| |
Prologue
––––––––
721 Willoughby Way
Durham, North Carolina
Wednesday, March 4, 1992
8:13 p.m.
I didn’t wake up one morning and randomly decide to be a killer; rather, somewhere in the recesses of my soulless being, there it was—a primal urge for blood, for manipulating life and death. Yet all the while I was unable to control my own mind. I had become an animal.
I wasn’t always a murderer, as far as I know. Born with it, or raised into it? Nature versus nurture. The question of the day. One that has baffled therapists for decades. As one of the monsters they studied, even I had no answers. Picking apart my gray matter proved fruitless.
I never tortured cats, pulled the wings off of butterflies, or watched too much graphic news. In fact, I hated what television represented, what it took from us. It stole our youth, our time, our minds. Yet our lives revolved around it. So much power granted to one inanimate object. Perhaps I was jealous.
But jealousy didn’t mutilate my soul. Something else awakened within me over time, eroding my humanity to the point where I despised what society had become. Perverted. Impure. Corrupt. It was a shame what people had turned into with the help of a malevolent social order.
And I thought I was evil.
Look around you. Look at what people do behind closed doors. Neglecting their kids. Abusing their spouses. Drinking themselves into oblivion ...
They’re the ugly ones, not me.
I was their savior.
So what exactly turned me into ... this? I will probably never know.
But today I challenged all theories of humanity’s innate goodness as the girl’s limp neck hung in my hands, my dirt-stained fingers wrapped around her flawless pink flesh like a snake coiled around its prey. I hadn’t planned on squeezing until she vented a terror-stricken scream, potentially spooking the neighbors and sealing my red-and-blue-flashing fate. Reflexively my hands tightened their grip, summoning Death to take its victim.
If my chokehold didn’t kill her, certainly the stab wound would. She had made it easy enough for me. Sitting in the recliner watching Beverly Hills, 90210—a filthy show no twelve-year-old should be watching—snacking on Doritos, unaware of the threatening shadow lurking behind her. Without hesitation I had placed my hand over her mouth, letting her struggle a bit as she kicked over several empty beer bottles from the coffee table in her frantic state, then I plunged the kitchen knife into her side, feeling the squishy flesh part beneath the blade. I had been pleased with how smoothly the metal edge entered her. A moment later, a pool of crimson drizzled down, soaking the chair in blood.
“Shhh ...” I had soothed. “You must remain quiet, Alexis. If you don’t stay quiet, I’m going to have to hurt you more.”
When I had sensed her terror prompting her to scream louder, I had shifted my hands to her neck to snuff out the noise and set her at ease.
First, a gentle rub. Under my kneading palm her shoulders tensed.
“It’s okay,” I had lied, blowing my hot breath against her cool ear. Pierced, of course, with a garish bauble dangling from the tender lobe.
That’s when my grip tightened, and her fight-or-flight instincts kicked in.
She had chosen fight, and let out a scream meant to alert anyone within a quarter mile.
Silly girl.
In her last battle against surrender, I felt the girl squirm and reach up behind her—for I could not bear to stand before her and meet her eyes, a numbness that would take time to mature, I assumed—to claw at my wrists. Her neon-pink painted nails scraped against my sleeves, searching for traction in my flesh. Her hands gripped my wrists, pulling, tugging. Of course, her meager efforts were futile against my hundred-pound advantage.
Beneath my fingers her surging lifeblood slowed and weakened. I wrung harder, feeling the neck muscles relax. I choked out any last remnants of a scream, then the sweet release of the end arrived as I felt her pulse wane. A mixture of delight and fear overwhelmed me at that moment—a desire to watch the light of her youth fade from her green eyes, yet a debilitating dread held me back from looking ... from seeing my masterpiece as I purged the sin from her. I feared regret for something I couldn’t change. I couldn’t bring back the dead.
Tomorrow I would wake up different. Life would never be the same after my first victim. So young, she was. Only twelve. And prematurely snuffed out. Because of me.
Me. Once a nobody, now a somebody. The author of death.
I released my hold and looked down at her once-pure face tainted with whorish makeup. I pulled a wrapped alcohol pad from my pocket, tore it open, and dabbed gently at her skin. Each wipe restored more of her purity as the lipstick, the blush, and the eye shadow disappeared. Sure enough, she became a young girl again—who she truly was beneath the makeup mask. When I finished, I headed for the phone hanging on the kitchen wall and punched in 9-1-1.
“9-1-1. Please state your emergency,” the operator said.
In my softest whisper, hoping it was sufficient to mask my voice, I said, “Please help.”
Then I dropped the receiver. By the time they could trace the call and paramedics arrived, I would have sufficiently finished my staging.
