Chapter 26
REVERIE
It’s funny how I have little will to live, yet I cling to life with a fucking hulk-like grip.
I should’ve told Dread to burn me in the damn crematorium when I had the chance. It’d be painful, but a fairly quick death, at least.
I lost my chance, though.
It’s been exactly a week since he left me naked in the retort. As soon as he was gone, I gathered my clothes, found my phone abandoned by the mortuary rack after I fell off the pan, and went to the restroom to wipe off the ash as best I could before getting dressed.
By the time I finished, he’d already texted informing me of the Uber waiting outside to take me back to my dorm. He left me there, naked, and then flew out to North Carolina later that same Saturday morning for some swim training thing with Team USA.
So here I sit, twenty-two years old and still terrified of the boogeyman living in my childhood home.
The news channel plays softly from the small TV on my dresser across the room, but it fades into the background as I sit on the edge of my bed, staring down at the photo of me and Lionel from when I was five.
Three days ago, it fell out of my backpack when I was pulling out a few textbooks, rolled up with another photo and a chunk of blonde hair tied around them like a bow, the follicles still attached to most of the strands.
I don’t know who put them there, or even when, but I’ve only told Barry and Sable.
Well, I didn’t tell Barry about the photos.
I knew he’d send an officer to collect them from me, and selfishly, I didn’t want anyone taking them.
So when the officer from the Hollow Canyon PD stopped by the funeral home that same night, I only gave him the hair.
I should tell Barry about them, but he’s seen both images before anyway—one from Lionel’s old Facebook, and the other from Margaret Lever’s case file.
Deep down, I know I’m holding on to them to punish myself.
I bite my trembling bottom lip as I run my thumb over my small face in the picture, feeling like I’m looking at someone else entirely.
Except, I know it’s me, because even though I’ve aged and changed, my haunted eyes have always looked the same.
It was taken on June 6th, 2008, digital numbers marking the date in the corner of the picture.
Lionel crouches down behind me while I stand between his knees, both of his arms wrapped around me as the two of us smile.
My blonde hair is fastened into pigtails high on my head with neon green hair ties with those huge baubles on the end, and I’m dressed in a bright pink T-shirt with purple butterflies all over, neon blue leggings covered in lemons, a rainbow-striped tutu over top, and bright fire engine red rainboots with yellow polka dots.
A fascinating ensemble, yet my attention is locked on to the bright pink cast encasing my arm and thumb, covered in black Sharpie signatures.
I don’t remember picking out my outfit, but I do remember playing at the park that day. It was a minute drive down the road from our house, and Lionel would take me there several times a week to give my mom a break from me.
One of the other kids, Raymond Lever, used to pick on me relentlessly, and his mother, Margaret, was great at flirting with my dad but terrible at disciplining her child. Her favorite thing to say to excuse Raymond’s behavior: ‘Boys will be boys. If he’s mean to you, it just means he likes you.’
The only one who could get Raymond to leave me alone was Lionel himself. The little boy would straighten up immediately once he got involved, and it always made Margaret swoon to see the big, burly man she had a crush on playing daddy to her fatherless child.
Four days prior to this picture, Raymond challenged me to a race to the top of the slide.
Whoever went down it first won. I beat him there, of course, and was in the middle of sitting to slide down it when Raymond came up behind me and shoved me, angry he lost. I tumbled straight off the side and hit the ground ten feet below, landing awkwardly on my wrist and breaking it.
Lionel was enraged. Margaret apologized profusely, embarrassed at her son’s actions but desperate for Lionel not to be angry with Raymond—or, rather, her.
I sat in the back seat, cradling my wrist and crying, while Margaret stood outside the driver’s door, attempting to reason away her son’s behavior again.
The last thing I heard before Lionel slammed his car door shut and rushed me to the hospital was Margaret pleading with him.
“He didn’t mean it, Lionel. You know boys will be boys. He’s only rough with her because he has a crush on her. Lionel, he’s sor—”
My mom was livid and didn’t want Lionel taking me there anymore, and I had a meltdown over it. I loved that park and didn’t want the stupid boy to think he got the better of me. So when she finally gave in and let me go back, I must’ve picked out a crazy outfit to celebrate my return.
