigger.
C L I C K
A dull thunk sounded around me, and tears sprung up in my eyes.
No, no, what?! It was easy . Point and squeeze! Why wasn’t it—
With all the speed of a viper, he reached out, wrapping his fingers around my wrist, and yanked me forward. I spun, and his free arm wound around my waist, crushing me to his chest. His free hand gently pulled the gun from between my fingers and tossed it unceremoniously to the grass at my feet.
Again, I heard that same chuckle that I’d heard over the phone, and the tears I’d been fighting won the battle. They raced down my cheeks, my vision swimming and blurring, and my throat burning and prickling.
Fuck.
Fuck, I was going to die.
“Stop! Stop it!” I bucked and wriggled, fighting against him, but he was too strong. I couldn’t break free. “Let go! Let me go!”
“Easy, Little Moth,” he growled. His free hand came up to grab my jaw, silencing me. “You wouldn’t want to hurt yourself.”
“The m-money’s upstairs, just t-take it and go!”
“No, no, baby girl,” he purred, his fingers petting my chin. “I’m not going to rob you.”
“You can have a-anything you w-want!” I screamed, folding in on myself, my legs threatening to buckle.
He could kill me right here and now, and there’s nothing I’d be able to do about it .
“Anything I want?” he hummed, reaching up to push my hair back away from my face and tuck it lovingly behind my ear. “Oh, I will. Just give it time, Vanessa.”
He placed a single, soft kiss along my jawline, close to my earlobe, and I shuddered violently. I could feel his breath on my face, and the roughness of his stubble tearing at my skin.
Before I could think, speak, or even breathe, he released his hold, and I exploded forward, sprinting across the lawn and jumping onto the porch, my heart hammering so hard in my chest that it felt like it could punch straight through my sternum. Blood pounding in my ears, I tore open the screen door and leaped through it, slamming the front door closed and locking it as quickly as my shaking fingers would allow.
When I turned to look for him through the window beside the door, blinking through the tears, he was gone.