Page 41 of Lovely Violent Things

In defiant challenge, I swipe my finger through the candle flame. The water on my hand from wringing my wet hair sizzles in the fire.

After the storm knocked out the power to the hotel, Iris provided candles to all the patrons. I heard more than a few groans in the lobby from media crews who need to charge their equipment.

Pulling my freshly washed hair over my shoulder, I seat myself on the corner of the bed and slip the unneeded sanitary napkin into my bag. My flow was light, and has since nearly stopped. The more I think about what Dr. Floris said, about how hormones and stress can cause bleeding, the more logical it becomes that I simply experienced a temporary upset to my system.

Now, I need a logical answer for what occurred during the ritual, for why I have two sets of memories. There is always a rational explanation for the unexplained. This is at the very core of what I do.

I eye the laptop on the console table, then look at the boxes lined along the wall. Aubrey had my case files delivered to a storage unit I’ve temporarily rented. I have a copy of the Harbinger case on a zip file, but what couldn’t be stored in 1s and 0s, I’ve brought to the hotel.

I didn’t expect CrimeTech to release my files so quickly, but as the news is buzzing with the newest Harbinger murder, they likely don’t want to deal with the feds. Not because it’s the right thing to do.

I sink down to the floor and pull a plastic file box toward me. Using the soft candlelight, I dig through the contents until I unearth my old cellphone.

An anxious flutter wings to life in my chest. I’ve listened to the recording so many times I have it memorized. That’s why when Kallum told me to listen to our first encounter again, I didn’t feel the need—there would be nothing new gleaned.

There’s just enough juice left to power on the device. Like scratching open a healed over wound, I hit Play on the audio file, and Kallum’s gravelly voice slinks over my skin.

“You’re an intriguing little thing.”

Just like all those months ago, the fine hairs along my nape lift away.

I listen to the back and forth as he asks me random questions about my job. Then:“Are you afraid of me?”

I push Pause.

I’ve now spent enough time with Kallum to know how he likes to intimidate. He uses his striking looks, his intelligence, even fear to deter people. And that’s exactly what I assumed he was doing in this moment when he asked me such a jarring question.

As I resume the recording, I hear myself blame the New England weather for my trembling. Then he comments on how he sees me, drifting below radar, trying to be unseen.

“…here you are, the only one with actual, impressive credentials, the only one who can piece together what happened here, and you haven’t spoken a word.”

I can feel him, so close, the way he was that day. Breathing me in. His arctic gaze penetrating me and rattling my defenses.

“I’d like to know what thoughts you keep silent, what you’re so worried might slip past those trembling lips.”

I hit Stop.

A shiver racks my muscles, and I rub my forearm to chase away the chill. My fingers trace the scars beneath my long-sleeved shirt, the accident never far from my thoughts.

Placing our conversation in another context, of course I can hear an alternative meaning in his words. There’s a million different ways to perceive his obscure comments. That’s how Kallum operates.

Candlelight bounces along the walls, casting creepy shadows over the room as rain patters the window. I remember being so afraid of the dark when I was little, my mother soothingly explaining the monsters I saw in the dark corners were just my imagination.

I can’t recall the color of her shirt when she told me this, or how she wore her hair, but I remember the scent of her apricot lotion, and that memory soothes me now as it did then.

Psychology spends a lot of time on memory.

The truth is, nobody remembers their past accurately. That’s why people argue and fight with friends, children, spouses. One person recalls a matter happening one way, the other a completely different way.

They’re both right.

And wrong.

It’s a scary thought that you can’t trust your own past.

As the mind wasn’t meant to hold on to every memory, it’s the most damaging ones our brains will obsess over, never letting us forget. Those painful memories define and shape our existence. Then there are the memories so shattering the psyche has to purge them or risk being damaged beyond repair. It’s a defense mechanism.

The mind constructs and alters memories to protect us.

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