JOSIE
What Mallory Blain tells me is insane. She is insane. Her account of the events makes my skin crawl. She’s either delusional or dangerous. Maybe both.
But now, everything clicks together, the events unfolding in my mind so crazy that Rika and Trevor would’ve choked from shock.
Some things don’t make sense, though.
“How… Who kidnapped you?” She still hasn’t told me, and I don’t get it.
She laughs, her cackle eerie in the dimness of the barn. “No one,” she replies. “Brilliant, innit?”
She gets up and walks off into the darkness, then comes back with an open can and a fork sticking out of it. “Starving,” she growls, setting the gun on her lap, and starts eating right out of the can.
“Then how did you end up in the basement?” I ask.
“A little trick. I waited for you. Texted you from Derek’s phone. Tied myself in the basement. I needed to get you in that house. You see, the police had to know you were involved.”
“But I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were. I needed you to be involved. Who else would take the blame for Derek’s death?
I had Derek’s body already. In the freezer.
Right over there.” She tilts her head toward one of the dark corners.
“I needed to be part of the story, except the story had to be rewritten,” she says as she continues to stuff her face with the food from the can.
“Rewritten how? Framing others?”
“Right. I’ve lived long enough in this crappy town. I needed a way out. And Derek was mine. Him dead, you texting him and then charged with his murder, I could tell a love story that no one would forget.”
“Excuse me?”
“I saw a movie when I was in high school, Natural Born Killers. The best love story there is.”
“I know the movie. It’s about serial killers.”
“You see, not in my book. It’s about love.
And everyone who stands in the way has to go.
Gone-gone.” She waves her hand in the air.
“That was supposed to be Derek and me. He was the love of my life. Except he didn’t see it that way, and, well, look where it got him.
Like I said, karma. But that doesn’t mean that’s the story everyone will hear. ”
“You are…” I don’t finish. Because I can’t describe how insane this sounds.
Whereas in the basement I couldn’t see her well enough, and at the precinct she looked small and scared, now I’ve been studying Mallory Blain for the hour she’s been ranting.
She looks much older than she is. Unkempt.
Sloppy. Her coat, pants, and boots are worn out and soiled.
Her beanie sits skewed. Her messy, dirty hair hangs down in thin strands like mouse tails.
Something’s wrong with her eyes, too. They are either cheerful or full of rage, the change back and forth so sudden that it’s clear she’s whacked out—either on something or in her head.
While she was talking about the past, I’d forgotten about the ropes. I need to hurry up. It’s my only chance to escape this monster.
And I need to keep her talking.
“What’s your story then?” I ask, feigning curiosity. “Where is this going?”
Suddenly, a creak from behind the barn door makes her straighten up. Her head snaps in the direction of the door, her eyes wild like those of a hyena.
“Help! Heeeelp!” I scream, hoping that someone has found us.
She lunges at me and slaps me in the face so hard that a breath catches in my throat.
“Shut up, bitch,” she snaps, pointing the gun in my face.
My cheek burns, the pain so sudden that I shut my eyes tightly. This is the second time she’s done it, and she might’ve split the skin.
“You open your mouth, and I’ll shoot,” she grunts, pushing the barrel of the gun into my forehead. “Understood?”
She creeps up toward the door, pointing the gun in front of her, then disappears out the door. In a moment, a loud, “Meow!” echoes outside, her curse follows, and my heart falls.
She stomps back with an irritated look on her face. “Stupid animals.”
She picks up the can and fork, wipes the fork on her pants, and continues eating.
“I’m going to get what I deserve,” she says, chewing loudly with her mouth open.
“With all the witnesses gone, Karen, Derek, Alysha, you”—she laughs and shakes her head in amusement—“I’ll spin the story the way I want.
I’ll be a victim. Derek was my love. Killed that loser Dougie back in the day to avenge me.
Your grandmother ran him out of town, and the police were looking for him.
He never stopped loving me, came back for me, after all these years.
Wanted to meet with you, but you got jealous and angry and killed him.
Then lured me into his house and tied me up to blame him. ”
My jaw falls. Is she for real? “That doesn’t make sense. You texted me from his phone.”
