Chapter 1
Present
Jessie
“Good evening, I’m sorry to disturb you, but my car has broken down, and you guys don’t seem to get any signal up here,” the thoroughly wet man shouts at me, trying to make himself heard over the gale force winds and heavy downpour of what looks like sheets of rain. “Mind if I use your phone?”
My mind begins ranting at me, literally shouting all manner of curses from behind my carefully trained neutral expression. I told you not to open the door!
“Er…” I eventually emit through my trembling lips, which I instantly shut again in an attempt to hide just how anxious I am. The longer I stare at him, the more I notice his intimidating physique, including both his height and build. He looks like he could physically pull his car back to wherever it is he came from without even breaking a sweat.
“It’s ok, I’m a cop,” he rushes out, proving how inept I am at trying to hide my fear. He smiles as he fumbles around in his jacket pocket to retrieve his badge and ID. He then sort of leans forward to show me, obviously trying not to get too close and frighten me even more. I could almost feel bad for him if I was a normal person. Alas, I’m not normal; normal was stolen from me a long time ago.
Glancing at all the details, together with the clear-as-day photograph of him in his badge holder, I reluctantly nod. I don’t think I’m allowed to refuse a police officer, but a large part of me is still considering throwing the door closed in his face and switching off all the lights. But then he raises his brow, as if to question my reluctance. Such a subtle act, but one that says, ‘Do as you’re told, little girl,’ and I find myself feeling like a child all over again.
Forced into submission, I open the door wide enough for him to walk inside. After a moment or two of indecision, he cautiously takes the opportunity to shuffle in, looking very much like a giant drowned rat. He literally leaves little puddles of water in his wake, causing my own slipper socks to get soaked through. My feet turn cold which only adds to my discomfort.
I shut the door behind him and instantly revel in the near silence after being overwhelmed by the storm’s orchestra outside. Breathing in deeply, I take a look at him, briefly imagining he just took a dip in the sea, fully clothed; something my father once did when I started to struggle against the current one summer. It was only the first time I nearly died as a child. The stranger before me looks at the way I am studying his sorry state and begins to laugh at himself. I force a smile even though I can admit he does look pretty pathetic right now, him and his huge muscles that only cause me to hunch away from him.
“Give me two minutes,” I finally utter, holding up two fingers as I back away to go and grab some towels and old clothes my father wouldn’t mind me lending to a perfect stranger.
Running upstairs, I realize he could very well be rummaging around down there, trying to rob me or find some sort of murder weapon with which to gut me. However, when I return to the pool of water by the front door, he is still standing there, shaking his hair like a wet dog. He senses my staring, quicker than the average person, though I put his sensitivity down to his years on the force. He looks up and smiles appreciatively, so I dutifully hurry over with the towel and clothes.
“There’s a bathroom just through here,” I tell him, then push the door to my left open so I can switch on the light. “These are my dad’s clothes, but he won’t mind. I can’t remember the last time he wore them.”
“That’s really kind of you,” he says warmly, to which I dismiss his compliment with a shake of my head at the same time as I nervously back away from his friendliness. He takes the hint, nods, then retreats inside of the bathroom to change.
Before the stranger in the bathroom can walk out, I decide to try my parents again. The cop was right, signal up here along the coast, particularly in a storm like this, is mostly non-existent, no matter what network you’re on. So, I grab hold of the landline and begin dialing, but when I place the receiver to my ear, there’s nothing, not even a dialing tone. It’s dead.
“Everything ok?” the guy asks as he steps out of the bathroom wearing Father’s old sweatpants and fitted tee. It’s not so much as fitted on my father, but on this man, it only outlines every dip and crevice across his broad chest and washboard stomach. It’s intimidating. The ink wrapping around his arms and creeping up from his neckline doesn’t help to settle my nerves either. In fact, I look away awkwardly, feeling somewhat embarrassed by his presence which is no longer drowning and completely pathetic looking. That look now belongs to me.
