Page 4 of Madness Blooms

The clothes I wore are now in a pile at the foot of my bed. My jacket, with a tear at the elbow and stains from dirt and grass, has definitely seen better days. Aside from that, my other clothes are relatively unscathed, except for some dirt on my pants and dried spatters of mud. I sigh.

Memories bubble up from the recesses of my mind, but I force them back down to focus on my grooming. I put on a tattoo choker to conceal what remains of the cut, which seems to have mostly healed already after applying antibiotic cream and disinfecting it last night. It’s better than a bandage, which would draw attention to it and bring about questions I’m unwilling to answer.

Lucky for me, he didn’t slice deep.

I swallow, imagining blood flowing freely from the wound—and cram those thoughts into a box. When anxiety tries to claw its way back out, I know it’s time to get out of this house before I lose my mind. I slip on a hoodie and a pair of stonewashed jeans, grab my bag, and make my way down the stairs.

Before I even reach the kitchen, the sound of the TV hits my ears. Austin is sitting at the table, loudly chomping on toast slathered with too much butter, while Mom putters around. The television in the corner blares the latest news report, causing my head to throb. Unfortunately, the painkillers have worn off. I try to tune everything out and focus on the ugly, kitschy pattern on the tablecloth.

“Did you get in late again last night?” I ask Mom as she turns on the stove. I sit down and begin picking at a frayed thread on the tablecloth, the blooming migraine making me want to dunk my head in a sink of freezing water.

Mom yawns as she cracks an egg into the pan. “Not any later than usual. Why do you ask?”

I consider asking her about the kiss. Would it be out of character for her to come into my room while intoxicated and give me a reassuring kiss on the forehead? I cringe, already knowing the answer, but I persist with a glimmer of hope. “I was just curious,” I say, leaning down to retrieve aspirin from my bag. “Because last night, I felt?—”

My heart flies out of my chest as toast erupts from the toaster.

Mom glimpses me over her shoulder, but she doesn’t verbally press me for verification. “Yeah, um … Don’t worry about it,” I say. She continues scrambling eggs while I dig through my bag. Finally, my fingers close around the bottle, and a sense of relief floods me. As I’m about to get up to grab a bottle of water, Austin finishes chewing and gestures to the toaster.

“Could you get me another one of those?” he asks—or more likeorders.

With a furrowed brow, I roll my eyes and head over to the fridge. I swipe a bottle and set it aside on the counter before snagging the slices of toast. I then grab a plate for myself from the drying rack, drop the slices on it, and return to the table with my water. “Here you go, Your Majesty,” I mutter, handing Austin a slice.

He plucks it from my hand without even a thank you, and I let it slide, wondering if I’m too much of a doormat.

I twist off the cap and take a big gulp of cold water from the bottle. It’s brisk, just what I need. I open the painkillers, dole out two pills, and pop them into my mouth. Just as I’m about to swallow them, my focus shifts to the TV. A crowd has gathered in front of a house surrounded by yellow police tape and a red ‘breaking news’ alert scrolls across the screen. I almost choke on aspirin as the reporter starts to speak.

“A concerned neighbor discovered a body in the early hours of the morning, in a house on Glenbury Avenue,” she states, her tone more bored than sincere. “When the forty-five-year-old owner, Scott Robinson, didn’t answer the door, his neighbor noticed that it was already open, and he investigated.”

My throat goes dry, the pills scraping my esophagus as the report cuts to a disheveled man—Scott’s neighbor, according to the subtitle underneath his name.

“I go in there, and there’s blood everywhere. He wasn’t breathing, there was a large slash across his neck.” He clears his throat, his eyes darting wildly. “Scott didn’t deserve this. He was a good man—a family man, a church leader. What monster would do such a thing?”

Sweat trickles down my neck as I watch the report. Glenbury Avenue is part of my shortcut. I tear my gaze away from the TV and chug more of the water, my head swimming with all the possibilities. It couldn’t have been, I think, massaging my temples. My brain nearly short circuits as I piece the puzzle together.The psychopath—the blood on his knife …

“Wholly shit,” Austin remarks, staring at the screen with a vaguely amused expression as if the death of someone was a spectacle rather than a tragedy.

Mom shuts off the stovetop. “Language!”

“Where do you think I learned it from?” he retorts with a laugh, treating the whole thing like a joyous occasion.

My appetite disappears, and I abruptly stand up, causing the chair to screech across the linoleum. Quickly, I grab the pills and water, toss them into my bag, and sling the strap over my shoulder. Mom raises a brow but remains silent as I leave the kitchen.

“What’s her problem?” I hear Austin ask.

He cracks some stupid joke about PMS as I put on my shoes and leave the house with a slam of the door.

I’ll get food elsewhere, somewhere I can clear my head.

Chapter

Three

HIM

Istep into Mackay’s Diner, one of the few places in town with cheap, acceptable coffee, and wince at the obnoxious peal from the bell above the door. After a productive night and a too-short nap, I need a break to recharge. Caffeine sounds divine right about now. After all, ridding the world of undesirables is exhausting work.

Bleary-eyed office workers and truck drivers crowd the space in front of the counter, while patrons jam the booths. After finding an empty stool at the counter, I rub my temples and stifle a yawn. Everything is too brightly lit. The diner’s color scheme, a garish combination of lime green and baby blue, is also a total eyesore. It should be illegal to open a business with such an offensive palette.

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