I turned back to my victim, stumbled toward her, and stopped cold. I simply stared. Her black hair, braided in two pigtails, framed a sweet, cherubic face—eyelids closed like she was slumbering, an eternal sleep. Red handprints circled her pale neck, below which her Bart Simpson “Don’t have a cow, man!” T-shirt hung loosely on her lithe frame. I hadn’t noticed how tiny she was before now—seventy pounds soaking wet. Shame burrowed its way into me. I reminded myself why I had done it: so she might never lose that purity. She would become incorruptible in death.
What happened next, however, surprised me ... and little surprised me. In sympathy with her discovery of the afterlife, I felt my own life waver. Blood rushed to my head and a blackness crept to the corners of my vision, closing in on me. I was going to pass out.
The taste of bile lurched from my stomach into my mouth, its grassy tang lingering foully on my tongue for a split second. The floodgates opened. I spewed epically on the floor, deluging the rivulets of blood. The acrid scent of vomit wafted upward, prodding more. Hunched over, my gut pumped its contents out—a mixture of undigested lunch and afternoon snack.
It was at this point I knew my weakness would be my demise. I couldn’t stomach the job.
And I left evidence everywhere.
Frenziedly, I grabbed a roll of paper towels and a bottle of bleach, and started slopping up my vomit, slipping on a bloody trail as I fell to my knees. A stinging pain coursed through my right kneecap. I paused to examine it and found a sliver of colored glass jutting out from one of the broken beer bottles. I pulled the shard out, but I’d have to nurse it later. Time was running out, and my hands were covered in blood. My jeans and shirt were stained.
I heard sirens in the distance and worked at a fevered pitch. When I figured I had gotten most of the evidence cleared, I threw it into the garbage and grabbed the bag. I tossed a glance at my first victim. Her glassy eyes had opened partway during her cleansing, but she appeared lifeless. In the background I heard Luke Perry talking his way into the pants of a dreamy-eyed girl. An adolescent just like Alexis.
Ah, yes. I was forgetting something.
I limped back to the living room and kicked over the television with my good leg, sending the Beverly Hills sluts into black-screen oblivion.
Take that, you life-sucking machine. You ruin young girls’ purity, but I’m here to take it back.
With one last look at Alexis, I felt a twinge of sadness. She didn’t appear as peaceful as I had expected. Instead, her head hung at a crooked angle, her shoulders slumped, her arms sprawled. What should have appeared serene instead looked dead and mutilated.
Nausea rose once again. The sight of blood and murder was too much. The smell of a bleach-infused metallic cocktail too much. The taste of bile too much.
I needed out. Air.
As I ran out the back door to the cadence of approaching sirens, I vowed to never be weak again.
Chapter 1
––––––––
Duke Hospital
Durham, North Carolina
Wednesday, March 4, 1992
8:22 p.m.
The last thing I remembered was my life splintering—the crack of bones, the crunch of glass, the shriek of scraping metal ... normalcy as I knew it gone forever and in its place a ghastly existence. After the accident, my life would never be the same.
Gone were the days of carefree antics and childish joys. All that remained of my life was a higher calling, a calling I never asked for but had no choice but to accept.
**
Duke Hospital
Durham, North Carolina
Thursday, March 5, 1992
10:15 a.m.
I woke up to a bright light, which at first I thought was my entrance into heaven, but when a foreign face peered down at me, I realized I hadn’t died. I only felt like death.
His honest eyes gazed into mine a little too intimately. “Mia, do you know where you are?”
My pupils hurt too much to get a sense of my surroundings. Only white. White everywhere. And beeping. I noticed his blue scrubs, but nothing registered.
“Um...” but I couldn’t push the word “no” from my cracked lips. My throat felt like the Sahara. I shook my head faintly.
“Nurse, some water, please. She’s parched,” Scrubs ordered someone I couldn’t see. I heard a door click shut. “You’re in the hospital, Mia.”
I wiped a layer of crust off my eyes and opened them a little more, then peered around. Tubes taped to my wrists, machines standing sentry on both sides of me, a stiff blue chair in the corner, a window shrouded by cheap aluminum blinds. Yes, it was definitely the hospital. And the pain ... the pain was intense. And everywhere in my body. But especially my chest. It ached like it had been ripped open.
After another door click, a nurse sidled up beside me and propped me upright with a pillow, holding a pink straw to my lips. With my tongue I guided the straw into my mouth and slowly sipped. Water—an oasis to my throat. When my throat was soothed enough for me to speak, I looked at Scrubs.
“What happened to me? Where’s my mom and dad?”
“You’ve been in a car accident, Mia. Your mom is down the hall. Once she gets here we can talk about what happened, okay?” His voice was too nurturing. It gave me the sense that something was wrong. Very wrong.
