CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CONNECTICUT, AGE THIRTY-THREE
After a catastrophe, time passed in a way that felt like walking through sand. The ground beneath you had too much give. You sank and tripped and kicked up the dust over and over again, just trying to reach the solidity of the boardwalk. It wasn’t far—you could see it. You watched as others walked the planks easily, coasting through life with their heads held high without a single care. You could practically feel those hot boards beneath your feet, could feel the memory of those sun-bleached knots and grooves from a time when you’d walked them too. But with every sure step closer to sturdy ground, you stumbled backward into the abyss of your grief and trouble.
I wasn’t sure anybody I'd ever known could understand this more than me. Or maybe I was just being self-centered.
The death of my parents had fucked everything up, and that was the harshest truth of them all, I thought. It wasn't their fault; I couldn't blame them for dying. As a child, I'd catch myself thinking that way without the rationale of a levelheaded adult, but I knew better now. Still, it didn't stop it from being the truth.
Their demise had, in turn, in a way, been mine as well … and Luke's.
He'd been too young to take care of me. It wasn’t my fault for not understanding this and wanting to stay with my big brother, to hold on to some normalcy—I'd only been a kid myself. But Luke never should've insisted on it. He should've sent me to live with our grandmother. He should've ignored my demands, ignored my constant tears, and forced me to go. And I would've felt unwanted for a while. I would've hated him; I would've hated life. But I would've grown up to understand why he'd done what he did, and maybe he wouldn't have lost himself to booze. He wouldn't have lost Melanie. Maybe, just fucking maybe, he wouldn't be sitting in a prison hours away, and I wouldn't be lying here, wondering what the fuck I should do about the terrorist down the street.
Tommy Wheeler.
I believed it might've been his mother who’d instigated Project Make Charlie Corbin's Life a Living Hell. But somewhere around the two-year mark after Ritchie's death and Luke's incarceration, she'd given up, leaving poor Tommy to carry the torch on his own.
I hated him, but I didn't want to because I also understood. I could put myself in his shoes and empathize with why he felt this need to torment his brother's killer's only living relative into permanent hibernation. He was pissed off and resentful and missing his own big brother—God only knew why, but who the fuck was I to talk? In his mind, the imprisonment of the man who'd stolen his brother's last breath wasn't enough. The punishment didn't fit the crime, and it wouldn't until Luke's corpse was covered in dirt, and, dammit, I got it . But I couldn't do a fucking thing about any of it, and I still had to somehow live my life, and why the fuck should I have to spend the rest of it paying for something I’d had no part in?
Doesn't he understand that? I did nothing .
Tommy had never been an idiot. Sure, he'd always been a dick. Not as much of one as his brother, but a dick nonetheless. But he'd never been stupid .
“He's not stupid,” I muttered to the dark abyss. “He's crazy and desperate.”
That was what it was. His desperation to avenge his brother had cost him his sanity, and he had lost it. It was the only explanation for why I'd caught him on camera, his pants around his ankles, taking a shit on the front lawn. And how else was I supposed to explain his complete disregard for a court-ordered restraining order and regular visits from the cops?
“Yet the fucker still walks,” Luke had muttered just a few days ago, the last time I'd seen him. He didn’t bother to mask the bitter disgust in his tone. “The guy's been torturing you for three fuckin' years, and the worst that's ever happened to him is, what? A night in a fuckin' holding cell? It's horseshit!”
He wasn't wrong; the whole situation was horseshit. And it wasn't that the local cops didn't feel for me or anything. Actually, my relationship with them had become a decent one. I was now on a first-name basis with a few of them, and they were all aware of Tommy Wheeler's reputation. But the problem was simply that Tommy hadn't done anything bad enough to warrant more than a few slaps on the wrist, a handful of overnights at the station, and a couple of hefty bills after violating the restraining order.
Yet .
He hadn't done anything bad enough yet . And that was what Luke was worried about. He was worried about me. So was I. I lived in a constant state of paranoia, terrified of what or who might be lurking just around the corner. It was no way to live, Luke always said, and I agreed. But what the fuck choice did I have?
“I could leave. That's always an option.” I shook my head and pinched the bridge of my nose, squeezing my eyes shut. “Yeah. And go where ?”
He'd probably just follow me anyway.
