Page 5 of Pretty Lies & Ugly Truths

“So—did you find out what Murphy was doing here? Seems odd he would show up here of all places. You think he was looking for you?”

“Nah,” I say simply. Although his presence is one hell of a coincidence, I don’t think I’m what brought him this far south. When I left Boston several years ago, I made sure to thoroughly cover my tracks, going completely off grid for awhile as I traded out the big city for a life of isolation on a small, secluded island off the coast of Georgia.

Ian was too stupid to find me, and honestly, I doubt he was ever even looking. The passing of time made him complacent, offering him a false sense of security. He always was too cocky, arrogant. His ties to the Boston underworld led him to believe he was untouchable, when really, he was too strung out on blow to ever truly be worth a damn.

Ian was a bottom feeder, an opportunist, willing to do anything to score. Drugs, guns, you name it—there were even rumors about his involvement in a human trafficking ring. If I didn’t already want that fucker dead for what he did to me, that alone would have signed his death warrant.

Trust me, I’m no saint. My soul is about as black as they come, but that is a line even I would not cross. Norwould I ever take the life of someone who didn’t deserve it. I firmly believe there is a special place in hell for those who harm innocents, and I make it my mission to send them there.

At least, I did….until my family paid the price for my sins.

After ending the call, I bring the paper cup to my lips, cringing when the syrupy sweet caramel and espresso hit my tastebuds. How does she drink this shit?

I glance across the street from the small café that gives me an unobstructed view into the large bay window of the bookstore. Inside, a petite, scarlet-haired beauty is busy stacking books on a display table. I watch her as she flits about the store, mesmerized by the graceful way she moves.

I don’t know what it is, but there’s just something about her that fascinates me, something that calls to the darkest parts of me like a siren’s song. I shouldn’t be here. I should get up and walk away now. I accomplished what I came for—making sure she was alive and well—but I cannot find it in me to leave.

She goes about her work completely unaware she has caught the attention of a monster. This is a dangerous game I’m playing. Fortunately for her, she is safe from me. I would never act on my desires, but if someone is looking to hurt her… That, I will not allow.

Picking up my phone, I tap on a familiar contact. As I wait for him to pick up, I look over to J. Austin Books, where a set of large emerald eyes peer out in my direction.

“Hello?” he answers, and I drag my eyes away.

“Hey, Becks. It’s Archer. I need a favor. I need all the information you can get on a Maggie Rose McKennan.”

3

Maggie

It has been a few weeks since what I’m now calling “the blackout”, and I’m convinced I am slowly losing my mind. It’s either that or according to an internet search I may have early onset dementia, which, at 22, seems a little far-fetched. At this point, though, I’m not ruling it out.

Although there have been no new gaps in my memory—at least none I can remember—I am also no closer to figuring out what happened that night. This gaping hole of missing time leaves me feeling deeply disturbed.

Since “the blackout”, I have been on a permanent state of high alert, where even the smallest provocation makes me anxious, leading me to overreact. I am having terrible nightmares, constantly walking on eggshells, and I feel like I am losing my grasp on reality.

I have also been screwing up left and right at work—something that hasn’t gone unnoticed—and I can tell Jane is starting to get concerned.She dances around me like I’m a ticking bomb waiting to go off, which honestly isn’t too far off the mark. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up.

Plus, I am convinced someone has been following me.

I am not sure how I know, I just do. Sometimes, it’s an awareness of another’s presence, a knowing that I’m no longer alone. You know, like when those tiny hairs stand up on the back of your neck when something feels off? Kind of like that. Other times, it’s this phantom smell that lingers in my apartment when I wake, so light, I can almost convince myself I’m imagining it.

I unlock the door to J. Austin Books and take a few tentative steps inside. It’s a little after nine in the morning, which is usually my favorite time of day. As a self-proclaimed morning person, I’ve always scheduled myself for opening shifts. I loved the peace and quiet the morning shift would offer, and relished in the time spent alone in one of my favorite places.

Lately though, what I once considered to be my sanctuary now feels wrong, almost tainted.

I didn’t have many friends growing up. I was an awkward kid who was always quiet and a little too shy—never one of the popular kids, and that was just fine with me. I preferred books to real life people anyways. Fictional characters have never let me down,whichis more than I can say about most of the people in my life. That is, except for Jane. She has been the one constant in my life.

After her diagnosis, my already short friends list dwindled even more. I felt the need to stay close to her incase her health took a turn for the worse. I would often turn down invites to parties or to hang out until eventually they stopped coming altogether.

Since Jane owns the store, I spent a large chunk of my childhood inside these walls. Most of that time spent curled up in one of the oversized velvet chairs in the children’s reading nook. I was quick to help with odd jobs when needed, and when I turned sixteen, this became my first official job.

It pains me that this place that was once my safe space just isn’t anymore. But there’s no use dwelling on it when I have no idea how to fix it.

Shaking off my discomfort, I stow my bag under the counter. The silence in here is deafening and not helping to combat the creepy vibes. So, I pull out my phone and connect it to the overhead speakers, selecting my Good Mood playlist, in the hopes some upbeat music will chase off any lingering unease.

With a deep inhale, I fill my lungs, relishing in the scent of freshly printed paper and lemon furniture polish, taking comfort in the familiarity of it. Pushing my shoulders back and steeling my spine, I resolve to get to work, determined not to mess up. Today is going to be a wonderful day.

Today was not a wonderful day.

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