But I didn’t get a chance to plead for more answers, because that’s when my mom came rushing to my bedside, her hands smoothing my matted hair aside.
“Baby girl, are you alright?”
“I think so,” I said. “But everything hurts.”
She planted kisses all over my face, and that’s when I noticed her bloodshot eyes. She had been crying.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’m okay.”
With my words the floodgates opened. Tears coursed down her cheeks. Apparently she knew something I didn’t.
“Mom, am I okay?”
“Yes, sweetie.” Her fingertip touched my lips. “Honey, a lot has happened.”
“What do you mean?” That’s when my brain suddenly caught up—a flash of me standing in front of my bedroom mirror wearing my gymnastics leotard, then Dad and I in the car, then my screams, and then ... nothing. Despite my neck’s achy protest, I scanned the room of unknown faces. My dad wasn’t here. “Where’s Dad?”
Mom swiped at a tear and shook her head, clearly unable to speak.
All kinds of horrific scenarios swam through my head. “Is Dad ...?” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Honey, you and your dad were in the car when someone hit you. Your dad is alive, but he’s in a coma. We’re hoping he’ll wake up soon.”
I was too shocked to cry, to react, to do anything. A somber silence enveloped the room, and I couldn’t speak. Mom had run out of words too. There was no comfort available when the outcome felt so bleak.
“But I don’t want you to worry about your dad,” she finally continued. “Your dad is tough. And you are too. Just focus on getting better and getting home. You’ve been through a lot.”
What was I supposed to feel right now? I couldn’t feel what I needed to feel. I couldn’t feel the sadness or anger that yearned to surface. I was emotionally void. All I felt was the throbbing in my chest. My hand touched where it hurt—my heart.
“It hurts so bad, Mom.”
“You’ve had emergency surgery, honey. You needed a heart transplant. We were lucky, though. You were able to get one right away. It saved your life.”
Odd as it seems, the thought of losing an organ jarred me more than news of the car accident or my dad’s coma. It wasn’t my heart anymore.
I pulled open my hospital gown and peered down at my chest. Large black staples ran up it, with dried blood clinging to where the halves of my chest cavity met. The skin was shiny and tight around the incision, and blotchy red with yellow crust all over the wound. Little bunches of flesh overflowed where each staple clipped it together. Could this really be my body? I was hideous!
Tears formed, then a sob escaped. After that I couldn’t stop bawling.
“Oh, honey ...” Even my mom couldn’t say anything reassuring. She knew it as well as I did—I was disfigured. Doomed to spinsterhood.
“Mia, it’s okay,” Scrubs chimed in. “Those stitches will heal, and you will hardly see any scarring. By swimsuit season you’d never know anything happened.”
“Promise?” I needed his word.
“I promise. You’ll have to put ointment on it several times a day, which will help nourish the skin. But I’ll make sure you get the best cosmetic care available.”
I felt a little relief, but something else was bugging me.
“So I have someone else’s heart?”
Mom nodded.
Simple as that—one day I’m me, the next day it’s like I’m someone else, with someone else’s organ. And not a minor organ like an appendix. My heart. It might as well have been my soul.
“Someone died? The person who gave me the heart?”
“Yes, honey. Unfortunately that’s what happened. But don’t think of it as a girl dying; think of it as a girl living the rest of her life through you.”
“A girl? A young girl, like me?”
Mom wouldn’t answer. Just a barely perceptible nod.
“Do you know the girl who died, the girl whose heart I have?”
Mom tossed the question to Scrubs with a glance.
“We do, but when it comes to organ donation, we prefer to keep names confidential ... out of respect for the family.”
I considered his words for a moment before more questions flooded me.
“Will I ever be able to do gymnastics again?” I had missed tryouts for the competition team when the accident happened. I wondered if they’d let me try out once I healed.
Scrubs shot me an avuncular wink. “Absolutely, you should be able to enjoy your usual activities just as if nothing happened. But you need to heal fully first. For the next couple of months you need to do as little as possible.”
A couple of months? To a twelve-year-old that was forever! Although I was nodding, I felt like my world was falling apart. Though, with the size of my scar, I doubted I’d ever feel comfortable in a leotard again. My life was officially ruined.
“Did they find whoever hit us?” I asked.
“A teenage boy, I think,” Mom answered. “Lost control of the car when he was coming around the bend. The police are handling it.”
“Do you think he’ll go to jail?”
“I’m not sure, honey. Probably some kind of punishment, though. But it seems it was simply an accident. Nothing he did wrong, from what they can tell.” A pause. “Why are you asking these questions? You shouldn’t think about this stuff. Just rest, okay?”