“Er, I’m afraid the phones are dead,” I tell him, gesturing to the storm outside because I’m apparently unable to use my voice to fully explain.
“Marvelous!”
The guy rubs the back of his neck and looks to the floor with an exasperated expression on his face.
“Doesn’t your car have a radio or something?” I ask sheepishly because quite honestly, I have no idea what a police car has inside of it, just that it has more technological ‘stuff’ than a regular vehicle.
“It does, usually, but I think the electrics are out,” he sighs as he looks up to the ceiling with a sag of his shoulders. “How far are your nearest neighbors?” he asks as he folds his mammoth-sized arms. He then fixes me with a stare that has me feeling like I’m being questioned for some ill-thought-out crime that was both stupid and wrong.
“A couple of miles, down the hill,” I reply with a nervous shrug of my shoulders. I then begin shuffling toward the kitchen, doing what one can only think of doing in such an uncomfortable situation as this. “Can I get you some tea or coffee, Mr…?”
“Flynn, Warren Flynn,” he says and holds out his hand to shake mine. It looks like it could engulf my entire head if he wanted it to, but I eventually accept it. Surely, if I’m going to be safe with anyone, it’s a cop…right?
“A coffee would be great, thanks.”
“Sure, please, take a seat.” I show him into the living room where I have a fire lit and a few lamps creating a cozy atmosphere. “Do you take sugar or milk?”
“Nope, just black and hot, thanks…?” He lands his giant body onto one end of the couch; I think the armchairs would have buckled under his sheer size.
“Jessie,” I eventually tell him, wondering if it is a crime to give a cop a name that isn’t legally yours. But my real name died a long time ago; I don’t even like to say it anymore. I take my chances, then sneak away into the kitchen to make some drinks, savoring the relief of these few moments of solitary confinement.
When I finally return, a good while longer after I had actually completed the task of making a few hot beverages, I find Mr Flynn leaning onto his elbows with a furrowed brow. He appears conflicted, like he’s going to be epically screwed by being caught in the middle of this inconvenient storm in the middle of nowhere. I instantly become suspicious; my past has forced me to suspect everyone.
As I think on it more, I come to the conclusion that this officer of the law doesn’t look like he comes from around my little town on the New England coastline. He’s much too healthy-looking for starters; everyone I know is just as pasty as I am. His inked skin doesn’t quite belong in our safe little neck of the woods either. His tattoos are far too rebellious for anyone from around here. No, he would have been the subject of much gossiping if anyone else had laid eyes on this wall of a man.
When Joe Banks dyed his hair black and got a nose ring, it was the talk of the town and within a month, he had decided it wasn’t worth the hassle and dyed it back to a less ‘intimidating’ chestnut brown. He removed his nose ring but not before it had become infected and filled with copious amounts of pus, just to make everyone feel nauseated when they looked at him. ‘Served him right!’ they all said and patted themselves on the back for saving another misguided youth from destroying his entire life from a bad hair job and backstreet piercing.
Even my family and I were gossiped about for living in the solitary house on the hill, outside the safety of the village’s limits. It had served us right too. Not that anyone would dare bring that up in front of my parents; that would be a little too insensitive. Mr Flynn, however, seems oblivious to the small-minded gossip that frequently rotates our village. I can tell because he doesn’t look at me the way they do; like I’m broken, like I’m already dead.
“You don’t have a TV,” he comments as I place his cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He seems impressed by the fact. Most of the modern world would deem us positively prehistoric for not possessing such a thing in our home.
“I used to have one when I lived here before,” I reply quietly before sitting down in my chair and immediately covering myself up with the homemade knitted throw. He eyes me curiously before picking up the cup to take a sip of his bitter drink. “But when I went away, my parents got rid of it. By the time I returned, no one really felt the need to get another one. TV only brings bad news.”