Not if he didn't know where I went.
Tommy's not an idiot. He'd find me.
I rolled my head against the pillow to glare at the damn alarm clock. Fuck, I had to be up for work in just a few hours. But it was now Halloween, the three-year anniversary of Ritchie’s murder and my brother’s arrest, and Halloween meant no sleep was going to be given to me. Not tonight.
Three years . A whoosh of breath squeezed itself from my constricting lungs as a torrent of grief barreled over me. How the fuck has it already been three years?
That was something Tommy didn't get—I was grieving too. I didn't expect him to care, but it would be nice if he at least tried . He never would though because nobody gave a fuck about the family of a killer. Nobody ever did.
I rolled over in my bed, determined to sleep even if it was only from lulling myself with a handful of shed tears for the hopes and dreams I'd once had for the life Luke would never lead. The altar he'd never stand at with Melanie. The kids they'd never have. The uncle I'd never be allowed to be.
Happiness. I cried for the happiness we were never permitted to have.
***
The room was still dark when my eyes snapped open. The glowing red numbers on the alarm clock said I'd only been in a dreamless sleep for about forty minutes.
“Fuck,” I groaned, rolling over in an angry, frustrated heap of blankets and sheets.
My resolve to sleep was firm, but I expected it to take a while to come along again. Yet heaviness rolled along my limbs and up my body to settle in my head. I sighed, satisfied, hunkering deeper into my cozy cocoon.
Creak .
I bolted up, eyes open. Asking myself what that was but knowing exactly what it was—the floorboard just down the hall at the top of the stairs. The one that'd been squeaking my entire life. But why ? Older houses were prone to unusual sounds. They were full of the moans and groans and sighs of the people who'd lived before, but that floorboard never made a peep unless—
Creak .
Closer.
My intuition had been strong for as long as I could remember, and it'd never been stronger than it was then. Someone was in the house, and I knew who it was.
The light from the hallway shone brightly from beneath my closed bedroom door, streaming across the floor and stopping just before my bed. But now, with one more creak of the floorboard, it was blacked out by his form.
Fear was my closest friend. Had been since I'd been a child. But in this moment, adrenaline overpowered my desire to cower and cry beneath my blanket, like a little boy wanting nothing more than to crawl between his parents in their bed, where it was always safe.
As fast and as silently as possible, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, keeping my eyes on those shadowy feet beneath the door, and swiped the screen to call for emergency services. The call connected immediately, the operator's voice muffled beneath the blood whooshing past my ears. As if happening in slow motion, the doorknob turned slightly in the sheer blanket of light cast from the night-light beneath my desk, and there was no time to provide the details of my emergency to the operator.
But I kept her on the line.
There was a hunting knife in my bedside table drawer. Luke had given it to me for Christmas years ago, and I'd laughed at him when I opened it, even after seeing the spiderweb design etched into the serrated blade.
“What use do I have for a fucking knife?” I’d asked.
“It looked cool,” Luke had said, red-cheeked and embarrassed as I laughed. Then, he added, “And, hey, you never fuckin' know, man. You might need to go hunting at some point.”
I'd tucked it into my drawer in the far back, never wanting to look at it again. It'd been a waste of money then, money we could've used for food or something equally practical.
But now, as I carefully, quickly, quietly opened the drawer and reached back for its carved handle, I thought, Maybe his intuition was just as good as mine.
But I'm not the one hunting. I'm the fucking prey .
The 911 operator kept mumbling into the blanket as I climbed out of the bed and crouched to the floor, knife in hand. The door pushed open, just a crack at first and then all the way. His tall, shadowy figure stretched across the floor, falling over my head.
Get past him. Run. Down the stairs. Out of the house. Run. Down the stairs. Out of the house. Run, run, RUN.
I forced my lungs to steady as I repeated the self-given instructions over and over. He took one, two slow, cautious steps into the room, eyes likely on my bed. But when he realized it was empty, his steps grew more urgent, more impatient, loud as he approached the bed.
Then, he spoke. “Where are you, Charlie boy?”
My throat was dry, and I resisted the urge to swallow. My hiding spot wasn't great by a long shot, but I didn't want to chance giving myself away. Not just yet.
Tommy Wheeler must not have noticed the phone on the blanket, and the operator—bless her soul—stopped her relentless chattering. But she was there. And hopefully, she was doing whatever she did to track my location to send someone over.