I nimbly agreed, though my musings had their own intentions. I thought it ironic how “justice” might require the life of another youth in order to avenge mine. Even if the kid who hit us didn’t go to jail, he’d have to live with the burden of what happened on his conscience. Memory could be a bitch sometimes. And who would avenge the girl whose heart I now bore? Misery was making its rounds today. Three losses in one day.
I wanted to ask more questions, but I didn’t like the answers. Yet my mind was relentless.
As my thoughts rambled on, my mother turned a grateful face to Scrubs.
“Thank you, doctor, for taking such good care of Mia. I can’t imagine what could have happened if that heart wasn’t available.” She shuddered and added, “I can’t bear to think of losing my baby girl.”
“You’ve been through a lot, Mrs. Germaine. Let’s just hope that your husband and daughter make a full recovery so that your family can get back to normal as soon as possible.” He tenderly squeezed my shoulder as he spoke.
I hoped my prayers could reach high enough to appeal to God for such an outcome—being back to normal. But something inside me told me life would never be normal again.
My eyes slid closed and I conjured an image of “normal”—Dad, Mom, and me sitting around our dining room table chatting over the day’s events, laughing and smiling as Dad teased me about the pink streak of dye in my hair or my Paula Abdul dance moves for the school talent show, picking at me good-naturedly as he was wont to do.
Then I wondered if I’d ever smile again.
Chapter 2
––––––––
Hillsborough, North Carolina
Saturday, April 5, 2014
9:03 a.m.
My glance wandered upward, noting how the cedar branches grabbed fistfuls of sunlight before tossing shards around me. Spring always came too late, in my opinion. If I could avoid winter altogether, I would, but Florida had never been a viable option. The mere suggestion of me moving that far away would have killed my mom—emotionally, that is. After my father’s death, I was all she had. Though, the constant interrogations about when I would give her grandbabies was enough to drive me to the Eastern hemisphere.
A row of yellow daffodils and red tulips nestled against the walkway beneath my feet. Stray weeds peeked up through cracks in the concrete, a reminder that nature had the final say. No matter how much mankind bulldozed or built, all was vulnerable to Mother Nature’s whims.
Each step was brisk as I approached my boyfriend’s apartment door. I had endured an endless, grueling week of work, anxiously waiting to see Brad Thomas—the love of my life—until at last the weekend had arrived. I reached his door, knocked once, then pushed the door open.
“Brad?” I called out. “It’s Mia.”
I heard the news broadcasting from the living room, so I headed in. When I turned the corner from the entryway, I whiffed the heavenly aroma of bacon—and the salivating began.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Brad called from his position at the stove. “Hungry?”
Even wearing an apron, he was all man. And gorgeous. He made brown eyes and brown hair striking. The dusting of scruff on his jaw gave this sweetheart a bad boy appeal that I could never resist. That, and his devilish grin. I was charmed, to say the least.
And as I told my mom in not-so-graphic detail, I could totally see myself making babies with Brad.
I threw my purse on the sofa and traipsed to the kitchen, sliding myself behind him. I slipped my arms around him and kissed his neck, where part of his back tattoo peeked out from under his T-shirt. “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” I teased. It was a phrase my dad had used daily with my mom when he came home from work and dinner was cooking, one of the many things I fondly remembered about him.
“Eggs Benedict over homemade English muffins ... and of course bacon.”
My favorite.
“Showoff,” I said. “I would have been happy with Cheerios—Honey Nut, of course.”
“You are a nut,” he teased. “Besides, a professional chef serving Cheerios? I don’t think so.”
Brad’s culinary genius was one of my favorite things about him. Although being a chef demanded sacrificing most evenings and weekends together, it sure paid off at home when he experimented with new dishes. I loved being his guinea pig.
“Though I’m thinking about skipping breakfast,” he said with a suggestive grin as he swiveled around to pull me up against his chest, “and going straight to dessert. Whaddya say, Miss Germaine?”
“I do have a sweet tooth,” I quipped.
His trail of kisses started at my lips and tiptoed down the ridge of my chin, further down my neck, then trailing the length of my collarbone until I squirmed away. Only a couple of inches further along was the beginnings of the scar that my cosmetic surgeons assured me would one day barely be noticeable.
Lies. That “one day” never came.
The angry pink line stretched vertically down the length of my breastbone, a constant and ugly reminder of my past. I spent years of my adolescence practicing the art of camouflaging it, but no amount of concealer could fully hide my disfigurement.
