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  Famished

  An Ash Park Novel

  Meghan O’Flynn

  Copyright May 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Opinions expressed are those of the sometimes screwed-up characters and do not necessarily reflect those of the author, though some may reflect the opinions of the author’s dog. Author has already told said puppy not to be a jerk. Dog responded by eating author’s new boots. Good luck suing that slobbery punk.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, scanned, or transmitted or distributed in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded or otherwise without written consent of the author—because she’s a control freak. Also, piracy is for suckers.

  All rights reserved, every goddamn one of them. A few wrongs still available.

  Distributed by Pygmalion Publishing, LLC

  IBSN: 978-0-9974651-0-5

  For my father, who raised me lovingly—and

  quite normally—and who should not be blamed

  for the twisted nature of my work.

  I love you, Daddy.

  Always.

  Contents

  Like Free Stuff?

  Sunday, December 6th

  TWO MONTHS EARLIER

  Thursday, October 8th

  Thursday, October 8th

  Friday, October 9th

  Saturday, October 10th

  Sunday, October 11th

  Tuesday, October 13th

  Friday, October 30th

  Friday, October 30th

  Monday, November 1st

  Tuesday, November 3rd

  Wednesday, November 4th

  Sunday, November 8th

  Monday, November 9th

  Wednesday, November 11th

  Thursday, November 12th

  Friday, November 13th

  Sunday, November 15th

  Monday, November 16th

  Wednesday, November 18th

  Wednesday, November 18th

  Thursday, November 19th

  Friday, November 20th

  Saturday, November 21st

  Monday, November 23rd

  Monday, November 23rd

  Tuesday, November 24th

  Wednesday, November 25th

  Thursday, November 26th

  Thursday, November 26th

  Friday, November 27th

  Saturday, November 28th

  Saturday, November 28th

  Saturday, November 28th

  Sunday, November 29th

  Thursday, December 3rd

  Friday, December 4th

  Saturday, December 5th

  Saturday, December 5th

  Saturday, December 5th

  Saturday, December 5th

  Sunday, December 6th

  Epilogue

  FREE SHORT STORY

  SNEAK PEEK at Conviction

  Also by Meghan O’Flynn

  About the Author

  Sunday, December 6th

  Focus, or she’s dead.

  Petrosky ground his teeth together, but it didn’t stop the panic from swelling hot and frantic within him. After the arrest last week, this crime should have been fucking impossible.

  He wished it were a copycat. He knew it wasn’t.

  Anger knotted his chest as he examined the corpse that lay in the middle of the cavernous living room. Dominic Harwick’s intestines spilled onto the white marble floor as though someone had tried to run off with them. His eyes were wide, milky at the edges already, so it had been awhile since someone gutted his sorry ass and turned him into a rag doll in a three-thousand-dollar suit.

  That rich prick should have been able to protect her.

  Petrosky looked at the couch: luxurious, empty, cold. Last week Hannah had sat on that couch, staring at him with wide green eyes that made her seem older than her twenty-three years. She had been happy, like Julie had been before she was stolen from him. He pictured Hannah as she might have been at eight years old, skirt twirling, dark hair flying, face flushed with sun, like one of the photos of Julie he kept tucked in his wallet.

  They all started so innocent, so pure, so … vulnerable.

  The idea that Hannah was the catalyst in the deaths of eight others, the cornerstone of some serial killer’s plan, had not occurred to him when they first met. But it had later. It did now.

  Petrosky resisted the urge to kick the body and refocused on the couch. Crimson congealed along the white leather as if marking Hannah’s departure.

  He wondered if the blood was hers.

  The click of a doorknob caught Petrosky’s attention. He turned to see Bryant Graves, the lead FBI agent, entering the room from the garage door, followed by four other agents. Petrosky tried not to think about what might be in the garage. Instead, he watched the four men survey the living room from different angles, their movements practically choreographed.

  “Damn, does everyone that girl knows get whacked?” one of the agents asked.

  “Pretty much,” said another.

  A plain-clothed agent stooped to inspect a chunk of scalp on the floor. Whitish-blond hair waved, tentacle-like, from the dead skin, beckoning Petrosky to touch it.

  “You know this guy?” one of Graves’s cronies asked from the doorway.

  “Dominic Harwick.” Petrosky nearly spat out the bastard’s name.

  “No signs of forced entry, so one of them knew the killer,” Graves said.

  “She knew the killer,” Petrosky said. “Obsession builds over time. This level of obsession indicates it was probably someone she knew well.”

  But who?

  Petrosky turned back to the floor in front of him, where words scrawled in blood had dried sickly brown in the morning light.

  Ever drifting down the stream—

  Lingering in the golden gleam—

  Life, what is it but a dream?

  Petrosky’s gut clenched. He forced himself to look at Graves. “And, Han—” Hannah. Her name caught in his throat, sharp like a razor blade. “The girl?”

