Chapter 12
MAEVE
My feet won’t move, like I’m nailed to the floor.
The silence is . . . too silent. I shouldn’t be here. Not like this. What am I hoping to achieve? The answer to that question is something I’m no longer sure of.
Instead of questioning Dennis McCosky like the journalist I am, I’m now adding breaking and entering to my list of stupid mistakes.
The first being, moving back here.
I glance back at my car parked on the far side of the road, a large tree obstructing my view.
This is ridiculous, even for me. Not only did I turn a blind eye to the fact my co-worker had his fingers chopped off—confirmed by Lydia via text this morning—now I’m going to pretend I’m perfectly fine with it.
Or with the fact Caleb might be the perpetrator, and I’m dreaming of the ways I’d like him to put his hands on me.
I don’t understand it. His familiarity goes beyond just sharing a childhood at Thornhaven Orphanage. We’re linked, intertwined in some deeper way. Though, neither of us can remember how, like someone has plucked our memories straight from our heads and buried them deep where they’ll never be dug up.
All I can do is keep pretending and searching until someone gives me something I can work with.
Is that someone Dennis?
He must have files stashed somewhere. They didn’t just vanish. If I can get my hands on even the smallest piece of information, it may tell me what happened to Bethany.
Everything so far has come up blank. Her name, her memory, gone, just like that.
The house remains quiet, shrouded in darkness, the blinds drawn, no light escaping.
Blowing out a breath, I step inside, the blue glow of the moon lengthening my shadow over the beige carpet.
Something drips in the distance. Steady. Unhurried.
Leaning forward, I squint into the darkness, my eyes adjusting to the dim glow the moon affords me.
A dark shadow, blurred at first as though my eyes are playing tricks on me, finally comes into focus, the outline unmistakable.
A body. Tied to a chair.
Oh . . . god.
Is that . . . Dennis?
My hand darts to my mouth, and I step closer, the scent of something metallic filling the air. Blood.
Is he dead? And if so, what the hell have I stepped into?
I back away, inching closer to my only escape route. This is a mistake. I’ll go home, pretend I didn’t see anything. No-one knows I’m here.
A muffled groan has me freezing in the open doorway.
“You know you want to look,” the voice in my head says. “Just a little peek. He won’t hurt you. He wants you to see.”
The voice is right. If Dennis is tied up, he can’t hurt me, not like he used to.
Slowly, I turn back around, my breathing ragged, my heart practically skipping in my chest.
A sharp pain lances through my skull, and I grip onto my hair, images from the orphanage flooding in.
My underwear around my ankles.
Dennis’s hot breath behind me, his hand lifting my skirt.
A belt buckle clattering to the tiled floor.
Acid creeps up into my throat, burning my oesophagus. I’ll never get another chance like this. If he dies, then that’s it.
I shut the door behind me, and tiptoe into the entrance. A light switch on the wall catches my attention, and I flick it on, the orange glow stuttering. It’s enough for me to navigate my way to Dennis.
A jolt of electricity races through me as I creep closer. Is the killer still here, watching me, waiting for me to make another lapse in judgement?
Did I disturb them, or had they settled their unfinished business with this vile, grotesque man?
I’m going to hope for the latter.
Not that it matters. Caleb knows where I live. He could take my life at any moment. What’s the point in putting up a fight? What exactly am I fighting for anymore, anyway?
Another day in this shit-show of a life, my nightmares running on repeat every single minute of every single day.
I drag a hand down my face, my nails scraping over my skin, like I could scratch the failure off me.
Bethany is still out there—bones buried, voice silenced—and I’m no closer to finding her than I was the day she vanished.
So, if I’m going to disappear tonight, then I’m going to get what I came here for.
Answers.
I race forward, grabbing Dennis by his matted, greying hair and yank his head back. His eyes, bloodshot and unfocused, barely register my presence. The stench of fear and bodily fluids assaults my nostrils, but I don’t flinch.
If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve imagined this moment too many times to be deterred by mere disgust.
Does that make me a monster, too? If Caleb is the killer, he’s not a monster to me. He’s a survivor.
“Look at me, you bastard,” I snap, my voice raw with hatred for this vile man. “Do you remember me?”
A flicker of recognition passes across his battered face, followed by a fresh wave of terror. Good. He should be afraid. He should be terrified. Should be pissing his pants like I did all those years ago just so he wouldn’t touch me.
I swallow hard, and release his hair, letting his head loll forward. Pretty sure he’s already done that by the smell. But there’s so much blood staining his trousers, it’s hard to tell.
I rub my palms together, pacing in front of him.
The room is spotless, not an item out of place. If Dennis wasn’t bleeding out on the carpet right now, it would seem as though no-one had been here at all.
But a shattered vase on the mantle catches my eye. It’s arranged too neatly, the shards stacked like someone couldn’t bear to leave them scattered.