When I turned twenty-one I decided to get a tattoo over my heart—a rose. A symbol of my life, though I never told anyone the depths of what it represented. If I wore a shirt low-cut enough for the blossom’s edge to peek out, or on the rare occasion I wore a swimming suit, viewers merely noted how “pretty” it was. To them it was a flower. To me it was much more. Yet no one, not even the current love of my life, seemed trustworthy enough to share that part of my soul and my past with.
So, eventually my chest became a no-see and no-touch zone with the men I dated ... which luckily were few.
Until Brad Thomas.
Brad had been the first “keeper” of the bunch. A tough gentleman who loved me, scars and all. Yet the insecurity of my scar forced a barrier between us, an obstacle that I wasn’t going to be able to hurdle anytime soon. While he’d certainly caught glimpses of it when I undressed, I always shut off the lights and wore a shirt when we made love. We’d had a handful of conversations about it—mainly Brad telling me not to hide it, that he loved every part of me—but to me it was a disfigurement. It made me ugly. I would never accept it, even if Brad assured me he did. Luckily Brad wasn’t in a race to overcome this emotional wall I erected, and neither was I. Things were good, and we were content—as far as I knew.
“Let’s not burn breakfast,” I said coyly as I pulled away, pretending my forestalling tactic was about eating, not my imperfections.
“It’s just about ready. You wanna grab a couple plates and forks?”
I grabbed two beige ceramic plates and set the makeshift dining-slash-coffee table. I threw a pile of clothes and his Durham Bulls baseball hat on the floor beside me. Brad could be such a bachelor at times. His sparsely furnished apartment resembled a guy’s college dorm room, boasting only the “necessities,” he’d argue—a sofa, television, video game console, and two TV trays—until I gifted him a coffee table for Christmas last year. How could men live like this? It was so Third World.
With the last flip of the bacon, Brad carried his culinary masterpiece into the living room and served us both, then sat next to me. While we ate, an anchor from WRAL was covering the local news. Gunshots at Northgate Mall, a fire in Woodcroft. Local spring festivals, Durham Bulls baseball stats.
A panning shot of downtown Durham played across the screen, focusing on the packed Durham Bulls Athletic Park where fans decked in royal blue cheered on the local baseball team for their season opener two nights ago against the Gwinnett Braves. Our team opened with a win but lost last night. “The sorry bums,” Brad grumbled.
Zooming across the street to the American Tobacco Historic District, the screen showed the newly renovated tobacco warehouse that now housed an eclectic and thriving mix of shops, restaurants, and office spaces. Handsome red brick walkways and an industrial-style concrete waterway graced the popular venue. The Lucky Strike tower sparkled with lights in the epicenter of the campus, creating a romantic atmosphere that Brad and I had enjoyed several times when dining downtown.
On and on the perfectly coiffed female news anchor droned. Some bad news, some good news. The norm. Then something drew my attention with such force that I couldn’t chew, couldn’t swallow, only watch.
“In breaking news,” the anchor said soberly, “a teen death has rocked the Raleigh area. Thirteen-year-old Gina Martinez was found last night in her Apex home with fatal stab wounds to her abdomen.” A picture of a smiling, golden-skinned teen flashed on the screen. Her black hair cascaded down her shoulders in heavy waves.
“After an evening out, parents Roy and Amelia Martinez came home to find their daughter, Gina, passed out from blood loss. She was rushed to WakeMed where she was pronounced dead. There was no sign of forced entry, which leads investigators to believe the family knew the assailant. Police report stab wound patterns that are consistent with a murder committed last March, when police found twelve-year-old Violet Hansen brutally murdered in a local park. Investigators found Miss Martinez with her makeup removed, leading police to recognize this as the work of a serial killer now dubbed the Triangle Terror, though no suspects have been named. A memorial will be held for Miss Martinez at St. Thomas’ Church on Monday.”
As the anchor moved on, I couldn’t. I numbly found the remote and turned the TV off just as the anchor cheerily segued into coverage of upcoming “Got to Be NC Festival.”
“You okay, Mia?” Brad’s voice was barely a whisper above my crowding thoughts.
I shook my head.
I was going to hurl.
Rising to my feet, I darted to the bathroom and frantically flipped up the toilet seat. I dunked my head inside and emptied my eggs into its awaiting porcelain maw.
A moment later I felt Brad’s hands pull my shoulder-length hair back. When I felt sure there was nothing left in my stomach, I stood and leaned over the sink to wash the sweat from my face. I swished a mouthful of cold water to get rid of the taste of bile.
Brad sweetly stood by, rubbing my back.
What a gem.
I rested my weight against the sink, staring at my own vacant hazel eyes in the vanity mirror. Brown strands of sweat-soaked hair stuck to the side of my face, and I pushed them away. I knew food poisoning when it hit me. This wasn’t a reaction to rotten eggs. It was a reaction to bad news. It seemed preposterous. Why would a random sad news story make me sick? It didn’t make sense. But I sure as heck didn’t want to find out. I preferred blissful ignorance.
