Authors: Kevin Hearne,Delilah S. Dawson,Chuck Wendig

Tags: #General Fiction

Three Slices (26 page)

Somehow, though, she stands.

“You,” she says. A frog croak.

John startles. Sniffs. His lip slick with snot. “Miriam.”

“John.”

“You killed her.”

“I killed her.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you so much. Those girls, I, I, I didn’t—”

Miriam sighs. “I know you didn’t. The murders happened in Denver. At times you couldn’t have done it. I stopped by the bar. Spoke to Janice. She confirmed for me that you haven’t missed a night at the bar in... six months, maybe more. Two of those dead girls were in the last three. Wasn’t you.”

“Good. Good. Please...help me up.”

She sniffs, clucks her tongue. “Not yet, Big John. Just because you didn’t kill those girls doesn’t mean you weren’t responsible.”

“What? I...Wait. Wait.”

But she keeps talking. “You had those photos at your house. And that was your handwriting on the back. Janice told me something else, too, when I went by the bar.” Miriam leans forward, trying not to fall over. “I asked her about your family. She said your son, David, lives out in Denver.”

“Oh, Jesus. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You sired a killer. Your son killed those girls.”

By now, he’s sputtering. Mouth strung with bloody spit. “I wasn’t sure. I had a friend on the force out there. Old Army buddy. He... he got me those photos. But... yes. Yes. It’s him. I think it’s him.” He weeps. “I fucked up. I was a bad father. Never there. My wife...my son. Oh, jeez, god. I didn’t...” His words break apart like rotten bark off an old tree. He just makes a sad, angry sound.

“You did fuck up, yeah.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“I want to make a new deal with you, John. This one’s not a bet. You won the bet we made already because as it turns out, you’re not going to die like I said. You survived that because of me, and now your fate is again your own. But I own you. I own you right now because I could still cut your head off.”

“Anything. Anything. Whatever it is, anything.”

“You need to take care of your boy.”

“Wh... what?”

“You need to go to him. And you need to stop him. I would. But I have other things to accomplish. I tire of all this. I want out. But you? You’re just getting in. You promise me you’ll stop your son.”

“I promise.”

“Do what’s right, John. This
is
your circus. He
is
your monkey.”

“I will. I will.”

“Good.”

And with that, she begins to undo his bonds.

18. Now: Stitches & Starshine

S
AFIRA ENTERS
her home. First thing she does, as many do:

She flips on the lights.

“Hey,” Miriam says. The little knife in her hand. Flipping around the way a magician moves a quarter around his knuckles.

“You.”

“Indeed. I am me. A profound statement if ever there was one.
I am me
. A big, badass, ego-fed statement. I am me, and nothing will change me. It’s sick because, honestly? I feel really empowered by that. And yet, at the same time, hamstrung by it, too. Because I don’t want to be me anymore. I don’t want what I have. Thing is, I wanted that so bad that I got roped into your lies. I should be smarter than this.
Faster
. And yet you snookered me, Starshine.”

“Miriam, it wasn’t me.”

“I know. It was your sister.” Fear dashes across Safira’s face. “You’re wondering how I know. It’s not just that you guys looked alike. It’s that, in her wallet, she kept a crumpled-up picture of you. Sweet, I guess, at least until you realize she wanted to be
my
sister more than she wanted to be yours.”

“I... I’m not a real psychic.”

“No shit, Shoeshine. That’s why you puked, isn’t it? You put on too much of a show and... you were in too deep. The blood. The cheese stink. Too gross for you by a country mile, so next thing you know:
blargh
. Yak chowder.”

Safira’s silence answers that question.

“My sister, Melora, she said it had to look good. Melora—”

“Is dead.”

That, she didn’t know. The stunned look on her face shows it.

“...why?” That question spoken with a trembling tongue. Trying not to cry, maybe. Trying to keep it together.

“Because she was going to kill the wrong guy. She was about to make an epic mistake. And because she was fucked up. Broken. When she died the first time, it cracked that mirror good. And you can’t put a mirror back together again, Safira. There will always be those faint lines, those shatter marks. And because ultimately, I don’t like someone being in my head. Seeing through my eyes. I don’t know how she did it and I don’t care. I didn’t want to kill her. I wanted to help her. But fate, you see—fate is feisty. I let her go, that death she desired—the death she
committed
to with her actions—would still happen. Fate’s a rubber band that way—you can stretch it wider, wider, wider, and as long as it doesn’t break, it’ll always snap back into the same goddamn shape. So, you need to snip the rubber band. The only way to freedom is to
cut those bonds
.”

“Please... I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Not like this.”

She’s scared.

Good.

“I know you didn’t, Sunshine. But what happened, happened. And now your cuckoo sister is dead—your fault for putting this all in motion.”

“She wouldn’t be denied—”

“I denied her. And now I’m about to hurt you, too, for making me do that. For throwing this noose around
my
neck. I’m trying to be good. Trying to be
better
. And you and your bugshit crazy sister drag me back into it. But I’m going to give you a chance to wriggle out. To go on your merry way—well, probably not so merry, because you’ll always have that albatross around your neck, won’t you? That dead bird with Melora’s face.”

“Anything.
Anything
.”

“I want to know where Mary Stitch is. You probably don’t know. And if you don’t? So be it. But there will be consequences to your unlucky ignorance, Safira. Real, bloody consequences. So, know anything? Will you get lucky? Let’s spin that roulette wheel, see where the little ball lands.”

Safira’s words are breathy and buoyant with fear—

But also ragged with relief.

“I know about her. I do! I do. Not a bluff. She’s... she’s gone, long gone, gone for many years. But her brother, her older brother is here. Weldon. He’s an old man now. No friends, not in the phone book, and the only reason I know anything about him is that I used to clean the cabins he rents—he rents them through a company, not directly, but I did the housecleaning when I was a girl.”

“He’s still alive?”

“He is.”

“And you can give me his address?”

“I can.”

“Good. Get a pen and write it down. Because I’m in a hurry.”

In a hurry to find Mary Stitch.

And end this curse.