“So, do you live here with your folks?” He asks this question with an expression that tells me he thinks I’m much too old to be doing such a thing, especially in a little village that’s far away from anything remotely youthful. The average age must be about forty, and being that I’m still in my twenties, my options for work, life, and love are very much limited.
“For now.”
I look away in the hope that he’ll drop the subject. The conversation turns to silence, awkwardly so. However, when I glance back up at him, he’s watching the building storm outside with a nervous look on his face, an expression I strangely feel the need to reassure.
“I’m sorry about the phones; you’re welcome to stay until the weather subsides.”
“That’s really nice of you,” he says with an appreciative smile, “and normally, I would decline and argue against causing such an imposition, however, I’m pretty much fucked at the moment.”
“Y-yes, I suppose so,” I reply with a smile that’s beginning to come a little more easily around him. More silence. “Am I allowed to ask what you’re doing around here, Mr Flynn? You look very…official.”
“I’m just following a line of questioning on a case,” he says and leans back against the couch, appearing more comfortable now that I’ve offered him shelter from the storm. I just hope he is as trustworthy as I’m giving him credit for. “I didn’t mean to stop off here, but the storm was getting bad, and I thought I’d try and find a hotel or something. I guess I left it a little too late.”
“I’m beginning to think my parents did too,” I admit, looking out front as if trying to highlight the fact by showing him the empty driveway. “I can’t remember the last time I was in this house alone at night.”
I don’t know why I even confessed this to him, but I do know I immediately want to take it back. He remains expressionless, but his eyes look straight into mine until I can bear it no longer and avert my gaze. I then loudly clear my throat, another nonverbal attempt to let him know I don’t want to talk about it anymore, and can we please forget the words ever left my mouth?
“So, what did you study at college?” he asks as he finishes off his drink and places it back on the table in front of him. Confused by the question, I look to him for further explanation. “You said you went away? I assumed you meant college.”
“Oh, yes, of course, college,” I rush out, for this explanation is a lot easier to stomach than where I really went. “English Literature.”
“Sure, sure,” he smiles, nodding his head while looking at nothing in particular. “How old are you, Jessie?”
“My mother always said you should never ask a woman how old she is,” I reply with a sigh over having fallen into a line of questioning I’d rather not answer.
“Ok, how old were you when you lost your virginity?”
“Excuse me?” I gasp before looking at his crooked grin and then smiling myself. In fact, I find myself laughing, almost manically at his rather blunt and intrusive change of tact. I haven’t laughed in I don’t know how long. It feels strange, but good. I never thought I’d feel good again; I thought my body and mind were both incapable of feeling such a thing.
“Well, I figured it would make my age question seem less invasive,” he delivers with a wolfish grin, the kind that probably lands him plenty of action between the sheets.
“Eighteen,” I lie.
“When you lost it?” he jokes, and I can’t help smiling over his cheekiness. It’s rare for me to meet anyone who doesn’t know what happened to me, so this casual teasing from someone is new. I take the opportunity to experiment with it for a little while, just this one night before my reality sets back in. In answer to his question, I simply nod; I can be this other person who got to have normal experiences, who saved herself for prom night with her first love.
Warren and I spend the next hour or so getting to know one another, or at least, a pretend version of me. I reason that I have no other form of entertainment to offer unexpected guests who nearly drowned in a raging storm, so it’s the least I can do, right? As a rule, I shy away from talking to other people, particularly people who look like Warren Flynn, a man who could crush someone without breaking a sweat or looking back over his shoulder. To my surprise, however, Warren is friendly and approachable; he makes me laugh at least once every few minutes or so. He lets me drop my guard, which makes him dangerous, very dangerous.