“My cooking that bad, huh?” Brad said with a chuckle.
“I don’t know what came over me,” I said after one final mouth rinse. “I’m so sorry.” I wiped my mouth on the hand towel. “And I promise not to gripe about you leaving the toilet seat up again. I didn’t think I was going to make it ...” I said, attempting humor.
“It’s okay, Mia. Don’t apologize. Just sit down and rest.”
He guided me back to the couch, allowing me to sink into his able arms. Arms that seemed to ward off all fear. They felt safe.
I closed my eyes, but all I could see was blood splatter. A sharp pain surged through my chest, and I grabbed where my heart was. Was I having a heart attack? The pain intensified, and I couldn’t catch my breath.
“I think I’m having a heart attack!” I said between hard breaths.
“What? Should I call 9-1-1?” Brad asked frantically. “Try breathing slowly, Mia. You’re hyperventilating.”
I dropped my head between my knees and concentrated on breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Within a couple of minutes my breaths slowed and my chest pain began to subside.
“Do I need to take you to the hospital, honey?” Brad asked again.
“No,” I answered, sitting upright. “I think I’m okay now.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My heart just started hurting really bad.” But then I remembered something.
“Do you think it was a heart attack?” Brad probed.
“I’m not sure.”
I hadn’t thought about it in years, but now the memory was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. Brad’s hand cupped mine, giving me the courage to speak.
“You know how I told you that when I was a kid I was in a horrible car accident?”
He nodded.
“Well, this young guy lost control going around a sharp turn and somehow ran into the side of us as we were turning. I got crushed underneath the side door and almost died. When I got to the hospital, they had to give me a heart transplant—you know, the reason for my scar. I never had complications or anything, but this heart pain just made me think about it.”
“Is this the same accident that killed your father?” Brad asked tentatively. It was a touchy subject, one we had only discussed once before.
“Yeah.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Well, stuff happens. Gotta move on, right?”
Brad squeezed me tenderly.
“Did the guy go to jail?”
“No, my mom never pressed charges. It really was a no-fault. Since he wasn’t drunk or anything, he didn’t deserve to do jail time. And I was okay with that, since there’s no point in one mistake taking two lives. He was just another typical teenage driver who probably considered himself invincible and lost control of the wheel. It happens. I’m sure the pain of knowing he killed a man was more anguish than a jail sentence could’ve inflicted. I never did find out who he was, though. My mom felt it was better I didn’t know.”
I shrugged. Water under the bridge.
“What about your heart donor—did you find out who that was?”
“Nope. I only know that she was a girl my age—twelve. And local. I don’t even know how she died. Part of me wishes I could find out, you know? But the hospital wouldn’t disclose organ donor names when I looked into it in the past. It’s a sealed record, they told me. Other than through hospital records, how am I supposed to figure out who she was?”
“I dunno, Mia, maybe you’re not supposed to know what happened. That sounds kind of morbid to know whose heart you have and what killed her. Besides, how will knowing be of any benefit?”
“It’s not about benefiting anyone. It’s about closure.”
“Closure from what? You had nothing to do with her death.”
“But someone did, Brad. Someone, or something, killed her. And she’s a part of me now. She’s what keeps me alive.” My voice rose an octave as my words grew terse. A passion that was never there before surfaced. I didn’t know why I cared so much now, but it didn’t change the fact that she died and I lived. “I want to know who, and why. She was only a child. She didn’t deserve to die.”
“Are you saying you think she was murdered? She could have died of natural causes, you know.”
“A twelve-year-old suddenly dead, and not from a disease? Because they wouldn’t have harvested her organs if she had a terminal illness. Sounds like something shady to me.”
“I don’t know ...” Brad said, shaking his head.
“I suppose I’ll never know the truth, will I?”
Brad eyed me skeptically. He obviously had no idea what it felt like to be in my position.
“Look,” I said with a razor’s edge to my tone, “you can’t possibly understand because you’re not borrowing someone else’s time. Her heart was alive inside her before I took it. It bothers me, okay?”
“Okay, okay. Don’t get upset with me. Do what you want to do.” I heard the bite to his voice.
Was this our first fight? It was beginning to sound like it, and I had never intended the subject to escalate. Though I didn’t feel I owed him an apology. I was right, after all, even though I wasn’t sure what I was right about.
Surrender was never pretty when pride was at stake, especially among couples. I’d yet to meet a humble married couple.