I just hoped she wasn't too late.
“Are we playing hide-and-seek?” Tommy asked.
I shifted my gaze to his shadow, dangerously close to where I crouched on the floor. He held something. A gun? His figure was so distorted by the lack of light that I couldn't be sure.
“I'm gonna find you—you know that, right? And when I do, it's game over. Lights out. Bye-bye, Charlie boy.”
Was he drunk? His movements were sure and steady, but the way he was speaking, a little sloppy and slurred, said otherwise.
He's going to kill me .
Of course he was. What other reason did he have to break into my house in the middle of the night? But hearing him say it, knowing it, changed things somehow. It forced a fear greater than any I'd ever felt, but it also filled me with a willingness to live. To prove him wrong.
I'm getting out of here, Tommy boy.
“Where are you, huh?” He threw the blanket back, as if my six-foot-three frame might be hiding in there somewhere. The phone was sent flying, crashing to the floor. “Where the fuck are you, you little pussy bitch?!”
I'm not in here. Turn around. Look somewhere else.
He turned around to face the door, tapping whatever it was against his thigh. I glanced up from my hiding spot, looking over the pile of disheveled sheets to peek at him. The blade of a knife gleamed in the hallway light, and my stifled sigh of relief surprised me.
It's a fair fight , I thought, gripping the handle of my own. But, God, please, don't let me have to use it. I don't want to. Don't make me. Please .
Tommy, turn around. Get out of here. Before you do something stupid.
He glanced over his shoulder, and I ducked back down, praying he couldn't hear my thundering heartbeat.
“Charlie!” he shouted, his anger rising.
He spun on his heel and barreled toward the closet. He threw the door open, swept my clothes to the side, and roared through his mounting rage. He kicked the pile of sketchbooks stacked on the closet floor, sending them scattering.
Then, he did something unexpected. He bent down, picked one up, and studied whatever had been scribbled onto the page.
This is it. Run.
I moved carefully, readying my limbs to take off. Then, as he turned the page and cocked his head, I stole the opportunity and ran.
Yes! Yes, yes, yes , I chanted, bolting past Tommy and making it out the door as he screamed a curse and threw the sketchbook at my floorlength mirror, shattering it into a thousand pieces.
The stairs weren't far from my door, just a few paces.
I can make it. I'm gonna make it. I have to fucking make it.
Then, as I was about to descend the first step, a sharp pain shot through my scalp as Tommy's hand wrapped around my hair and pulled me back. I reached around me, digging my nails into his flesh as I yelled incoherent obscenities.
“Shit! Fuck! Tommy!” I squeezed my eyes shut, keeping my knife-wielding hand at my side, praying I wouldn't have to use it. “Please. Stop. God, just fucking stop !”
“You know I can't do that,” he said, releasing my hair for a moment of relief before hooking his arm around my neck.
His forearm pressed against my Adam's apple, crushing. I gasped and wrapped my hand around his wrist, pulling on him enough to lessen the pressure on my throat.
“Goddammit, Tommy,” I gasped, struggling to maintain my grip. “W-we can talk, okay? We can fucking talk about this shit. Just stop. Y-y-you don't want to kill me.”
“Don't you fucking tell me what I want to do!”
My mind raced, desperate. “No, no, listen to me, Tommy. You don't want to kill me. You want to kill Luke, right? He killed Ritchie. He killed your brother. What the fuck did I do? God, what the fuck did I ever—”
He raised the hand holding his blade and pressed the point beneath my jaw.
I squeezed my lids shut, silently cursing the tears that had already begun to stream from between my lashes as a torrent of, “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” passed through my lips. Wishing I were dreaming. Praying that I was and that I'd wake up to a pool of sweat and a heart on the brink of bursting through my chest.
“Don't you fucking dare tell me what I want.” He emphasized every word, hot breath and spittle raining against my ear. “Luke took my brother from me. So, I'm going to take his. That’s fair, right? Eye for an eye and all that shit.”
The tip of his knife pressed firmly to my flesh and hot, hot, hot heat trickled down the side of my neck.
I'm bleeding . He's going to slit my throat. This is how I’ll die .