The tidiness is oddly familiar, so is the scent. Something about it lingers in my nostrils, a familiarity I’ve come to know.
It’s Caleb, but not Caleb.
A wave of nausea rushes over me, but I push it down and continue to pace, sucking in as much oxygen as I can.
I can do this. I have to do this.
The creak of a floorboard shatters the silence behind me. I whip my head around, my gaze darting to every dark corner. Nothing. No monsters lurking. Well, none besides Dennis.
I shake my head. No distractions. I need to maintain my focus, because it’s not like I know what I’m doing.
My body moves like my thoughts are orchestrating it, yet I don’t feel completely in control.
Maybe it’s the adrenaline of this moment, of finally coming face-to-face with a man who has terrorised my nightmares for the last ten years.
Dennis’s chest heaves with laboured breaths, blood trickling from several gashes marring his disgusting body. One, in particular, is nasty, the skin pulled from the muscle, like peeled flesh from an orange.
The rage building inside me threatens to explode out of me like an eruption. This man wreaked havoc on countless lives. Mine. Caleb’s. Bethany’s. His presence is a dark shadow looming over our pasts.
“You don’t get to die yet,” I say, grabbing his face and forcing him to look at me. My fingernails dig into his clammy skin. “Not until you’ve given me what I need.” My voice trembles, vibrating with desperation. “Bethany, what happened to her?”
Dennis shakes his head, duct-tape muffling his cries. I rip it from his mouth, and he splutters, spraying me with blood and saliva, and God-knows-what else.
My gag reflex triggers my own spluttering, and I press a hand to my chest, sucking in deep breaths.
Blood and vomit dribbles down Dennis’s chest, and the rancid stench fills the air, thick enough to taste, to seep into the walls, into the fabric of my clothes, my skin.
I turn away, covering my mouth with the back of my hand.
It’s a smell I’ll never forget.
Just like this moment.
Dennis coughs, more blood-tinged saliva spraying into the air. “P-please. I’m dying. C-call the police.”
The police? He does know we live in Thornhaven, right? A lawless town where murderers prowl the streets, unbothered, unassuming.
I shake my head, nibbling on my bottom lip. “Shut up.” My hands flex at my sides, clenching, unclenching.
What am I doing?
“Please. I w-won’t say anything about you being here.”
A choked laugh bubbles up inside me. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve smiled, Dennis?” I slam my hands against the arms of the chair, my face inches from his. “Since I’ve felt anything other than the pain you, and all the others, inflicted on me? And all for what? So, you can sit here in your fancy big house and drive your pretentious car around a town that barely opened its eyes to the horrors behind those orphanage doors. You think anyone will come for you? Help you? Don’t hold your fucking breath.”
His eyes, once so cold and predatory, now shine with fear and pain. He’s nothing like the man I feared back then, the one who would stroll the white, clinical halls of the orphanage selecting his next victim as though we were items to be bought in a grocery store.
Now, he’s a shadow of what he was, resigned to the weak man he really is.
I hope he’s fucking terrified. Not that it’s enough. It will never be enough.
Dennis whimpers, thrashing at the ropes binding him to the chair, his pale face dripping with sweat and blood. He wheezes, a trickle of red spilling from the hole in his chest.
I’m running out of time.
“Tell me, you bastard. What happened to my friend? Think, Dennis”—I tap the centre of his forehead—“Think.”
“Please,” he croaks through his pitiful sobbing, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to?—”
“Didn’t mean to, what?” I throw my hands up. “Didn’t mean to touch us where no grown man should touch a child? Didn’t mean to turn a blind eye when we were beaten black and blue for not making our beds the right way? You’re a pathetic excuse for a human being.”
Dennis’s mumbled sobs don’t affect me the way they should. At this moment, I’m not Maeve Lockhart, the walking, bleeding heart. Right now, I’m someone else entirely, as though I’m floating above my body and watching another take control of my limbs.
The glint of something silver on a nearby table catches my attention—a letter opener. It draws me in, whispering through the air for me to pick it up, to weigh it in my hands.
My feet carry me to the table, and I snatch the item up, turning it over, running my finger along the sharp edge. It’s no knife, but it’s enough to create fear.
Maybe then he’ll talk.
I press the letter opener against Dennis’s throat, the rapid pulse beneath his thin skin urging me to drive it into his flesh. His eyes widen, pleading.
“Bethany,” I choke out once again. “She was in the West Ward. Tell me. Tell me what happened to her.”
He shakes his head, sobbing and spluttering, sending more blood and saliva dripping onto his chest. Each breath forces the flap of flesh hanging off his abdomen to slap against the skin beneath it.
My mouth fills with saliva, but I swallow it down.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
I’m not weak Maeve tonight. I’m another version of her, the darker, lost version.
My hand trembles as I press the letter opener deeper. He knows something. I can see it in his eyes, even through the terror swirling in them.
