Page 59

After going back and forth outside in the dying light, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The glass door thunked shut behind me, cutting off the wind and the world. I stood in the narrow lobby, blinking beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, my shadow trembling against the vinyl floor.

A woman sat behind a battered metal desk. She was maybe mid-forties, hair clipped short, eyes tired, a faded sheriff’s badge glinting at her collar. Her gaze landed on me, and for a second, I saw the concern happen behind her eyes, seeing the bruises, the blood, the dress, the wild hair, the dirt on my feet, the red skin around my wrists.

“Ma’am?” Her voice was cautious, gentle, like the way you might speak to a wild animal cornered in your backyard. “Are you all right? Do you need help?”

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. I looked down at my hands. Blood crusted in the creases, knuckles scraped, dress torn at the hem. I must’ve looked like I had clawed my way out of a grave.

The words tumbled out in a rush. “I—please, I need help, I—I was locked in a house. He kept me there, he kills women, he keeps their bones, I saw them, I saw everything, he was going to kill me, I swear, you have to help me, please—” My voice broke, dissolving into a choking gasp.

The woman stood up fast, her chair groaning. In two steps, she was at the counter, gesturing for someone in the back. “Sheriff? I need you out here, now.” Then, to me, softer, “come on, honey. Sit here.” She rounded the desk and took my arm, steadying me as I sagged into the chair.

I couldn’t stop shaking. My mind spun, looping through memories— Malakar’s hands, the chain biting my ankle, the room full of skulls, my mother’s ghost singing in the corner. I pressed my fists to my knees, trying to anchor myself, but the room kept spinning.

A heavy footstep thudded behind me. The sheriff. He was a thick man in a brown uniform, his gut straining the buttons, his face red, eyes bleary and annoyed already. He took one look at me and sighed, like I was a stray dog who’d shit on his porch.

“What’ve we got here, Doris?” he asked the woman.

She shot him a look. Part warning, part exasperation. “She says she was locked in a house. Says someone tried to kill her.”

The sheriff looked me over. “Uh-huh. You got a name, sweetheart?”

“Starla.” My voice was barely there.

He grunted. “And who exactly tried to kill you?”

I swallowed. “Malakar. He calls himself Malakar. He’s got a house off the private road, a mile or two from the county line. He—he kept me chained. He kills women. He keeps their bones and hearts in jars. There’s a room—go look, please, you have to go look⁠—”

His eyebrows lifted, skeptical. “He keeps bones, huh?”

“I saw them. I saw everything. He said if I left, he’d kill me like the others. He’s sick, he needs help—he talks to people who aren’t there, he hears voices, he’s not well⁠—”

Doris knelt in front of me. Her hands were warm on my knees, her voice low. “Did he hurt you, honey? Are you injured anywhere else? Do you need a hospital?”

I shook my head, mute, and then nodded, and then just pressed my palms to my eyes, dizzy with the effort of holding myself together. “He hurt me. He—he raped me. He—” The words turned to a sob, my body curling in on itself.

The sheriff sighed louder, slumping into the chair behind his desk. “You got a last name for this fella?”

I shook my head. “No! He was in group homes. His parents died in a fire when he was a teenager. I don’t know—please, you have to believe me—he’s dangerous. He’s going to hurt someone else if you don’t stop him⁠—”

Doris shot the sheriff another look. “Matthew, I think we should at least call it in. Maybe send someone out to⁠—”

The sheriff cut her off. “Doris, we get girls in here every week with wild stories. Last month we had one swear she was being followed by Martians out on Route 6.” He turned back to me, his voice was patronizing. Just like how Brandon used to talk to me. “Now, Starla, you say you were locked up? For how long?”

I shook my head, struggling to count days, hours, anything. “I don’t know. He kept me in the dark. I lost track. Please—just go look, you’ll see⁠—”

He snorted, flipping a notepad open and writing something down. “And you just walked out? Just like that?”

I glanced at Doris, desperate. Her eyes were softer, but she looked uncertain now, glancing between me and the sheriff. I felt the hope draining out of me, leaking away with every second.

“He let me leave the basement, and go upstairs. I—I broke a mug, cut my hand, I asked to go to the pharmacy, but he got angry. I hit him and ran. Please, just check the house⁠—”

“Did you take any drugs, Starla?” he asked, eyes narrowed. “Anything you want to tell us about? Hallucinogens? You running from a detox, maybe?”

“No! I’m not on drugs. I swear, please, you have to listen—he’s a serial killer. He’s not right—he hears voices, he thinks his father is watching him, he—” I trailed off, breath heaving, words useless.

Doris patted my hand, murmuring something about water and bandages. A phone rang. Doris picked up, turning away.