The blade moved, traveling slowly along my jawline. Acceptance had barely begun to creep in, an odd sense of serenity and a sensation close to relief, when a scream tore through my throat, and I raised my other hand and sliced Tommy's arm. It was enough to make him lower his weapon and loosen his hold on my neck.
“Fucking asshole,” he gritted out from between clenched teeth.
He dropped his injured arm from my neck long enough to give me another dash of false hope. I attempted the stairs again, but Tommy recovered quickly. His hand gripped my bare arm and yanked me toward him. I stumbled on the step as he dragged me, thrusting me against the wall opposite my bedroom door. My eyes met his, and diluted black pupils stared back. Sweat dripped from his brow. He blinked rapidly, looked away, then looked back to at wide-eyed gaze. The function of his hands and body were somehow controlled, but the movement of his eyes were erratic. Crazed.
“God, Tommy, what the fuck are you on?” I found myself asking, as if it mattered. “Stop, okay? Just stop, please . I'll do whatever you want me to do, okay? I-I'll leave—is that what you want me to do? You'll never have to see my face again, okay? I'll—”
“You know what I was thinking on the way over here?” Tommy asked, his voice low as he brought his nose to mine.
I shook my head. God, his breath stank, like booze and shit.
“I was thinking …” He huffed a laugh, blasting my face with rancid heat. “I was thinking about what Ritchie”—his voice cracked, and damn me and my fucking heart because I actually, almost, felt bad for him—“said that one time. Remember?”
“No,” I answered while wondering where the fuck the cops were.
How long had it been now? It’d felt like hours, but … no, it was probably only a few minutes, maybe three, four.
“Oh, come on, Charlie boy. Yes, you do. That day we dumped your folks in the ground. He said you should've been in the car with them. You remember that?”
A fresh wave of tears wet my face as I nodded. “Y-yeah. I remember that.”
“Yeah,” he said, hoarse and whispered. “And I was thinking, he was right.” I saw his eyes shift to mine, but what I didn’t see was his hand readying the knife low, near my hip. “None of this shit would've happened if they had just let you die with them.”
Then, his knife plunged into my lower belly, just barely above my groin, slicing through flesh and muscle. I gasped, my mouth gaping as I stared into his cold, crazed stare. I saw nothing there, and I felt nothing, although I knew my blood was pattering against my feet and my mother's worn, matted carpet.
“Better late than never though, right?” Tommy asked, shrugging nonchalantly.
“You never fuckin’ know. You might go hunting one day.” Luke's voice. The knife. The one in my hand.
“You need it today. You need it now.” Luke's voice again . “Use it. Now, Charlie.”
So, I did.
I raised the serrated hunting knife, painted black and etched in silver spiderwebs, and thrust it into Tommy's lower back. His eyes bulged, staring into mine, but he held me to the wall. His strength was waning, but he wouldn’t let go. I pulled it out, desperation and determination helping to deafen my ears to the revolting squelching of blood and guts and flesh, and jabbed again. This time, he stumbled away, hitting his back against my bedroom doorframe.
His hands fumbled, touching his chest, stomach, then rounding to find the blood pooling at his back. His widened eyes held mine. “W-what did you do?”
He knew what I’d done, and so did I.
“I'm sorry,” I breathed, my blood-soaked hands wrapping around the knife in my belly. Wanting it gone, but too afraid to pull it out. “I'm sorry, Tommy. I-I'm sorry.”
Then, before he could reach out for me, I ran, not risking the stairs this time, terrified Tommy would regain the strength to come after me again. Instead, I ran past the open bathroom and to the door that had remained sealed for nearly two decades. I entered my parents' bedroom and slammed the door behind me, making sure to lock it. Aged dust and stilled time enveloped me in a cocooning embrace as I stumbled to their bed, made and untouched. Waiting an eternity for their return. I collapsed onto the flowered comforter Mom had loved and Dad had hated, laid my head on her pillow, and inhaled the final shreds of her scent as I bled into their sheets.
I listened to Tommy shout in the hallway. Listened to him stumble closer and closer. Listened as his hand landed weakly against the door once, twice, three times until he no longer could.
Then, as my breath slowed and my eyes shut to the closest I'd ever come again to being under my parents' protection, I listened as the sirens approached.
And all I could think, all I could hope for was, Please, please, please, please, please don’t let him die …