Page 1 of The Flesh That Binds Us

PROLOGUE

The wooden boards creaked high above, dust and debris sprinkling onto the surrounding concrete like an ashy veil. I dragged my knees to my chest, muscles trembling, breath caught in my throat as I counted along with the heartbeat that pounded loudly in my ears.

Creeeeeak.

My eyes widened with dread as the door slowly eased open. A blade of light cut through the darkness, and for a single moment, I thought the silhouette at the top of the stairs could’ve been Jackson. Maybe he’d finally heard my prayers and came for me. But it’s not, it’s…him.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

His heavy boots pounded down the wooden slats, each step louder than the last. The ringing in my ears was deafening, swallowing the sound of him. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying that this was all just a cruel nightmare, that any second now, I would wake up somewhere safe and warm in Jackson’s arms. But when I opened my eyes again, he was still looming there at the bottom of the stairs, watching, waiting.

“Let me go!” I begged, my voice cracking into the silence like a whip. “I promise I won't tell anyone!” A low laugh followed, rumbling from his chest as he took a daunting step forward.

“That’s what they all say.”

My head shook before I realised I was doing it, and a small, broken sound escaped me as he drew in closer, his silhouette shifting with the light bleeding under the door. “Please,” I whispered, voice worn raw from screaming all night. “I just want to go home.”

He chuckled again, a deep, ominous sound that crept up my spine and entered into the pit of my stomach. “Home?” he echoed. “Why would I go through all this trouble,” he added, voice dipping lower, “just to take you back home?” He stopped at the end of the mattress, his hands resting on his hips.

“Please, God.” The words tore out of me before I could stop them. I turned away, unable to stomach the sight of him anymore, only to inhale sharply when my eyes connected with the chained stranger beside me, his wide, glassy eyes a reflection of my own.

“No such thing as God down here, Evie.”

The mattress dipped as his weight pressed into it, the slow creak beneath him louder than anything else as he unbuckled his belt, a sound that sent something cold and heavy sinking through my chest.

“It’s only us now, darl. It’s about time you remembered that.”

CHAPTER ONE

EVIE

December 14th, 1985

The full moon loomed high above me in the night sky as a distant sprinkler sputtered from a front lawn nearby. The grass was still warm from the day, even though the air had finally started to cool down. It pressed softly against the back of my arms, prickly and familiar. The sky over Swanford, Perth felt bigger in the summertime—like it could swallow everything. The heavy grief, the invasive questions, the hollow ache that never quite left my chest anymore. Nine months, and I still caught myself thinking I heard Dad’s car in the driveway.

“Everything happens for a reason,” I whispered to myself.

Because that’s what everyone had been telling me. “Everything happens for a reason, Evie. You just have to find the silver lining.” And for a while, I tried to believe those words—tried to find a deeper meaning in his death. But I couldn’t understand what that meant when it pertained to my father being brutally murdered.

The melancholy melody of Van Morrison's Brown Eyed Girl sounded from the record player beside me. My father’s favourite album was scratchy and muffled from age and overuse—albeit temporary, it still achieved its purpose of soothing the constant weight on my chest.

‘Hey, where did we go? Days when the rains came, down in the hollow.’

I could close my eyes and still hear Dad’s voice singing along in my head. He wasn’t the best by any means, but he loved to sing along to whatever was on the radio. I remember him singing to me when I was little—short lullabies that would lull me into sleep. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. He didn’t deserve to die, especially not the way he did.

It was all so unexpected; his death hit suddenly with no warning or remorse. Nine months ago on a Tuesday, our father had gone to work at his mechanic shop, just as he did everyday. Up before the sun, quietly eating breakfast with the news playing on the radio, out the door before my alarm had gone off, and home right when dinner was being served.

Except that evening…he never returned.

It was so unlike him to not come straight home after work, and I remembered Peter joking that he’d probably met up with a woman at the local bar. But when it hit midnight, we became so worried that we took the torches from the garage and paraded around the neighbourhood looking for him, knocking on his friends' doors and hitching a ride to the garage. Nothing was amiss until we returned home. Until we found the letter in the mailbox.

HOW FORTUNATE TO BE CHOSEN FOR A PURPOSE IN TIME.

NOT HIS BONES. HIS MIND. OR EVEN HIS SPINE.