1. Mallory #3
We crossed into Elmwood just after ten. The town sign appeared in our headlights, a navy-blue-painted wooden sign with white lettering, slightly weathered, inviting, and impossibly normal.
ELMWOOD — EST. 1892
Mom eased off the gas, slowing down as if we deserved a dramatic entrance.
She rolled her window down all the way and inhaled deeply, like she could taste the town’s secrets in the salt air.
I was more worried about the people in the town than I was about us.
I just prayed we didn’t leave a string of bodies in our wake.
“See?” She gestured at nothing. “No bugs splattered on the windshield. Already a win compared to Texas.”
“That’s your metric for success? Bugs?”
She glanced over at me briefly. “You laugh now, but wait until you see how much better your morning yoga will be without inhaling gnats.”
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but there are gnats everywhere.”
She wrinkled her button nose. “Buzzkill.”
I rolled my eyes. “Funny.”
The GPS led us through a storybook downtown.
The main street curved gently instead of running in a straight line, lined by old oak and maple trees arching overhead in a permanent leafy cathedral.
Even in July, string lights were crisscrossed above the road, glowing softly like the town refused to let night ever fully settle.
There was a town square with a fucking gazebo right in the middle, white paint chipped around the edges, flower baskets overflowing, local announcements pinned to cork boards no one ever bothered to organize.
The whole town radiated endearing, curated, and communal.
And yet, driving through the square, watching the lights flicker and glancing into the shop windows, the faintest, strangest feeling pulled within me.
Not fear. Not comfort. Recognition. As if the town had shadows tucked neatly behind its charm.
I pressed my forehead against the window frame, taking it all in. The air outside thickened with possibility or maybe just humidity. It reminded me of opening a book you weren’t sure you were ready for, but you’d already read the first line and were hooked.
“Well, isn’t this just quaint?” Mom said as she steered us through the streets. “We should only be a few blocks from here. Convenient.”
The cottage sat at the end of a street, surrounded by trees.
So aggressively perfect, it made me suspicious immediately.
We’d lived in a variety of places, from rented apartments to trailers to furnished homes, but nothing that felt like ours, always just a borrowed space. And nothing quite so homey.
Mom and I stared out the window, and in that moment, I desperately wanted it to be ours. Not just for the lease but forever. The longing for roots ached in my chest.
Blue-gray siding glowed under the streetlight.
Each window was trimmed in white with flower boxes under them, filled with colorful flowers I didn’t know the names of but had an itch to discover.
A slightly crooked stone path led up to a front porch with a swing and a bold cherry door. It had personality.
“Isn’t this lovely?” Mom murmured as she killed the engine. “It looks better than online. That’s a pleasant surprise for once.”
I pulled my gaze from the house, the beginnings of a smile on my lips, and found my mom watching me, my reaction.
“Welcome home, Malibu.” She pulled the keys from the ignition and dangled them in front of me like a prize.
I stared at her. “This time we go straight.” Unlike most serial killers, Mom didn’t kill for the high, for power, for control, or for the thrill. For her, it was all about justice. Revenge. Finally feeling free. Secure. Safe.
“Straight as a stiff,” she said with a serious face.
I shook my head. “Nice analogy.”
Her lips curved. “Never again. Cross my heart.” She paused, tilting her head. “Unless someone hurts my baby. Then all bets are off.”
“Mom,” I groaned.
“Kidding.” But we both knew she wasn’t.
“You’re not making me feel better about this,” I replied, opening my door.
Mom followed, heading for the trunk. She popped it open with a hollow thunk. I climbed out, my legs stiff from hours of sitting. The air was perfumed with notes of salt, pine, and earth. Different from Texas. Alive in a way that made my skin prickle.
We both looked at the trunk, then each other. “So do we start to unload or go check out the house?” Mom asked.
“Is that even a question?”
“Right.” Leaving the trunk open, she took off toward the house, not waiting to see if I followed. Of course, I did, racing up the porch steps right behind her.
Mom unlocked the door; it stuck a little, swollen from humidity. The cottage smelled like lemon cleaner and old wood. It was everything I wished for and more. Hardwood floors. White walls. A real stone log-burning fireplace.
I stood in the doorway and glanced back at the Impala, at the trailer, and at the street that ended in darkness. This was my chance to be a normal girl and have a clean slate with no corpses ahead.
Fingers crossed.