  “There are bloody drag marks heading out to the back shower and a pile of bloody clothes,” Graves said. “He must have cleaned her up before taking her. We’ve got the techs on it now, but they’re working the perimeter first.” Graves bent and used a pencil to lift the edge of the scalp, but it was suctioned to the floor with dried blood.

  “Hair? That’s new,” said another voice. Petrosky didn’t bother to find out who had spoken. He stared at the coppery stains on the floor, his muscles twitching with anticipation. Someone could be tearing her apart as the agents roped off the room. How long did she have? He wanted to run, to find her, but he had no idea where to look.

  “Bag it,” Graves said to the agent examining the scalp, then turned to Petrosky. “It’s all been connected from the beginning. Either Hannah Montgomery was his target all along or she’s just another random victim. I think the fact that she isn’t filleted on the floor like the others points to her being the goal, not an extra.”

  “He’s got something special planned for her,” Petrosky whispered. He hung his head, hoping it wasn’t already too late.

  If it was, it was all his fault.

  TWO MONTHS EARLIER

  Thursday, October 1st

  The killer looked at the ceiling, listening for the call of a night bird, a cricket, a barking dog. But the cemetery was silent, save for the moaning of the wind and the whispering rustle of leaves outside. These were the noises of the dead.

  The one-family mausoleum was made of thick white bricks turned gray with age a
nd reinforced with mortar and stone. The walls were a barrier against the outside sounds of gunshots and throbbing bass lines emanating from cars with rims larger than their wheels.

  The walls also muffled any sounds that might have tried to escape the small room.

  The silence shimmered through his lungs, focusing him. Soon the burgeoning sunlight, birthed from a vast bloody womb, would announce that today was the present and it was time to move beyond a past that seemed so close in these early morning hours.

  He closed his eyes and let her image come rushing back at him. Would she still look the way she did inside his head? On the surface, it was a simple question, but it toyed with him, stirred his curiosity and roused an unbridled rage that seared his very soul. He could see her face as clearly as if she were standing before him now—her alabaster skin, the vibrant green of her eyes, iridescent like the Mediterranean Sea.

  Bitch.

  He looked down. This girl was a poor substitute. The slab of concrete bearing her weight was barely wider than her hips, so it had been no burden to cuff her wrists and ankles to the sturdy wooden pillars beneath. Families had once placed the ashes of their loved ones here for a final goodbye before stuffing them into the wall for all eternity. Now it was a real altar, heavy with sacrifice.

  Her eyes were unseeing and blank in the dim light. The creamy white of her skin would eventually become translucent as death took over, blending her flesh into the gray stone upon which she lay.

  But not yet.

  He ran his fingers over her breasts, flattened from years of malnutrition. A roadmap of abused veins ran the length of her arms. Her drooping mouth gaped, a string of drool dripping down her wasted face. Dried tears streaked her cheeks.

  He had never understood tears. In her case they seemed all the more repugnant as he’d merely finished what she had already been doing to herself. They all tried to deny it at the end, but every one of them wanted this. Even the one he hadn’t killed. His neck muscles went rigid, as stony as the altar. He had done everything she had ever asked of him. Would have continued to if she hadn’t gone.

  This is for you, cunt.

  He trailed his eyes down the girl’s chest to the yawning gorge that had once been her belly. The skin lay peeled back, revealing his prize within the emaciated cavity.

  He touched the stomach and it slid like a nest of maggots, writhing away from the light. The still-warm jelly that surrounded her innards sucked at his hand. He slid his fingers over the shiny glass exterior of the organ, gripped it gingerly, and pulled. Resistance, then release, as the surrounding tissue gave way. He bent closer and palpated the surface, pinching, prodding until he felt the familiar firmness, the proof that she was just as disgusting as he’d suspected.

  Then the scalpel was in his hand, and there was only the dissection, reverent and precise, the taste of iron on his tongue growing stronger with each inhale. His brows knit together in concentration. The blade sliced cleanly, smooth as a finger down a lover’s cheek, as he opened the tissue, inch by inch, toward his prize. Then it was free, writhing in a gooey mass of greenish-yellow mucus and reddish-brown tissue, toxic with her essence. He removed the wriggling creature slowly. His mouth watered.

  There you are, you little bastard.

  Radio silence. Then static, like a thousand locusts humming in my ears. The pillow was ripped from my hands and someone screamed, the sound strangled and choked. It was me. It was always me.

  I opened my eyes in the dark, panting, clutching at my chest, shirt balled in my fists, the panic hot and white and unrelenting. Next to me, Jake snored softly, oblivious. I watched the covers rise rhythmically with his breath. A demonstration of his ability to not give a crap about anything.

  I rolled away from him onto my side, knees hugged tight against my wildly hammering heart. The skin of my arms and legs was dewy with sweat. A scar on my ankle throbbed and stilled just as abruptly.

  You’re not back there, Hannah. You’re here. You’re here.

  But I wasn’t here, not all the way, not ever. Even on my best days, I could still hear him, my first love, my only hate, whispering in my ear I’ll find you, you little whore. I could still smell him—the stink of sweat and some musky, dirty, vulgar thing lingering long after the nightmare, trying to choke me as I lay in the filmy pre-dawn gloom.

