I drop the leg on the plastic bag and heave a weary sigh. “Motherfucker.”
Before I can spend too much time imagining Bryce’s smirking face from beyond the grave, I trudge to the shed to grab replacement shear bolts and my tools. It takes me nearly half an hour to remove the broken parts and replace them. The blades are damaged, but they’ll work well enough for now. I use my hatchet to cut Bryce’s bone above the titanium plate and de-flesh it, and then I start the motor back up and toss the rest of the leg into the hopper. This time, it goes as planned. But I’m still too rattled from the near-catastrophe of a badly broken Cookie Monster to feel much peace as I watch the last remnants of Bryce Mahoney’s body splatter across the tarp.
When nothing further flies from the curved spout, I turn everything off. As I kneel next to the pile, a familiar caw caw draws my attention to the tree near the garden gate. I glance toward a black shadow hidden among the branches. “Om nom nom. Feed me,” the raven demands.
“Give me a minute,” I say. But the raven only caws and repeats his request, his voice a near-perfect replica of my own. Turns out, when you hand-raise an orphaned raven, it’s incredibly easy to train it to speak with a little fresh meat. The only downside is that they’re very persistent when they spot something they want. “You know it’s coming. Settle down or you’ll attract the gulls.”
With a gloved hand, I scoop up some of the mess and take it to the bird feeder, a black platform with Gothic pillars to hold up a peaked roof. I made it just for Morpheus, who hops down to the stone wall that surrounds the garden to watch my every move, his inky feathers glistening in shades of black and indigo and deep forest green. I deposit the ground flesh and bone on the platform. I’ve barely taken two steps back before Morpheus lands on the feeder to dive beak-first into the muck. There’s harmony in it. A shitbag person nourishing a wild creature. There’s something in the closure of that loop that brings me a moment of peace.
I turn back to the pile that was once Bryce Mahoney and pick up my shovel from where it rests beside the tarp. One shovelful after the next, I unload the slop and shattered bone into the holes I’ve dug in the garden bed, pausing to plant flowers that aren’t yet ready to bloom. Rhododendrons. Irises. Dahlias. Lilies. Before long, the body is gone, buried among the young plants. It will feed them, just like it’s fed Morpheus. Just like it feeds something in me, something that grows hungrier with each season that passes. Something that never stays sated for long.
I clean up my mess. Put away my tools. Spray down the woodchipper with Piss-Off!, which I’m just going to assume works for blood since it bleached my outdoor plastic furniture when I used it on the cat pee from Doug, the neighborhood stray. I take the remaining piece of Bryce’s leg bone inside my cottage, wrap it in tinfoil, and place it in the fridge, and then I head upstairs. It’s not until the shower is on and heating up that I get a good look at my reflection. There are smears of blood and dirt on my face. There are bits of Bryce in my hair, gleaming among the dark strands. I look feral. Much like I did the day I got away from that house of horrors where the vultures watched from the tree. I was all wild eyes and broken heart. I might be more settled now than I was back then, less haunted by fear and raw grief, but there’s still something reckless in my reflection. Like I could take off at any moment and run into the untamed corners of the world, never looking back.
But I’m determined not to. This is my safest place. Stumbling upon Cape Carnage after trying and failing to wander away from my grief was like discovering a magical portal to a land where I could become whoever I wanted to be. Maybe not a fresh start, but as close to one as I could ever hope to find. It’s my home now. And I’m needed here.
I lean closer to the mirror, closing in on myself until my breath fogs the glass. I press my bangs back from the fair skin of my forehead. There’s a thin band of lighter hair before it transitions to brown so dark it’s almost black. Blond roots. Sometimes, it feels as though my body is fighting who I’ve decided to become.
Chewing my bottom lip, I turn my attention to my phone on the counter, logging into my sock puppet account for the Undiscovered Truths private message board, an amateur online sleuth group I keep occasional watch on. This particular group was the most active in trying to find me after I first disappeared, and every now and then my name still comes up on their site. I open the general thread where the primary conversations occur and scroll through recent posts. There’s chatter about a cold case in Washington State. Some about a serial killer who was murdered in Louisiana. A few missing people. But I find nothing specific or concerning in the stream of messages over the recent posts. Certainly nothing that mentions my fucked-up past. Even stories like mine simply fade away in time. It’s easier to disappear when you don’t have any family left to keep your memory alive.
With a relieved sigh, I make a note in my phone to pick up more hair dye before I set it down and step into the shower.
It’s just after noon when I leave the cottage on the southern edge of the estate’s extensive grounds. With Bryce’s mangled bone in my bag, I head toward Lancaster Manor, an imposing stone structure that casts a shadow of generational wealth across Cape Carnage. Even more intimidating than the house itself is the man who resides there. My favorite person in the town. My best friend.
I’m one of only two people who can simply walk into his home.
There’s nothing to greet me when I enter the foyer. A little spike of fear hits my veins. There’s usually a constant curtain of sound that seems to warm the austere stone: classical music, or old movies, or Arthur talking to himself in a low rumble. But there’s rarely silence.
“Arthur …?” I call out as I enter the formal living room. There’s no answer. I frown and continue toward the library, where he spends most of his time reading beside the fire, even in the warmer weather. “Arthur … I’m here to make you some lunch …”
I’m just starting past the hallway that leads to the kitchen when Arthur springs from behind a statue with a knife clutched between his teeth, which is quite a feat for an octogenarian with a walker.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Arthur—”
He steadies himself before grasping the handle of the blade to brandish the weapon at me. “Who are you?”
“It’s me. Harper.”
He rolls a step closer with the walker and twists the knife in a threat. “If you’re here to steal from me, I’ll cut you—”
“I’m not here to steal from you. I’m Harper. Your gardener. I live in the cottage.” A fleeting wisp of confusion passes across Arthur’s weathered face at my words. “I’m here to make you lunch. Just like I do every day.”
“Lunch …?”
“How about your favorite sandwich today? Pastrami on rye. Are you hungry?”
Arthur blinks, his thick white brows lifting as the fog seems to fade just enough that he lowers the blade. A little piece of my heart seems to fall with it. I reach my hand out and he stares at it as though trying to uncover the secrets beneath the lines that cross my skin. “Harper,” he finally says as he lays the handle of the knife on my palm. “Of course. I thought you were a thief.” When I raise a brow in doubt, his eyes narrow. “Someone is coming in here and stealing from me.”
I try to keep my expression neutral as I take his arm and turn him toward the kitchen. “What makes you think so?”
“My shoes went missing.”
“Someone stole your shoes?”
“Yes.”
“Why …?”
“They’re Stefano Riccis,” he grumbles, as though I should know what that means.
“And someone would want to take them because …?”
