Page 10 of Executing Malice
Our house — mine and my parents’ — isn’t the only one hidden from the world amongst looming acres of wilderness. It does sit alone in a slight incline, encompassed by trees, but our nearest neighbor is a ten-minute walk in either direction. Dadused to say,“Close enough to have over for barbeque, but far enough not to share stories.”
In Jefferson, stories are everything. Good or bad. People love their stories and telling them. Even as a closely knitted town, an innocent conversation can take on many outcomes by the time it circulates the entire population. It’s crucial to be careful who you share those stories with.
In my case, I share mine with no one. While I can’t think of a single person I dislike, there aren’t many I would consider an actual friend, either.
There’s Reed, of course. But he already knows my story. He knows all my secrets. And I know I could go to him right now and he would do everything in his power to make things better.
Still, there are things I know he wouldn’t understand. No one would and I can’t risk adding fuel to the gossip mill.
That’s the downside of Jefferson. People will drop everything for a neighbor but will still cut you at the ankle the second you turn your back.
They’re not all bad. You learn quickly which ones to avoid, but even the good ones make the mistake of talking to the wrong ones.
Or maybe it’s just me.
Despite being wholly embraced by the community, I feel like an outsider always hovering at the edges of the crowdwatching everyone else. I think maybe it’s because I know I don’t belong here. Jefferson is home now, but it hadn’t always been, and my real home ... is missing. It’s like walking into a room and forgetting why you’re there. Everything around you is familiar, but there’s a nagging at the back of your mind that you’ve forgotten something vital.
I just don’t know what that vital thing is.
Reed says I’m working myself up. He thinks I need to let it go. It’s been eight years and if my memory hasn’t come back by now, it may never. I just don’t know if I like that option. Eight years ago, I was a different person — assumingly. I had a different name. I possibly had a family.
People who may still be looking for me.
I let the infectious vines creeping around me go as I take the final turn up my driveway and pull to a stop before the familiar country style structure. It’s exactly the same as the day Joy and Evan Weir brought me here in nothing but a borrowed T-shirt.
They had no reason to take in a fully grown teenager with no past and a whole set of issues, but they opened their home to me and gave me more love than I’m probably deserving of. They let me stay and grow roots and become a part of something. Neither even hesitated giving me the top part of their house when they decided traveling was how they wanted to spend theirretirement. They made it sound like the most logical decision when moving their things into the in-law suite downstairs and letting me rent the main floor.
“Reed has his apartment, and it wouldn’t make sense to let the place fall apart while we’re gone. Someone should look after it and enjoy it,”was Evan’s logic.
So, the two-story structure with the wide, front porch and miles of privacy is mine. For now, at least. Eventually, they will return and one person taking up an entire two floors would just be wasteful, but until then...
I kick open my door and step out into the creeping shadows cast by the canopy of trees. The wind tugs at the hem of my skirt as I move to grab my things from the passenger’s seat and shut my door. Somewhere in the distance, the tinkle of someone’s windchimes are caught in the crisp breeze. They tangle with the rustle of leaves clinging to the brittle branches.
I shift the weight of my purse higher on my shoulder, toss my phone into the side pocket and start my way up the path to the front steps.
It’s about halfway up that I notice it. Just the stick at first. The thin, wooden extension protruding from the bulbous base. The filmy sliver of porchlight glints along the sweet sheen of caramel. It follows the fresh trickle of juice dribbling along one side from the tattered edges where someone has taken a chunk out of the glossy, green apple. At a glance, it’s as if someone hadsimply set the treat down on the flat base of my porch railing and forgotten about it ... if it wasn’t for the razorblade sunk deep in the crisp, white center.
I freeze on the second step to the top and stare at the object, nearly convincing myself that I’m imagining things, like the small puddle of blood collecting at the bottom. The blood dripping off the fine edge of the blade. The blood soaking into the flesh around the intruding metal piece.
Fresh.
Nothing is crusted. There is no curling around the torn edges of the fruit to indicate it’s been here a while.
I even blink. Multiple times. Rapid flicks trying to adjust my vision, my view, but the scene remains the same.
There’s a bloody caramel apple on my porch.
An apple with a razorblade embedded inside.
My stomach churns even as my heart gallops wildly in my chest.
This isn’t cute.
This goes beyond bird bones and squares of fabric. This is a threat. A warning.
With the same urgency I would show a dark set of basement stairs, I sprint the rest of the way up the stairs and throw myself at the door. It comes open with a twist of the knob and I barrel into the still silence on the other side. My heart is achaos of war drums pounding between my ears, muffling the crack of the front door slamming shut. I snap the locks into place for the first time in their lives and slump into the wood.
It’s a prank. It has to be. Jefferson is too clean cut and orderly for malice. Someone is just trying to get under my skin.