  I raised my eyes and blinked back tears as the alarm clock swam into focus. Five-fifteen. Two and a half hours until I had to leave for work. Two and a half hours to get myself together and not be so fucked up, or at least find a way to act less obviously crazy. But acting was hard. Most days, I’d rather just disappear into the background. I fantasized about slipping from view, a lithe mass of dark hair, wide mouth and green eyes fading to a transparent whisper, then only the scenery behind, as if I had never existed. If I could force this disappearing, I would. Then maybe I could stop running.

  I sucked in a deep breath, my heart expanding and jerking sharply like an agitated blowfish in my chest. Slowly, carefully, I dragged myself away from Jake to the edge of the bed, keeping my eyes on the door in case someone burst through it and grabbed me by the throat. At least Jake would wake up and help me, or I hoped he would; I was counting on him for that part. Probably the one thing I could count on him for. I hoped I was worthy of at least that much.

  I swung my feet off the bed, toed around for the slippers below, and crept to the bedroom door, cringing against the chill on my clammy skin, alert for the slightest sound. Nothing.

  Panic’s chokehold lessened to a subtle pressure. Jesus. If neurotic freaks ever ended up being cool, I’d be ready for the red carpet. I crept down the hallway toward the living room, pretending I was Scooby Doo on the trail of a creepy amusement park owner. Silliness wasn’t the only way to chill out, but it was one way. And it worked … sometimes.

  Other times the panic ended up strangling me.

  I paused in the hallway, listening, and flicked on the light. Shadowy, amorphous shapes solidified into a familiar scene: the couch, the table, a pack of Jake’s cigarettes. I scanned the apartment for the slightest movement. Nothing, not even behind the window curtain. No noise outside. A hint of Jake’s lingering cigarette smoke harassed my nostrils and the dusky memories shivered away.

  I checked the window lock anyway, snaking my hand behind the curtain and pulling it aside so I could poke at the tab with a trembling finger. Below me, the street was empty, the patch of frosty grass along the sidewalk glowing amber under the streetlight. I dropped the curtain, picked my way back through the living room and groped the deadbolt on the front door. Locked.

  My purse sat on the table. I pulled my phone out of it and my heart seized and restarted as I tapped in my code. No creepy text messages. No threatening voicemails. Nothing.

  I pushed my purse aside and jumped at the sound the strap made when it slid and hit the table. In the kitchen, the overhead light bounced off the refrigerator and cast a weird, flattened circle of light on the floor. I concentrated on it as I waited for my heart to shrink and drop out of my throat.

  Cake. I should bake a cake. Because isn’t that where everyone’s mind goes after a horrible recurring nightmare and panicked lock-checking? But I was being practical. Now I wouldn’t have to stop at a bakery on my way from work to the women’s shelter, and Ms. LaPorte would get a nice birthday surprise. I still owed her. Probably would for the rest of my life.

  I shuffled to the cabinets and carefully pulled out cake-making supplies. Once the mix was emptied into the bowl, I cracked the eggs and zoned out, there but not, baking on autopilot. People got over stuff, right? They left it behind them. Eventually I would forget how the clasp on my duffel bag jangled as I ran for the bus station, chest heaving with sorrow and loneliness and abject terror. Eventually I would forget the way his calloused hands felt against my windpipe. I grabbed the whisk and attacked the mixture in the bowl. Each ingredient added brought the batter one step closer to something better, just like each day took me one step farther from where I had st
arted. I wasn’t as delicious as cake, but I was surely an improvement on who I had been five years ago.

  Ten minutes later the cake was baking and I was on my way to the shower. I got ready in the dark, easing drawers open and closed to avoid waking Jake. Unless I startled him, he wouldn’t be up until well after I was gone and his first cigarette would kill any lingering vanilla in the air. Which was good, especially today. He had no idea where I went after work and the cake would raise more questions than I ever wanted to answer.

  Thursday, October 8th

  On the morning of his forty-ninth birthday, Edward Petrosky awoke with the remnants of liquor thick and woolly on his tongue. The dawn had brought a gray film that settled on him like fingerprint dust. He stretched, hauled on his clothes, and tripped over frayed carpet to the bathroom.

  The mirror over the sink revealed a weathered forehead topped by thinning hair the color of salt and shit. In blue jeans, sneakers, and a gray button-down shirt, he probably looked more like a retired gym teacher than a detective. But that was appropriate; he hadn’t felt like a detective in a long time.

  Petrosky brushed the fuzz off his tongue, willing his bleary mind to connect with his legs, and headed for the kitchen. In the living room, the suede sofa sat, scuffed and battered, against one wall. Next to it stood a wooden end table, its cigarette-burned top hidden under a tattered copy of some fitness magazine he’d stolen from the dentist’s office, and a half-empty (aw, hell, three-fourths-empty) bottle of Jack Daniels.