Warren Flynn is thirty years old and works in California, but is investigating a series of murders that stretch far and wide, including a small town only a few miles away from here. His parents, David and Leslie, are retired and currently traveling across Europe, and his big brother is a teacher back in his hometown. He plays guitar, goes to the gym, and enjoys watching musicals of all things. Reading is low on his list of likes, but he can see the appeal if you are crazy enough to not have a television. He often chooses to ‘Rot his brain’ in front of the sixty-inch plasma every evening. The notion of settling down fills him with the type of anxiety that makes him itchy on the inside. His only long-term companion in life is a German Shepherd, called Mabel.
“And the tattoos?” I ask after he has given me virtually his whole CV over a dinner of homemade lasagna and salad. “Was that an act of rebellion or do they actually mean something?”
“Both,” he replies as he begins clearing away our dishes and loading the dishwasher, looking extremely comfortable in my home kitchen, even more so than I do. In fact, Warren appears to be more than comfortable in this strange situation we have been thrown into by raging weather and flawed technology. The fictional version of me acts comfortable, however, behind the mask, the real me is huddling in a corner.
“How many do you have?” I ask as I get up to help him because he is still a guest in my home.
“Fifteen, give or take.” He smirks when I accidentally brush my arm against his and jump back so far, it’s obviously comical. “I don’t have germs,” he mutters before closing up the dishwasher and leaning against the countertop.
“I know,” I whisper and laugh nervously, before looking away with a crimson heat infiltrating my cheeks at an alarming rate. “Do you want to go and sit back down again, or shall I show you the spare room?”
Given that it’s nearly ten o’clock and the storm is raging more than ever, I’m guessing he’s staying over for the night. I suddenly wish my door had locks, even though they usually freak me out more than they comfort me.
“Are you sure?” he asks, looking very conflicted. He can see I’m nervous about a complete stranger staying in my house all alone, but then, what choice does he have?
“Well, the storm is probably worse than it was when you first arrived, so I guess you may as well have somewhere to sleep,” I reply with a nervous shrug, “unless you want to brave it?”
“Thank you, Jessie,” he replies formally, “a bed would be nice for the night, but only if you are comfortable with that?”
I merely nod and begin to walk toward the door, ready to show him the room on the opposite side of the house to mine.
The stairs creak beneath my feet, offering the only sound to do battle with the wind and rain outside. I feel Warren’s heavy presence behind me and try to curl myself away from him, so we don’t run any risk of touching one another. He’s warm, I’m cold. As soon as my foot hits the top step, I breathe out slowly and begin my path along the hallway which is devoid of any photographs or paintings. Once upon a time, there were many pictures of me, along with my parents. I would have been about ten years old in them, smiling and being content in the blissful ignorance of things that children don’t even appreciate at the time. Those pictures came down afterward.
Finally, we reach the door to the spare bedroom, and I turn to smile awkwardly, gesturing for him to go inside. It seems beyond fortunate that the bed was made up for this rather unexpected turn of events, but I’m grateful for small mercies. The thought of hanging around with him in such a small space, to make up the duvet, pillows, and bed sheet, would have been enough to bring me out in hives. He nods before stepping inside and looking around at his surroundings for the night. It’s then that I consider that Warren Flynn is just as much in this awkward situation as I am; he just covers his anxiety much better than I do.
“Help yourself to a shower or whatever,” I utter and quickly go to grab a couple of clean towels from the airing cupboard next door. I place them on top of the bed before stepping back toward the door. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning then.”
“Yes, thank you again,” he replies with a smile before pulling my father’s t-shirt over his head with one hand. His immaculate and masculine body is covered in a myriad of black ink and my mouth drops open over the image of him. Thankfully, he pretends not to notice and turns around to grab one of the towels. His back is just as impressively built as his front, but the only tattoo gracing his skin is a large and intricately designed phoenix. Its wings spread up across his shoulder blades; its claws are out in an attack position, while its determined face is fixed dead in the middle of his olive-toned skin.
“Good night, Jessie,” he says from over his shoulder.
“Yeah,” I whisper and make a beeline for the stairs, my escape route out of this stifling situation.