Page 11 of Half the Summer's Night
Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.
It’sfucking working.
The door to my little beach bungalow slams shut behind me, and for a moment, all I can do is stare at my sparse living room. It’s a far cry from Uncle Nash’s mansion, but at least it’s mine. I don’t have to do anyone’s bidding to earn my right to live here.
I throw myself down on my sofa and stare down at Abilene’s phone number for what feels like the millionth time. And I know it’s hers, too. Because she called me from her phone right in front of me. Shegaveher number to me. Willingly.
I’ve no doubt I could have scrounged up her number at some point since she came back to Rosado, but I didn’t see the point. Who answers an unknown caller? I had a much easier time becoming familiar with the Hatch Street Funeral Parlor, where she lived the first time I saw her and where she still lives now. There’s the big oak tree that lets me look into her living room, plus all the loose windows and wriggly little side doors that make it easy for me to find my way inside whenever I have the urge to get a closer look. Plus, it’s such a big house, always creaking and groaning, that it’s easy for me to lurk around in theshadows, watching her drift from room to room, memorizing the way she moves, the way she sweeps her hair up into a bun when she’s heading down to her examination room, the way she tucks her feet up underneath herself while she’s watching TV in the evenings.
I’ve seenall of those things. But today she sawme, her big blue eyes meeting mine in my office as she told me that she had found my messages for her.
I drop back on the couch, still staring at her number on my phone, and her name beside it. I click the option to add a photo, and I scroll through the dozens I’ve taken over the last two years, almost all of them while she’s sleeping. She tends to doze off while she’s watching television, and more than once I’ve stolen in and snapped her soft, peaceful face before ducking back into the hallway, my breath fast and panting.
A few times, of course, I’ve watched her sleep while she’s in her bed, when her sleep is much deeper and therefore safer. I’m not sure how I can tell the difference, but it’s always obvious to me when she’s under enough that I can sit beside her bed and watch the soft rise and fall of her breasts and the moonlit glint of her hair on the pillow.
It’s one of those pictures that I go with. Abi on her side, her long eyelashes resting against her cheekbone, her expression peaceful. Then I stare at that for a while, her name in my phone, a picture beside the name.
I should see her tonight.
The excitement brims up in my chest. I haven’t actually visited her house in a few weeks, mostly because I was planning for my most recent kill. It took more care than usual since I had to do it in the hotel. There’s a pattern I’m leaving for her, a trail of breadcrumbs in the shape of a signature. I know she’s found the letters I’ve left her, carved neatly into the skin of my victims.But I wonder if she’s seen how carefully I’ve arranged them for her. I wonder if she realizes yet that they’re words.
Words introducing my true self to her. The first volley in a conversation that I want to continue forever.
I sit up, excitement thrumming through my body. Yes, I’m definitely going to visit her tonight. Maybe I’ll even leave another clue for her, something subtle—I’ve never gone down into the actual room where she does her autopsies before, so that might be a good place. Just something to let her know she’s on the right track. That she should keep digging and not give up.
Because that’s thelastthing I want. And she did seem disappointed this afternoon that she didn’t find any leads. I know it means that I did a good job of covering my tracks, exactly the way Uncle Nash taught me. And obviously, I can’t have her going to the police.
But I still want to let her know how good she’s doing.
I creep through the small,tidy cemetery that surrounds the funeral parlor Abi calls home, dressed all in black and wearing my killing face, a dark mask I had custom-made shortly before Abi came back to Rosado. Even though there’s no one out, I still stick to the shadows offered by the row of pecan trees that run along one side of the cemetery, their branches all twisted sideways from the constant, beating wind blowing in off the Gulf.
All the lights are off in Abi’s house save for the front porch light, which she always turns on around ten o’clock, the same time that she double-checks all the locks. Usually, if I’m going to visit her inside, I’ve already gone in by then. But I’m not planning on going in through the doors tonight anyway.
Instead, I’m doing something different. Something risky. Talking to Abi this afternoon, getting her number, has made me feel emboldened.
When I come to the edge of the cemetery, I double-check Hatch Street both ways to make sure no one’s coming. It’s a quiet road, especially this late at night, but you can never be too careful.
All that’s out here is me and the wind.
I dart across the street, taking off in a sprint so that I can minimize how long I’m out in the open. I wind through the wild patch of flowers that Abi grows in the front yard. In the mornings, she puts the flowers on the graves in the cemetery, something I’ll watch her do on days when I don’t want to take the risk of breaking into her house. Right now, they’re mostly sunflowers, their yellow faces already facing east to greet the sun.
Normally, I’d go in through the side door, which has the flimsiest lock. But tonight, I keep going around the side of the house until I get to the long, narrow driveway that runs up to the part of the house where Abi receives bodies for her coroner work. There’s a big metal garage here as well as a regular entrance, both guarded by an electronic lock. I’ve never bothered coming in this way before because I want to spend time with Abi when she’s off work and relaxing in her living room. Tonight, though, I have other plans.
The lock on the entrance is easy enough to bypass. I pry the cover off easily—I’ve always been strong—and then it’s just a matter of crossing the wires in a specific way. Uncle Nash taught me how to do this ages ago, before I ever even killed for him. I was his thief before I was his murderer.
The lock beeps and springs free, and I ease open the door, letting in a wash of overly cool air. It smells like a hospital, bright and sterile, although there’s a faint, comforting layer of rotunderneath it. I do like the smell of death. It’s one of the things I like about Abi, the way that sweetness follows her around like a perfume. I doubt anyone notices it but me, which just makes it all the more special.
I slip inside, dragging the door shut behind me. All the lights are off, but I have good night vision. My shoes whisper against the tile floors. Normally, that’d give me pause, but I know Abi is tucked away upstairs. I doubt she can hear me down here.
I follow the scent of death to the autopsy room, which is also locked, although not electronically. I pick the lock easily and step inside.
My movements make the lights flicker to life.
For a moment, I freeze, breathing hard behind my killing face. I don’t want to take it off, even though I’m not here to kill tonight. It reflects my true self more than my human face, so I always wear it when I visit Abi. After all, what’s love if you can’t be your true self around the object of your desire?
I creep forward through the overly bright light, peering out at Abi’s workplace. She keeps it clean and tidy—all her instruments put away, all the surfaces gleaming. I stop in front of the weapons she has laid out, ready to be used. Well, not weapons, I suppose. Tools. She only uses them on people who are already dead.
I run my gloved hands over them, picking them up one by one to feel their weight. A thin, delicate scalpel, which is a type of blade I’ve never used before. A bone saw, which is one I have.
