Chapter 10 Sera
Sera
Death should decay. But the hand in its velvet coffin? It stays pristine and mocking, like the lies its owner told about me under oath.
I’ve spent the morning hunched over my laptop, reading about David Farley’s “tragic accident.” According to the local news sites, he was attacked outside his home the very day I arrived in Wichita.
He survived, minus one hand. The article describes a “brutal, unprovoked assault” and mentions that Sheriff Vincent Harrow has assigned his best detective to the case.
The very same bad-boy-looking Detective Eddie I met at the gas station who unnervingly looked through me rather than at me? The one with dark hair flopping over one blue eye and the most chiseled jawline I’d ever seen?
Regardless, the irony is delicious. Vincent is investigating the mutilation of his own alibi. Is he worried? Does he know it’s connected to me?
My guess is no.
There’s a photo of David from last year’s Christmas parade, his arm slung around Vincent’s shoulders, both men grinning like they’ve never ruined a woman’s life.
I remember David on the witness stand, his face a mask of fake concern: “Yeah, I saw them in the club talking. She was clingy, you know? And when he tried to walk away, well…some women just can’t handle rejection.”
Some women just can’t handle having their drink drugged and waking up bleeding and bruised and near death. Some women can’t handle being told they “wanted it rough” when they know—they fucking know—they never consented to anything at all.
The article says David will undergo months of physical therapy after getting a prosthetic.
Good. I hope every second hurts. I hope he feels phantom pain in the fingers that no longer exist. I hope when he reaches for things—his coffee, his car keys, his dick—he remembers what was done to him, and why.
I close my laptop and walk to the hallway closet where I’ve hidden the box. Not out of shame or fear, but because it’s precious. Evidence of the first time anyone has taken my side since the night it happened. It may as well be a love letter.
I lift the lid, check that the hand is still there. It is, of course, pointing right at me like an accusation.
Grinning, I carefully replace the lid and push the box deeper into the closet.
A laugh bubbles up from my chest. It makes me giddy that David’s not dead, just maimed and marked, forced to live without his right hand. The one he raised in court to swear on the Bible before lying for Vincent.
“Perfect,” I whisper.
One perfect gift has made me feel lighter than I have in weeks.
Later, when I leave for work, I pause at the front door. The house feels different today, more attentive. The silence has texture.
“Bye, Shadow Daddy,” I say to the empty hallway.
In response, a long scratch sounds behind the locked basement door.
Smiling, I head to work, hoping I see my stalker again.
I want him to know I got it. And I love it.
***
Every ding when the door opens makes me look up, searching for James’s muscular frame and boyish smile. But he doesn’t come.
Customers flow in and out. They buy their cigarettes and lottery tickets and sugary drinks. They either hardly look at me, or they stare too long at my chest, my hips, my ass.
None of them look at my eyes like they mean it. None of them see me.
Every man feels wrong because they’re not James, and it pisses me off. I didn’t ask to want him here. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone.
And yet my stomach drops each time the door opens and it’s not him. His absence feels deliberate, pointed, like a punishment. Or a game.
By hour two, I’m angry. By hour three, I’m pouring myself coffee so aggressively that it splashes onto the counter. As I wipe it up, a shadow falls across me.
“You’ve been jumpy today,” Rick says, standing much too close.
His aftershave is cheap and too strong, like he’s trying to cover something rotten underneath.
“Really?” I mutter, not looking up.
“I’ve been watching you.” His voice drops lower. “The way you keep looking at the door. Waiting for someone?”
I straighten up, clutching the dirty rag. “Just doing my job.”
He smiles like he thinks I’m flirting, but all I’m doing is picturing him dangling from a hook. He steps even closer, so close his breath grazes my cheek.
“You do your makeup like you want attention, but then you act like you don’t know what to do with it,” he says, his small eyes glittering with something ugly.
I grin, too wide, all teeth. “Maybe I just don’t want attention from you.”
His face darkens. I try to step past him, but he shifts, blocking my path. His hand touches my waist—low, his pinky grazing the top of my hip.
I freeze, but not out of fear. In calculation.
My blood slows, thick like oil. Everything narrows to this moment, to Rick’s sweaty fingers on my body, to the thrumming questions in my brain: Would James kill him if he knew what Rick is doing?
Would he leave something messier for me next time, like Rick’s head?
Would he still leave me gifts if I killed Rick myself?
When a woman is traumatized, people expect certain reactions. They expect her to flinch, to cower, to freeze in terror. They don’t expect her to go perfectly still like a predator, measuring the exact force needed to end a threat.
“Careful, Rick.” My voice goes syrup-slow, dripping with sweetness that masks the poison underneath. “Don’t make me clean you off the floor.”
He laughs, but there’s uncertainty in it now. He steps back, his eyes reassessing.
“Jesus, you’re intense,” he says, but there’s less confidence in his leer. “Just being friendly.”
I shoot him a withering look.
Something about me is different today. Even he can sense it, even if he doesn’t understand it. The receipt of James’s gift changed something in my chemistry. I feel more solid, more present in my own skin. More dangerous.
“I’m not here to be your friend,” I say and walk away.
The rest of my shift crawls by. Rick stays on the other side of the store doing inventory while watching me warily. Good. Let him taste a little fear for once.
When my shift finally ends, I step outside into the cool night air. The parking lot is empty except for my car and Rick’s pickup truck. I scan the streetlights, the shadows between buildings, the sheriff’s department next door.
No James.
I get in my car, then I turn back to look at the gas station window. Rick is visible inside, counting the register, alone and vulnerable.
The weight of the knife in my boot suddenly feels significant, as does the gun in my purse. I bought the knife for protection shortly after my attack, and I’ve had the gun for years (though I left it at home that one single night), but I’ve never used either. Not yet.
If James was watching me, he must’ve seen everything.
The thought slides into my mind like a blade between ribs. James may have seen Rick touch me. He may be planning something already. Some punishment, some gift wrapped in black velvet.
Or maybe he’s not watching at all. Maybe today’s gift wasn’t from him, but from someone else.
I start the car and pull out of the parking lot, my mind a whirlpool of possibilities. As I pass the gas station windows one last time, I make eye contact with Rick. He looks away first.
If James is not watching, I can show Rick myself what happens when men don’t behave. I can leave my own messages, create my own punishments.
After all, he taught me that pain can be delivered with a smile, and I’ve been an excellent student.