again, the bottom one, and rifled through it until she found some scissors.
Now she was having reservations, but you had to do things. If you started worrying, started thinking things through too much, you ended up doing nothing.
She always wanted to hide away. Every day, she woke up, and wished she’d stayed asleep. But getting up, facing the day, even when you didn’t want to...that was what being an adult was all about.
She puffed out a big breath and got on with the job at hand. She could call Coleridge after, tell him to stuff it.
For now, she was curious.
The scissors slid through the packing tape holding the lid of the box shut. The lid flapped open. She put her hand in and felt hair. Unmistakeable.
“Oh...oh, God...” Her heart pounded, and she knew she could be afraid. When she was scared, thought she could fear no more, there were new depths.
And below the hair, muttering. Like someone trying to speak. A head in a box, trying to speak. A model, something meant to scare her. That was all it was. Just a model.
She realized she was muttering, too. A thin, keening kind of sound, just under her breath.
Miles took her hand in his and she screamed. She leaped away, thinking it was the killer, but not knowing, not daring to look at the cold flesh that touched her hand. Miles came toward her and took her hand again, his grip firm and insistent. He pulled her back toward the box. He practically dragged her.
“No. Miles. No. No.”
She couldn’t shake his grip. He was strong. He put her hand back on the hair. She was crying now, so scared, so freaked out, but he was stronger than her.
Her hand touched the hair and grasped it. Miles pulled with her.
The head came out of the box, dripping blood from the neck. A woman’s head, once pretty, but her jaw was clenched so tight her face looked out of proportion.
It wasn’t a model. She couldn’t fool herself.
The woman was muttering because there was a card stuck between her teeth. She wanted to take it out, to talk, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t take the card out herself.
Miles did it for her. He pulled the card from the woman’s teeth, and her mouth dropped open. Her features, her muscles, her mouth, all suddenly slack.
Her eyes rolled in her head. The whites of her eyes were shot through with blood and one pupil was huge and red and awful to look at. Then she spoke.
“A gift for you, Beth. Are you grateful? Are you? His gift to you. He told me to tell you that. He told me to tell you, and that he’d let me go. God, let me go! Let me go now.”
Tears pooled in the dead woman’s eye, tainted by blood. She looked so sad. A last sigh came from her lips and she was gone. The sigh sounded like relief, like a lover giving a last mercy fuck and knowing for sure, at last, it’s over. All the pain, all the hurt. Like letting go and being happy to fall.
Beth felt her stomach clench but she wouldn’t throw up. Not here. Not on the woman’s head.
She dropped it like it was something dirty. She was sweating and shaking, but Miles was there by her side, stroking her hand, trying to comfort her as best as he could with no words.
The head hit the cupboard under the sink. The cleaning products and the bin and the whiskey cupboard.
Miles tugged at her hand. She looked down, and he held the card out to her.
The Fool.
She laughed as she moved the head aside with her toe and opened the cupboard and took the whiskey out. It was okay to break the rules. Sometimes it was okay to be drunk at any time of the day. All day, if necessary.
When she finally called Coleridge she was very drunk, but thank god she’d stopped laughing, because it was the kind of laughter that hurt her head, right back where her skull joined her neck, and not the kind that split your sides.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The police came and brought the circus with them. The crime scene technicians, someone to pronounce the woman’s head dead, which nearly made Beth laugh again, but she
Now she was having reservations, but you had to do things. If you started worrying, started thinking things through too much, you ended up doing nothing.
She always wanted to hide away. Every day, she woke up, and wished she’d stayed asleep. But getting up, facing the day, even when you didn’t want to...that was what being an adult was all about.
She puffed out a big breath and got on with the job at hand. She could call Coleridge after, tell him to stuff it.
For now, she was curious.
The scissors slid through the packing tape holding the lid of the box shut. The lid flapped open. She put her hand in and felt hair. Unmistakeable.
“Oh...oh, God...” Her heart pounded, and she knew she could be afraid. When she was scared, thought she could fear no more, there were new depths.
And below the hair, muttering. Like someone trying to speak. A head in a box, trying to speak. A model, something meant to scare her. That was all it was. Just a model.
She realized she was muttering, too. A thin, keening kind of sound, just under her breath.
Miles took her hand in his and she screamed. She leaped away, thinking it was the killer, but not knowing, not daring to look at the cold flesh that touched her hand. Miles came toward her and took her hand again, his grip firm and insistent. He pulled her back toward the box. He practically dragged her.
“No. Miles. No. No.”
She couldn’t shake his grip. He was strong. He put her hand back on the hair. She was crying now, so scared, so freaked out, but he was stronger than her.
Her hand touched the hair and grasped it. Miles pulled with her.
The head came out of the box, dripping blood from the neck. A woman’s head, once pretty, but her jaw was clenched so tight her face looked out of proportion.
It wasn’t a model. She couldn’t fool herself.
The woman was muttering because there was a card stuck between her teeth. She wanted to take it out, to talk, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t take the card out herself.
Miles did it for her. He pulled the card from the woman’s teeth, and her mouth dropped open. Her features, her muscles, her mouth, all suddenly slack.
Her eyes rolled in her head. The whites of her eyes were shot through with blood and one pupil was huge and red and awful to look at. Then she spoke.
“A gift for you, Beth. Are you grateful? Are you? His gift to you. He told me to tell you that. He told me to tell you, and that he’d let me go. God, let me go! Let me go now.”
Tears pooled in the dead woman’s eye, tainted by blood. She looked so sad. A last sigh came from her lips and she was gone. The sigh sounded like relief, like a lover giving a last mercy fuck and knowing for sure, at last, it’s over. All the pain, all the hurt. Like letting go and being happy to fall.
Beth felt her stomach clench but she wouldn’t throw up. Not here. Not on the woman’s head.
She dropped it like it was something dirty. She was sweating and shaking, but Miles was there by her side, stroking her hand, trying to comfort her as best as he could with no words.
The head hit the cupboard under the sink. The cleaning products and the bin and the whiskey cupboard.
Miles tugged at her hand. She looked down, and he held the card out to her.
The Fool.
She laughed as she moved the head aside with her toe and opened the cupboard and took the whiskey out. It was okay to break the rules. Sometimes it was okay to be drunk at any time of the day. All day, if necessary.
When she finally called Coleridge she was very drunk, but thank god she’d stopped laughing, because it was the kind of laughter that hurt her head, right back where her skull joined her neck, and not the kind that split your sides.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The police came and brought the circus with them. The crime scene technicians, someone to pronounce the woman’s head dead, which nearly made Beth laugh again, but she
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