Page 4 of These Cold Strangers

He is so stern that I simply nod in acquiescence.

“Of course. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” I turn to go, and he calls after me.

“Addie. At least come in for some tea before you go. It’s cold out here. Just no talking about what happened in DC. Deal?”

I turn with a smile and lie through my teeth. “Deal.”

Todd makes a pot of tea, and we sit out back facing the woods, and it’s like we’re old friends catching up. He’s surprisingly chatty.

His father died last year, and his mother moved to Clearwater over the summer to live with a man she met in an online support group for widows and widowers. She gave Todd the house. He doesn’t really miss his parents; they were never terribly close. (I can’t help but cringe as he so coldlyshrugs—what I would not do to have mine back to dismiss so casually.) He does IT for a company in Maryland that makes decorative household items—tissue-box covers, hand-knitted throws, overpriced knickknacks made of teak—and no one needs him anywhere near their offices since everything is online. He’s always wanted to start his own company, but this is just fine for the time being. He turned the parlor in the front of the house into a study/office and spends most of his time there.

We reminisce about school, he fills me in about some of my friends whom I never talk to anymore, and he tells me stories about his travels overseas—before the pandemic, he spent a summer touring Europe. Italy was his favorite. Florence. He stayed in the hills outside the city and listened to the locals tell stories about the creepy killer who used to live nearby. He steals glances at me to gauge my reaction to this as if realizing it is not an appropriate anecdote, but I smile gamely, not about to show him I am shriveling inside in agony.

He never mentions the murders. I appreciate that. He doesn’t ask me anything meaningful about myself beyond that first question about where I live now, just waits patiently when I go quiet. It feels like he understands. It feels like an afternoon with a friend.

When dusk is upon us, I stand and stretch.

“You’re going back to DC?”

I nod. “Nothing here for me outside of, well, you know. The thing we’re not discussing.”

His face darkens. “That’s a long drive at this time of night.”

I wonder for a wild moment if he will ask me to stay overnight with him, offer to buy me dinner, or something more. I saw him glance at my breasts a few times duringthe afternoon. He’s watched me closely. I know he finds me attractive. I can’t say I don’t return the feeling. It’s been a long time since I hooked up with anyone.

“Don’t worry. I don’t relish that drive in the dark. I’ll go in the morning.”

He looks relieved. “Good. Smart move.”

I gather my things. He walks me to the front door.

“It was nice seeing you, Addie. Drive carefully. Take care of yourself.”

“Good to see you too. Thanks for the tea. Good luck with ... everything. If you ever change your mind ...” I hand over my card. He stares at it long enough that I pull my arm back and start to tuck it into my purse, but he reaches out like lightning and snatches it. The corner cuts my finger, but I’m afraid to ruin the moment in case he changes his mind, so I simply nod and walk to my car, sucking on the blooming blood like a starved mosquito.

CHAPTER FIVE

The cheap log cabin motel room is clean enough, with a small porch overlooking the woods and strong satellite Wi-Fi. I get delivery from Chipotle and fiddle with my computer while I eat.

First the obituary for Mr.Preis. I remember him vaguely—a bearded man with a grim visage who always wore jeans and a plaid flannel. He is easy to find; I make a note of the cemetery in case I decide to stop by on my way out of town. It is not the same cemetery. It’s not even in the same part of town. Maybe doing a drive-by for Todd’s dad, I won’t feel as guilty for not stopping for mine. The church’s graveyard used to be a favorite place for me, a fantasyland of headstones and swirling fog, especially during those years when I would stalk them at midnight and write poetry about death. I was impressionable as a girl, and goth culture was all the rage. A stage, quickly outgrown.

Now, though, it’s the forever home to my mother, my father, and my sister. It would have been mine, too, if only I’d been a good girl. Abehavedgirl. Not one who’d just broken up with a boy my father hated. Not one bored and lonely and prowling the night instead of sleeping peacefully under the roof, safe and happy, with the knowledge of their love surrounding me like a shroud. No, I needed a hit, a fix, and was jittery and alone, scoping out the McDonald’s parking lotfor my connection, when my ex-boyfriend came by the house with a knife.

For a time, the local police thought I’d been gone on purpose, that it had been planned. That he was doing the deed for me so I could be rid of the people who were stifling me.

In truth, I’d broken up with him, and he was there for me. He was a scary creep—he’d been getting increasingly possessive, and his threats frightened me. My instincts about him were correct. I am one of the few people who are happy to have had a teenage love of drugs, because if I’d stayed home, I would have been slaughtered with the rest of them.

My dad fought. I assume his military training helped, though not enough. He did manage to disarm my ex-boyfriend and shove the knife into Aaron’s chest before succumbing to his own wounds. That’s how I found them, lying feet to feet in the living room, blood soaking my mother’s fancy silk rug and the room in disarray from the fight.

My mother and sister died upstairs. My sister, they claim, was first. She must have had a bad dream, because she was killed in my bed. She often would crawl in with me for comfort after the terrors of the night came for her. My mother was next. She didn’t fight, which I feel is a blessing. She must have still been asleep. Then my father, who was stabbed thirteen times but still managed to chase my ex-boyfriend from their bedroom, into the kitchen, and then into the living room, where they had their showdown.

All while I was off having one of the finest party nights of my young life. I dragged in at dawn, still high and reeking of booze, to find the horror of all horrors.

Blood. Shattered glass. Bodies. Screams.

The 9-1-1 call is very sad. I try not to listen to it very often—I haven’t listened to it in months—but tonight, a few milesfrom my former home, in a tiny plaid motel room with a deer head over the bed and the memories assailing me, I pull it up. I remember to put in my earbuds; once, I was listening, and the neighbors called the police because they thought someone was being murdered. Someone was, of course. The girl I was took a knife to the heart in that moment, and the woman who came out the other side was a changeling.

My wails feel harsh and brutal tonight. The moment feels closer than ever. As if I’ve not been separated from it by ten years; it is happening right now, right here. I am a part of this terror. I think of what happened. I think of fear and shock. I think of accusatory men who didn’t believe my story. I think of green shutters watching dispassionately as I screamed myself hoarse after I found my father’s body, pale and gray and so clearly dead, blood puddling under his still figure. When my breath comes short, and I feel I can take no more, I turn off the recording, go to the bathroom, where I have stashed my medicine in the green quilted overnight bag, and down two pills with a handful of water.

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