Why won’t he give me the truth? He’s already dying. Isn’t that what dying people do? Confess all their sins in the hopes they’ll make it through the pearly gates above.
“Tell me. You know what happened Dennis.”
“Y-you don’t . . . understand,” he mumbles, gurgling noises rattling in his chest. “They’ll k-kill me. You. They’ll kill you.”
My grip tightens around the handle of the opener, and I drop to my knees, pressing the weapon even deeper into his pale flesh, drawing more blood. “Who, Dennis? Who will kill me?”
“It doesn’t even matter anymore.” Another sob breaks free, and he drops his head, tears rolling down his ruddy cheeks. “Just kill me already,” he mumbles. “I’m dead no matter what.”
Death will be too easy, but him living is worse. The longer he remains breathing on this earth, the longer I suffer knowing he still hasn’t received the punishment he deserves.
If he can’t answer for what happened to Bethany, then he’ll answer for everything else.
“Fine,” I say, my hand tightening around the handle. “But just so you know, I’m going to enjoy every second of watching your life drain from your disgusting body.” Gritting my teeth, I stab the letter opener into the side of his thick neck, the blade sinking into his flesh like soft fruit. “This is for Bethany.”
His eyes widen, wild and desperate as they dart over my face, as if he’s capturing this very moment as his last.
With a steady hand, I slowly pull the weapon out, blood spurting from the wound, hot and thick. It splatters across my face, my hands, staining more of the expensive carpet beneath our feet.
Dennis gurgles, his body convulsing against the ropes.
I stumble back. I feel nothing. Not the disgust at myself for such an act. Not the guilt for killing a man with my bare hands. Not even the satisfaction that this vile human is about to breathe his last breath.
All I can do is stare as the life drains from him, a strange tingling sensation settling at the base of my spine.
The room fills with the metallic scent of fresh blood. Dennis’s struggles grow weaker, his eyes losing focus, each choked breath growing shallower.
His chest heaves in quick, frantic pants, his final breath rattling from his ruined throat.
Then nothing.
Silence descends, broken only by the steady flow of blood from the chair.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I blink, the fog of rage slowly lifting. My hands tremble, the letter opener slipping from my blood-slicked fingers. The sound is swallowed by the carpet, and it just rests there, like an accusation, glaring at me from its position by my feet.
Dennis is lifeless, slumped in the chair, his head tilted at an awkward angle. His eyes, only moments ago, so full of fear and desperate pleading, now stare blankly at nothing.
The blood flow has slowed to a trickle, no longer spurting but oozing from the gaping wound, onto his torso, slithering through his dark, matted chest hair.
My breath comes in ragged gasps. I glance at my hands, slick with Dennis’s cooling blood. They don’t look like my hands anymore. They’re alien, instruments of death I no longer recognise as my own.
Wh-what have I done?
The adrenaline that fuelled my revenge ebbs away, leaving me hollow and shaking. The coppery stench of blood fills my nostrils, mixing with the distinct odour of Dennis’s released bowels.
I stumble backwards, my legs weak and unsteady beneath me. The room spins, closing in, squeezing my chest, my throat, suffocating me until my vision blurs.
I killed him. I actually killed him.
A choked sob escapes my throat, the sound startling me. It’s as if the world beyond this room has ceased to exist, leaving only me and Dennis’s corpse.
I gag, and race out the front door, falling to my knees against the grass outside. My muscles tense, my stomach convulsing and heaving as whatever I ate earlier makes a reappearance.
Tears and bile mingle on the ground before me, a visceral representation of my shattered psyche. The cool night air does nothing to soothe the fire raging beneath my skin, and each breath is a patronising reminder I’m alive while Dennis sits motionless inside.
I claw at the earth, digging my fingers into the soil as though I can somehow bury the memory of what I’ve done. It doesn’t work. The images flash behind my eyes on a continuous loop. Each detail etched into my mind with such clarity, it’ll forever haunt me.
Whose hands are these? Not mine. Not mine. Not mine.
My breath catches in my throat, and I choke.
He deserved it. I know he did. So why do I feel like I’ve just split myself open alongside him?
I didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. My hands moved before my brain could catch up, before the rational part inside me could stop them.
One simple movement, a held breath, and it was done. Like tying my shoes. Like brushing my teeth.
Am I that cruel? That cold-hearted, that the mere act of slicing open someone’s throat is now a permanent fixture inside the chaos of my mind.
Who the hell have I become? Or more importantly, what have I become?
Another heave, and I release the remaining contents of my stomach. My muscles shake as they keep me from face-planting into my vomit.
I need to get out of here before someone sees me, if they haven’t already.
My blood-stained hands tremble with the effort of pushing myself onto unsteady, weak legs. I force myself to move, to keep going.
I don’t stop, not until I’m safely locked inside the only comfort I know.
My house.