“Let’s just try to salvage the rest of this day before it’s ruined,” I said, trying to smooth over the tension. The last thing I wanted was our first fight to be about my scar. It should be about picking up dirty clothes off the floor, or whose turn it was to do the dishes. Not about my past. “I just hope nothing’s wrong with my heart,” I added warily.
“Don’t worry, baby. It’s probably nothing, but get checked out just to be sure. Okay?”
“Yeah, I will,” I mumbled.
But Brad’s offering was no reassurance, for somehow, deep in the recesses of my now-empty gut, I knew something was wrong. Something big. And it had to do with murder, a serial killer, and a dead girl.
Chapter 3
––––––––
Sunday, April 6
3:09 a.m.
I was twelve years old. I sat in the backseat of our red 1989 Subaru station wagon, antsy to get to gymnastics class. I urged Dad to hurry, but he shushed me, assuring me we’d be plenty early.
As he turned his head back to calm me, in that split second the side of the wagon imploded. I blinked and found my body contorted into a mangled cluster of limbs. My eyelids slid closed. A cool breeze chilled me as I was ripped out from beneath the crushing weight of metal. But as soon as I was released from the vehicular coffin, I found myself sitting in front of a television. Only it wasn’t my television. Not the one I remembered from my childhood, at least.
Rabbit ears poked up from the TV, which sat on the floor. Next to my pile of Pogs, a line of bottles—various beers, but mostly Budweiser—lined the coffee table in front of me, blocking my view. I kicked several over onto the hardwood floor, stained and scratched with years of abuse, though I was sure there was nothing left to spill. Wherever I was, I felt at home, and after a commercial break for Super Soaker, I was ogling Luke Perry and despising Jennie Garth, both at the same time. It wasn’t fair how perfect her life was—gorgeous and rich. A combo that none should be worthy of, for it was too much power for one person to properly handle.
I possessed neither beauty nor riches. Instead, I was homely and poor—a typical girl from the ghetto.
The recliner was a scratchy wool monstrosity upholstered in green plaid, so I wrapped my legs in a soft knitted blanket, creating a leg cocoon. Cuddling into the nook of the cushions, I let my imagination wander into the pleasures of angst-soaked high school TV melodrama at its most outlandish and idealized best/worst—depending on your point of view.
Donna’s blond hair was styled in cute braided pigtails, so I decided to braid my own. I fingered my hair, twisting it into two braids. Satisfied with my new look, I envied the latest fashion trends that Mom’s minimum-wage-plus-tips job would never be able to afford.
My bag of Doritos crinkled as I placed a cheesy chip in my mouth. I shivered from a brief wave of cold, the last vestiges of winter’s chill. The back door creaked shut, but I ignored it, too engrossed to care if it was Mom arriving home from the bar with a new boyfriend on her arm. Sober or drunk? It was better I didn’t find out.
When I heard a shuffle behind me, I twisted my neck to glance behind me but saw nothing. As I turned back to the television, a grip tightened around my mouth and I couldn’t breathe. The fingers locked down too hard for me to open up my jaw and bite my way to freedom. I tried to inhale through my nose, but his hands covered my nostrils. Shaking my head frantically, I leaned forward, but he was too strong. He jerked me back and held me still. Then gripped harder.
Seconds were passing. Precious seconds of air bidding me farewell.
I whimpered, hoping my unspoken message would reach my attacker:
Please let me go. Please let me breathe.
Still, no air.
I began blacking out, my eyes watering, wondering if Luke Perry’s face was the last I would ever see.
As an ebony cloud shrouded me, my mind screamed for help. Then a picture flashed before all went black. A familiar face.
It was Gina Martinez.
I needed air ... needed air ... needed air ...
**
“Help!” I cried, gasping as I bolted upright in bed. My lungs couldn’t get enough oxygen as I sucked in lungful after lungful. In an effort to calm down, I examined my bedroom. The teal walls, the tastefully simple décor, and my digital clock revealed the ungodly hour of three thirty in the morning. Sure enough, it was my apartment, and I was alone ... or so I hoped.
The dream had felt so real, like a memory, yet so foreign, like it belonged to someone else. I had never been allowed to watch Beverly Hills, 90210 at that age, and I hadn’t bothered to catch up on the show as an adult, so how did I know those characters? And where had I been? It felt surreally like home ... but certainly not my home. Mom never drank, and she kept a pristine house, even during her mourning. And despite her full-time work, a chef-approved dinner was served every night, dishes and kitchen clean before bed. The Rolodex of my mind ticked through my childhood friends, houses I’d visited. Nothing clicked.
Was it some long-buried memory, or a figment of my imagination? Then I recalled the last image I had seen. Gina Martinez, the girl who had been murdered two days ago. Was it her house? How would I know that? I’d never met the girl.
