Marked (A Dark Serial Killer Romance)

“Which one?” I ask as we stand in front a pair of doors.

Harley freezes.

“Which one is it?” I ask again, laying a hand on her shoulder. She jumps.

“What?” She twists toward me. “What did you say?”

“Which apartment?” I gesture to the stairs.

“Oh.” She breathes a sigh of relief, like she’s just realized she’s here at home and not somewhere else. Wherever she thought she was for those few seconds, it terrified her.

“This one.” She starts up the stairs to the left.

“That guy at the bar.” I’m opening the box I’m sure she wants to weld shut, but doing that will only make things harder later. She’s harboring pain, and I can’t have that.

It doesn’t belong to her anymore.

“Yeah?” Harley slides her key into the deadbolt lock on her apartment door. She lives above a dry cleaner, a mile away from the bar. The shop below is closed, but the aroma of chemical steam clings to the air.

“Does that happen a lot?” I ask, shutting the door behind me once we’re inside.

The air is cool inside the apartment, and the stench from outside hasn’t creeped in. It smells of vanilla and cinnamon. Probably from the candles on the coffee table.

The apartment is small; there’s a kitchen, with a two-person table, that leads directly into the living space where she has an oversized armchair and a loveseat facing the television. Three bookcases line the exterior wall.

Simple, but I can still feel her here.

She drops her purse and keys on the kitchen table before turning to me.

“Around now, yes.” She goes to the fridge, bending over to look inside. The light hits her face, shining on a raised scar. It’s thin, and runs from her cheekbone to her ear.

“Because of the news?” I lean my hip against the counter.

She grabs a bottle of water for herself and offers one to me. I take it.

“Yes.” She opens her bottle, takes a sip. “They think they’re helping, but they’re not.” She hesitates, then screws the cap back on.

“Help how?” I’ve never seen anything helpful about the media.

“I told you my sister was murdered. They never caught the guy.” She walks to the love seat and sinks down, tucking her feet beneath her. The V-neck T-shirt she’s wearing pulls tight around her chest when she leans back and my gaze dips to the swell of her breasts.

“He said you witnessed it.” I know everything that happened, but I want her to tell it.

“I did.” She nods, then leans to the coffee table and puts the bottle of water down. “It’s not a fun story, Zack.”

I shake my head. “No. I wouldn’t think so. But that’s the second time someone’s brought it up this week.”

“Next Friday is the anniversary.” She sighs and folds her arms over her stomach.

I take the seat next to her, sitting sideways so I can face her.

“Tell me,” I order her, laying my hands on her knees.

She looks away for a second, and when she looks back her jaw is firm.

“You didn’t read about it already? I mean a quick Google search would tell you everything.”

It wouldn’t tell me anything about her experience though, only the webs journalists spin to get clicks. It’s not information about what happened that I want, it’s her I want to know. “I want you to tell me.” There is so much to learn about her, and I crave all the knowledge on the subject I can get.

Her gaze wanders over my face, searching for something. I won’t react. I only want to take in her memories.

“I can’t.” She shakes her head a little. “Not because I don’t want to, because I really can’t. Everything I remember is all jumbled up in my head.” She taps her temple. “Parts of it are missing, and other parts I’m not sure are right.”

“It was a traumatic thing, it’s reasonable that your brain would try to hide the memory from you.” In my experience, the memory will find a way out, though.

Her eyes narrow on me. Suspicion fills her gaze.

“You’re not one of those journalists, are you?” She jumps from the love seat, like being near me might hurt her.

“Of course not.” I’m not even offended she asks. Girl like her, with what happened to her, needs to be sure.

“Then why do you keep asking about this? You’re just trying to get a story, like all of them. You want to know what it felt like, to sit there with a gun to my head, to my sister’s head, while my mom was forced to make a choice. You want to know.” Her chest heaves, and she steps back again, bumping into the television.

“Harley, I swear, I’m no journalist.” I slide my legs off the couch, press my elbows into my knees. I won’t touch her, not yet, but if she creeps too close the cliff, I may have to drag her back.

“You just happened to show up this week?” She laughs with no joy. I wonder when she last held on to happiness for more than a fleeting moment.

“I did.” I nod. “I had work that brought me to town, but then I saw you.” I keep my tone even. I didn’t just see her, I felt her. She sank into my skin. I’m hungry for more.

“Maybe this was a mistake.” She walks to the door, flips the lock, and yanks it open. “You should go.”

I’m doing no such thing.

I lean back, cross my foot over my knee.

“Close the door, Harley,” I instruct, still keeping my voice level. She’s unsure of herself right now, but it’s not because of me. It’s her mind. She’s trying to recall things, but they’re not there, not in the right order. Or they’re lying to her.

Having your mind lie to you is beyond reason.

“You already know,” she whispers. “And you don’t want to leave?”

“Why would I want to leave? I’m exactly where I want to be. I’m never where I don’t want to be.” I point a finger at her. “And you don’t have to be anymore, either.”

Moments tick by as her eyes bore into me. She’s thinking, and I won’t interrupt the process.

It’s a full minute before she slowly shuts the door and turns the bolt.

“You don’t understand how messed up I am, Zack,” she says, coming back to me on the love seat and sinking back into her space.

“Everyone’s messed up to a degree.” I reach out to her, tuck her hair behind her ear. “Me included.” If she only knew how true that statement is.

“No.” She shakes her head. “I know what happened, at least what the record says happened. Mom tried to keep me all the news stories from me, but it’s been eleven years. Of course I’ve heard them, seen them. But what they say happened, and what I remember, are so different. And then there’re the chunks completely missing. Sometimes I think I’m going to go crazy if I don’t find out the truth.”

“The truth about who did it?” I scoot closer to her, comfortable now that she won’t bolt on me.

She nods. “The news runs the story every year because they say it will help find the guy, but it won’t. No one really wants to find him. My mom doesn’t even push for it. She only–” She cuts off her words, and sighs. “She has her own troubles with all of this,” she says after a moment.

“Well, she lost a child. I can’t imagine the sort of pain that causes.” The sort it should cause, I understand. I’ve seen too much in the last fifteen years to think that every parent reacts the same way to losing a child. I don’t even count on every parent having grief over it anymore.

That’s the trouble with my career choice. Gave me too much information on the reality of the world. It’s hard to look through any other lens besides the one this sick and twisted place has given me.

But there’s a light inside Harley, and maybe she can bring me closer to it.

“It’s not that. I mean it is, but it’s more. She has so much guilt.”

I nod. The files didn’t go into much detail about her mother, other than she was present as well. I couldn’t find any interview notes with her. It will take a little more digging.

My reach can only go so far before flags are thrown.

I have to be careful. “I’m sure. She couldn’t save your sister.”

She brings her eyes in line with mine.

“No, Zack. It’s not that.” She swallows. “He gave her a choice.” She pauses again, taking a breath. “And she chose me.”