Chapter 11 Mara
MARA
Detective Wilshire calls me back three days after I find the hand.
I've left four messages by then, each one more desperate than the last. The first was professional and calm—just checking in on the investigation, wondering if there were any leads.
By the fourth, I was barely holding it together, my voice shaking as I asked if I was in danger, if they'd found anything, if they had any idea who did this.
When my phone finally rings with a number I recognize from the police station, I answer before the second ring.
"Ms. Winslow, this is Detective Wilshire returning your calls."
His voice is flat, bored even, like he's calling about a parking ticket instead of a severed hand left at my door.
"Detective, thank you for calling back. I was wondering if there were any updates on the case? Any leads on who—"
"The case has been closed."
I freeze, my brain struggling to process what he just said. "I'm sorry, what?"
"The case has been closed. You're not in any danger. You can go about your normal life."
"Closed?" I stand up abruptly, pacing my apartment. "How can it be closed? Someone left a severed hand at my door. Someone cut off a man's hand and—"
"I understand your concern, Ms. Winslow, but the matter has been handled."
"Handled? What does that mean? Did you find who did it? Did Richard Maxwell identify someone? What did he tell you?"
There's a pause on the other end of the line. When Detective Wilshire speaks again, his voice is even more clipped. "I can't discuss the details of the investigation."
"But you just said it was closed. If it's closed, surely you can tell me—"
"Ms. Winslow." He cuts me off, and there's something in his tone now that makes my skin prickle. "The case is closed. That's all I can tell you. I suggest you move on and put this behind you."
"Move on? Someone is stalking me. Someone cut off a man's hand because he—" I stop myself before I say too much. "I need to know if I'm safe. I need to know who did this."
"You're not in danger anymore. That's all you need to know."
"That's not all I need to know!" My voice rises and then breaks, frustration and fear bleeding through. "How can you just close a case like this? What about the card? The initials? Did you even investigate—"
"Ms. Winslow." His voice is hard now, final. "This is above my pay grade. The case is closed. If you have any further concerns, you can file a report, but I'm telling you right now that nothing will come of it. Go about your life. Forget this happened."
"How am I supposed to forget—"
But he's already hung up.
I stand in my apartment with the phone pressed to my ear, listening to dead air. Then I call back. The line rings and rings before going to voicemail. I try the main station number instead.
"I need to speak to Detective Wilshire about case number—"
"Detective Wilshire is unavailable. Would you like to leave a message?"
"I've already left messages. This is urgent. Someone left a severed hand at my apartment and—"
"Ma'am, if you have an emergency, you should call 911."
"It's not an emergency, it's an ongoing investigation, and I need to speak to the detective assigned to—"
"I'll make sure he gets your message."
Click.
I try twice more over the course of the day.
Each time, I'm stonewalled. Detective Wilshire is unavailable.
The case is closed. There's nothing more they can tell me.
When I finally get through to someone else in the department and ask why a case involving a severed hand would be closed so quickly, the officer on the phone gets uncomfortable.
"Sometimes cases are... resolved through other channels," he says carefully.
"What other channels?"
"I really can't say, ma'am. But if Detective Wilshire says you're not in danger, then you're not in danger."
The way he says it that makes something click into place. I think about the dismissiveness, the vague explanations. The suggestion to just move on and forget it happened.
I wonder if someone made this go away.
Someone with enough power, enough influence, enough reach to make the NYPD close an investigation into a violent crime without explanation.
It might be I.S., whoever he is. He might have done this, and then gotten the case closed.
I sit on my couch with my phone in my hand, staring at nothing, and I wonder what kind of person I've attracted. What kind of monster has decided I'm his.
—
“You need to go out this weekend.”
Claire is standing in the doorway of my office, her hands on her hips. “I know you’ve been taking your work home. I see you in the documents. Have you eaten anything the last two weeks that wasn’t takeout?”
I can't actually remember, although I do know I’ve switched takeout spots. My usual Thai place gives me the creeps, now. "I've been busy with work."
"Bullshit. You've been hiding." She levels a narrow look at me. "Emma and Jess are meeting us at that new bar, that new martini place I was telling you about the other day. You're coming."