I wanted to forget it all and go back to sleep, but I couldn’t let it go.
After nearly an hour of lying in the dark, afraid to close my eyes for fear of returning to the nightmare, I decided it was morning enough to start my day. I threw on a pair of sweats and a UNC sweatshirt. I brewed a cup of chocolate mint tea and sipped the sweet warmth, staring into the emptiness. My eyes darted at every shadow. Every sound sent me jumping.
I could tell already that it was going to be a long day. And worst of all, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was going to die. More than a feeling, in fact. I knew it. The nightmare fueled this premonition.
When the tea couldn’t sooth my frazzled nerves, I picked up my cell phone and texted Brad.
Babe, u up? Need to talk.
A minute passed before my phone beeped in reply.
Up now. Wzup?
Can i come over?
U serious?
As a heart attack. Pls?
Is this abt yesterday?
I’ll explain when i get there. So can i come over?
Of course, babe. Door’s unlocked.
I grabbed my coat and keys and double-locked my door on the way out. I rarely locked the bolt and knob, but I wasn’t taking any chances. As the cool early morning temperature helped clear my head, I realized something.
I needed air.
**
When I arrived at Brad’s, the lights were off and he was still in bed. I snuck in, bolted the door, and slipped under the covers, spooning next to him and hoping to subtly wake him. I needed to talk through my thoughts.
My restless shifting around must have worked, because soon his brown eyes groggily opened.
“Sorry to wake you,” I said.
“Liar,” Brad teased. “So what’s the problem? You need some of my lovin’?” he said with a coy grin as he nuzzled my neck.
Refusing to feed his advances, I went on talking. “Something is wrong with me.”
“Mmm, nothing’s wrong with you, baby. You’re perfect.” He kissed my jaw, tempering my urgency, but I leaned away.
“Brad, this is serious. I need you to listen to me right now.”
He shifted upright and circled his arm around my shoulders.
“All ears. Is this about what happened yesterday?”
“Sorta ...”
He sighed heavily. “What’s going on?”
Where should I begin? I could find no logical beginning.
“Remember how when we were watching the news yesterday I got sick?” Brad nodded, silent. “Well, I went to bed thinking about that girl, Gina, and her death. I ended up having a horrible nightmare and she was in it. I think my dream is trying to tell me something about her murder. Like I might somehow know who’s murdering these girls.”
Even as I said it I winced at how ridiculous I sounded. As if I had some prophetic ability to see things, to reveal things that the cops couldn’t. But the look of incredulity on Brad’s face pissed me off. I was the only one allowed to think myself crazy.
“What’s that look for?” I growled.
“You realize what you’re saying, right? That you are connected to these murders.”
“No,” I corrected, “not connected to them. Let’s call it a”—I fumbled for the right phrase—“supernatural hunch.”
“Supernatural, as in ... what exactly?” he queried.
“I dunno. Something beyond the natural, I guess.”
“That’s pretty crazy stuff, Mia.”
“I know it sounds nuts, but ... well, I can’t explain it. Something in me knows who’s behind this, and I need to follow my gut on this. This could save lives, Brad.”
“And how do you propose to do that—to catch this killer?” His sarcasm was biting.
“I don’t know yet. I guess I’ll figure it out as I go.”
“As you go? Are you kidding me? Mia, this isn’t Nancy Drew. You’re talking about a serial killer and actual murders here. You could be killed! Stay out of it. You have no business playing detective.”
“And you have no business telling me what to do,” I retorted. Sure, I sounded childish, but I couldn’t think of anything more adult to say. My ire was rising to the point where I couldn’t keep my thoughts—or my words—straight. Or it could have been the meager three hours of sleep making me nonsensical. Either way, Brad was pushing my buttons and I didn’t appreciate it.
“Mia, I just want you to be safe. I care for you. Please promise me you won’t pursue this.”
“I can’t do that,” I said matter-of-factly.
“If you can’t assure me that this is over, then I can’t guarantee that I’ll be around to watch you get hurt.”
Whoa. Brad took the argument to a whole new level, and he definitely wasn’t playing fair anymore.
“Are you breaking up with me?” I asked point-blank.
“That’s up to you, Mia. If you don’t let this go, then I guess you’re forcing my hand. I don’t want to break up with you, but I can’t sit idly by watching you chase danger like it’s a toy.”
“Whatever.” With that, I scooted to the other side of the king-sized bed, as far away from Brad as I could get without falling off, and pouted until the sun peeked through the cream, metal blinds, casting the bedroom in hues of orange.
Maybe my mom was right about me all these years—I had indeed inherited my father’s stubborn streak.
Read the rest of the book by clicking HERE.