When we arrived, I felt like such a badass. Raymond mumbled an insincere apology to me and was ostracized by the other kids, who all signed my cast and treated me like a warrior princess who survived an attack by the big, scary dragon.
It was the best day I ever had at the park, and also the last time I saw Raymond and his mom.
He went to live with his estranged father in Florida after Margaret went missing later that night.
He left for a sleepover with his grandmother so she could have the house to herself.
According to Margaret’s sister, she was cooking dinner for her first date with an unknown man, though she wouldn’t say who—not until she was sure he’d leave his wife for her.
Except, no one ever saw Margaret again.
My last memory of her is her bright, pink-painted lips stretched into a wide smile, the top half of her face concealed by Lionel’s camera as she snapped a photo of him crouched behind me, hugging me tightly.
I remember staring at a strand of her black curly hair sticking to her lipstick, and how she was so happy Lionel was letting her make up Raymond’s mistake to him with a home-cooked meal.
Two weeks later, her remains were discovered outside of a shelter for women escaping domestic violence relationships. Boys will be boys.
The news reporter's voice from the TV filters in, the vague sound of ‘Locksmith’ snapping me back to the present.
I blink and bring my focus up to the screen displaying a picture of a mid-sized woman.
She looks young, maybe in her mid-thirties, with blonde hair reaching to her shoulders, round blue eyes, and a wide smile with slightly crooked teeth.
I grab the remote beside me and turn up the volume.
“A neighbor of Jennifer Holbrook reported last seeing her at five o’clock Valentine’s Day night, heading to her car and seeming to be dressed for a date.
That is, until yesterday morning, when a nurse at the Blackwood assisted living facility found part of Jennifer’s remains in the back seat of her car.
Investigators later discovered the rest of Jennifer’s remains strewn across several unlocked cars in the facility’s parking lot, most of the vehicles belonging to staff.
Police still have not provided Jennifer’s cause of death or the details surrounding it, but many believe we’re dealing with yet another victim of the Locksmith. ”
Barry told me about her a few days ago, though I’m struggling to even remember the days right now.
He didn’t get to say much before he was pulled off the phone, only that he believes Lionel to be responsible.
I’m sure the internet is full of articles about it, but admittedly, my brain has been checked out since I woke up in a fucking crematorium.
The camera cuts to the news anchor standing in front of Blackwood, dressed in a thick royal blue peacoat while she reports on statements left by several staff members who discovered Jennifer’s remains in their back seats.
However, her voice dims beneath a low ringing in my ear, gradually building in intensity.
Vomit flirts with the back of my throat as I drop my eyes to the photo. Lionel and I fade away, and the background behind us comes into focus. Specifically, a rectangular, acid-washed stone sign with black lettering on the corner of the street, directly across from the park.
The ringing persists, joined by the heavy thump of my heart.
I lift my stare to the TV again just as the camera focuses on the news anchor and the woman she’s interviewing, standing beside the sign to the nursing home.
Written across the acid-washed stone in bold black letters: Blackwood Assisted Living.
My lips part as I look beyond their heads, finding a flash of what looks like a bright yellow slide.
Back and forth, my eyes pinball between the picture and the TV screen, but no matter how many times I confirm what’s in the photo is mirroring what’s on the screen, my brain refuses to accept it as real.
Stunned, I grab my phone and open up the message thread with Barry, scrolling back until I find the text. He sent it around seven a.m. Eastern time last Sunday, six days ago.
Barry: Morning, sweetheart. Today is already off to a terrible start, but I wanted to check in still and see how you’re doing. Will call later if you have a minute. Love you.
Later that night, he told me about Jennifer Holbrook’s body being discovered at Blackwood.
I look down at the photo of Lionel and me, taken by Margaret Lever, which has the Blackwood sign clearly in the background. Then I slide the picture away to reveal the second photo beneath—the one I can barely fucking stand to look at.
A crime scene photo of chopped-up body parts that were left outside of a women’s domestic violence shelter.
Front and center is the severed head of the woman, and while her features have changed from decomposition, her black curly hair and traces of bright pink lipstick stained over the lips give her identity away—Margaret Lever.