“Right,” she says with a little frown, then lights up. “But you had his phone! So when the police found me, you had to turn it off, right?” She giggles, the sound of it coming from a grown woman somewhat maniacal. “Thanks for the hint!”
“You texted from a different phone afterward.”
“Sure did. And I will put that burner in your pocket. Makes sense. I’m not tech savvy.” She winks at me. “But you are, the younger generation and all. What do you think?”
She genuinely looks at me like she wants my opinion on this deranged story. “Think about what?”
“The story. You think it’ll sell?” She tosses the can away, into the hay, picks up her gun, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
“I bet it will. I bet it’ll make me a lot of money.
I’ll give interviews. They say they pay good money for those.
48 Hours. Dr. Phil. Maybe even a movie or something. A book deal, definitely.”
I don’t know if this woman has looked in the mirror lately, but the love story she’s pushing definitely borders on deranged.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, all the while working the knots behind me, undoing them, which already makes the ropes loosen, so I hold them tight not to give myself away.
Her expression becomes vicious. “Because he left me here, in this rotten town,” she says, punctuating the words as she stabs the air with her gun. “But he came back for you.”
“You ruined people’s lives, and you want to tell a story like it’s some sort of epic romance?”
“I’m going to tell my story. The way I want to tell it. That’s where you come in, with your traumatized childhood.”
“That’s not true.”
“I mean, you grew up almost an orphan.”
“I was raised by my grandmother,” I argue angrily.
“Semantics. If she raised you the way she raised Alysha, that’s a low bar.”
“Screw you,” I spit out.
“Yeah, yeah. I have the knife that you used to stab your daddy.”
“I didn’t do it!” I almost shout.
“It has your fingerprints. You see, when he showed up in town, you were so angry that he left you and your mom that you killed him.”
“No one will believe you.”
“Ha!” Her face brightens up. “You’d be surprised.”
“No one will believe someone like you.”
“Oh, yeah? And what is that supposed to mean?”
“My mom is long gone, and still, people remember her, talk about her. You’re jealous of the girl who made this town and people like you march to the beat of her drum. No one even remembers who you are.”
In seconds, spite crosses her face again. “They will. Trust me. When I’m done with you, they will. And your mom is dead. Serves her right.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“She dumped you. Left you at your grandmother’s house, because she didn’t want to have anything to do with you. What mother does that?”
Her words sting, but it’s not the first time I’ve heard them. “She was young. She was scared.”
“She wanted to party, drink booze, bang guys, and snort the good white stuff until her brain turned to mush.”
I don’t have a response because maybe part of this is true. “It was an unfortunate accident that took her too early,” I say quietly, my last defense.
Mallory Blain snorts. “That wasn’t an accident.
” There’s an evil glint in her eyes as she leans her elbows on her knees, the gun dangling in her hand.
“I went to see her in Philly, two years after you were born. To see how far she’d fallen.
Pretty far, if you ask me. Considering she was ready to snort and inject about anything that she could get her hands on. And I brought a present for her.”
A nasty feeling starts inside me, and I don’t want to hear what this woman has to say anymore.
“That’s right,” she says, scowling. “I brought her a baggie of fentanyl, told her it was the best cocaine you could get in Philly. And she snatched it from my hand like I owed her. Snorted it right away, too. She was a junkie. She had no future, and she had to pay for what she did in the past.”
Her stories are disturbing, but what she’s telling me right now is a gut punch. My skin prickles. My throat tightens.
“I watched her,” she continues in a low, sinister voice.
“You know, it’s peculiar that I’d wanted her gone for so long, and back then, when I sat across from her on a shitty chair, because she barely had any furniture, I watched as she lay motionless on the couch.
Foam dripped from her mouth. I wished she’d spat out one of her lies, an insult, anything.
I really did. I expected her to fight. But she’d lost her spark by then, couldn’t talk. A pity really.”
Tears well up in my eyes. My chest burns. A lump forms in my throat, making it hard to breathe. I blink, and tears spill down my cheeks.
“I could’ve called an ambulance,” Mallory Blain says. “But she deserved to die like she did. Alone on a shitty couch.”