Page 35 of Fear Me, Love Me

“Julia, these are just stunning.”

I look up from the sewing in my lap and see that Carly is examining a dozen or so black-and-white photographs that are spread out on a table in front of Julia. We’re in the near-empty common room on a Saturday afternoon, attempting to make some progress on our art history projects. The assignment is on local Henson history, and I’m deep in the throes of recreating the beaded debutante dress worn by Cecelia Henson in 1921. A portrait of her wearing the dress hangs in the main entrance to the university. I’ve studied the painting and found drawings of the dress, which was designed just for her, in the university archives.

Carly is painting a map of Henson as it was in the year 1900, and Julia has been photographing gardens in Henson that were first planted in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century.

Julia arranges one of her photographs next to a printout of a much older photo. “I’ll display my pictures alongside these ones from the past, so people can see how much the gardens have changed. Or haven’t changed.”

“That will be beautiful,” I tell her, carefully adding a silver bead to the bodice of Cecelia’s dress and tying off the thread.

“You know whose garden I’d really like to photograph?” Julia asks with a mischievous smile.

“Don’t even say his name,” Carly says, catching on right away.

“Why, will he appear and kill us all? Tyrant Mercer is just a man, and I’ve heard his garden is beautiful.”

Beautiful and deadly, if the rumors are true. Apparently Tyrant loves to lock people in the maze of his garden and hunt them down for sport.

“Yes, but not very old because he put it in himself, so it’s no good for your project,” I tell her, glancing at the time on my phone. “I have to go. I told Dad and Samantha I’d be home for dinner.”

I pack my sewing away and tell Carly and Julia I’ll be back later, take it upstairs, and then grab my satchel and coat and head out of the dorms and across the university grounds. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk to my home.

A cold wind ruffles my hair as I make my way along my street. The temperature is crisp but the sky is clear, and it’s the kind of winter afternoon that makes the heavy, invisible burden of life feel lighter. For a little while at least.

I’m huddled in my coat, anticipating an evening with Dad and Samantha and my baby brother, Barlow. He was born six months ago, and he’s the most adorable baby who’s ever existed. There’s a baby romper in my satchel, one I sewed for Barlow myself. It’s made from fuzzy white cotton and printed all over with little yellow ducks. I can’t wait to dress him in it at bedtime and lay him in his crib. Just picturing him makes happiness and warmth flood through me.

When I reach the house where Dad and Samantha live, which was my own home for four years until I moved into the dorms at Henson, I remind myself that Barlow might be napping. I enter quietly rather than throwing open the door and calling,It’s me.

As I leave my satchel on the sofa and take off my coat, I hear voices coming down the hall. Dad’s, Samantha’s, and another man’s. With a lurch, I wonder if it’s Lucas. I haven’t seen him in some time, but I suspect he still comes over occasionally. The sight of him makes all the scars on my ribs ache, and then I crave to add more.

The man speaking has a deeper voice than Lucas, and it’s not one I recognize.

Suddenly, Samantha cries out, shrill and tearful. “What do you want from us?”

I freeze, just a few feet from the coat stand. I’ve never heard Samantha sound so terrified before. Who is in our house?

I step into the shadows beside the coat stand and peer carefully around it. From here, I can see into the kitchen. Dad is standing by the wooden table, holding a ladle as if he had been in the middle of stirring soup. Samantha is behind him by the sink, clutching it for support. Both of them are wide-eyed with fear as they stare at a man in a black suit. A startlingly tall, muscular man with broad shoulders, long legs, and large feet in stylish leather shoes. His fine, fair hair is swept dramatically back from his angular face, revealing cold eyes, malevolent brows, and sharply handsome features. There’s a faint smirk on his lips as if he knows that his mere presence in this suburban kitchen is terrifying the hell out of my father and stepmother.

He knows it.

And he’s enjoying it.

I’ve only crossed paths with him once before, years ago, but I know exactly who this man is. Everyone in Henson knows this man.

Tyrant Mercer.

Officially, he’s a club owner and a businessman, but unofficially? There’s not one murder, assault, robbery, illegal gambling den, or counterfeit scheme in Henson that’s not rumored to be connected to him somehow. He rules the dark, dank locales of this city’s underbelly. So what’s he doing in our kitchen?

Barlow sits in his high chair, his big baby blues gazing innocently up at Tyrant with no understanding that he’s gazing upon a killer. To Dad and Samantha’s horror, and mine, Tyrant lifts a tattooed hand and runs his forefinger over Barlow’s plump cheek.

“Such a pretty baby. You must be so proud.”

I nearly shout,Don’t touch him, but stop myself just in time. I have to call the police before Tyrant realizes I’m here. I glance toward the sofa where I left my satchel.

“Get out, or we’re calling the police,” Samantha tells him in a shaking voice.

Tyrant laughs. “Be my guest, Mrs. Stone, but if you do, your parents will be calling a funeral parlor next. For your husband, for you, and for your baby.”

I wince and forget about trying to reach my phone in my bag.

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