"Claire, I really don't think—"
"I don't care what you think. You're coming.
You're going to put on something that makes you feel hot, you're going to drink overpriced cocktails, and you're going to remember what it feels like to be a normal twenty-seven-year-old woman instead of someone who is going to start reciting provenance documents in their sleep.”
"I don't know if I'm up for it."
"That's exactly why you need to do it." Her voice softens. "Mara, I'm worried about you. You've been different since the auction. You won't talk about it, which is fine, but you can't just hide in your apartment forever. Whatever happened, you can't let it control your life like this."
If only she knew. If only I could tell her about the hand, about the card, about the way the police just made it all disappear. But I can't. I can't drag her into this darkness with me. This is too much to put on my assistant, even if a lot of the time she is more my friend than anything else.
And maybe getting out of the house would be a good idea. Maybe I need something to feel normal again.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "Okay, I'll come."
Claire's face lights up. "Really?"
"Really. Just... give me an hour after I get off work to get ready."
She smiles brightly, clearly thrilled that she’s won. "You're going to have fun tonight. I promise."
When I leave work and get back to my apartment, I stand in front of my closet for a long time, trying to remember who I was before all of this started. Before the gifts, before the rose, before the hand. Back when I felt like an energetic, successful, vibrant woman.
The vampire analogy returns to me. I feel drained, the vitality pulled from me, drop by drop, by a man who clearly thinks he has some claim on me. I feel like Lucy, like Mina, slowly sapped of my life force by a man too arrogant to think he could do anything but win.
Letting out a slow breath, I pull out one of my favorite dresses—a crimson red slip dress with black lace at the cleavage and hem. With my black waxed cotton jacket and velvet Docs, it’ll be the perfect 90s-styled outfit for the martini bar.
I shower, wash my hair, and put on makeup for the first time in over a week. When I look in the mirror, I almost recognize the woman staring back at me.
The bar is exactly the kind of place Claire would choose, and honestly, it’s very much my scene, too.
It’s all marble and tile so shiny that I can almost see my reflection, with black accents standing starkly against the veined surfaces.
The barstools are black velvet, and it’s packed with the usual weekend crowd: finance and tech bros in clothing that’s meant to look casual but is still obscenely expensive, women dressed similarly.
Everyone is beautiful and successful-looking.
It feels normal, and a small smile makes its way onto my mouth as I spot Claire, Emma, and Jess at a high-top near the back. They wave when they see me, and I weave through the crowd toward them, hyperaware of every person I pass. Is anyone watching me? Is he here? Does he know I left my apartment?
"You look amazing!" Emma pulls me into a hug as I approach. "God, it's been forever."
"I know, I'm sorry. Work has been crazy."
"Well, you're here now. That's what matters." Jess slides a drink toward me—something vaguely pink and garnished with herbs. "Try this. It's got elderflower and gin and I don't know what else, but it's delicious. I guess if you put any drink in a martini glass, you can call it a martini."
I take a sip. It is delicious. I take another, longer sip, and feel the alcohol start to work its way through my system, loosening the knot of anxiety that's been in my chest for weeks.
The conversation takes off immediately, and it makes it hard to focus on anything else, which is good.
We talk about Emma's new job, about Jess's nightmare roommate, about Claire's on-again-off-again relationship with a guy who works in advertising.
Normal things. Safe things. Things that have nothing to do with stalkers or severed hands.
But I can't fully relax. Even as I laugh at Emma's story about her boss, or offer advice about Jess's roommate situation, part of me is scanning the crowd. Waiting for something to happen.
"Earth to Mara." Claire waves a hand in front of my face. "You okay?"
"Yeah, sorry. Just... a lot on my mind."
"Work stuff?"
"Something like that."
She studies me for a moment, and I can see her deciding whether to push. She doesn't. "Well, tonight is about forgetting work stuff. Tonight is about having fun and maybe meeting someone cute." She nods toward the bar. "Speaking of which, that guy has been looking at you for the past ten minutes."
I follow her gaze and find a man at the bar watching me. He's handsome in a conventional way: with dark hair and eyes, clean-cut. He has a good jawline and flashes me the kind of smile that probably gets him whatever he wants.