Page 74 of The Flesh That Binds Us

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

I waited a minute after he slammed the basement door before I hurried down the hallway and into the bedroom, shutting the door just enough to muffle the sound without drawing attention. My hands were already shaking as I crossed to the bedside table, pulling the top drawer open as quietly as I could. It was filled with junk, old coins, and used tissues, but no keys. The middle drawer was filled with old bills and receipts, but still no keys. I pulled the bottom drawer open and froze.

Polaroids.

Hundreds of them.

Terrified faces of men and women, their terror encapsulated in an image forever. They stared up at me like they’d been waiting. My stomach turned as I reached in despite myself, pulling out a handful, my fingers trembling as I flicked through them. Young men and women in various stages of undress, their skin covered in bruises and welts, catalogued like trophies.

There were too many.

Far too many.

It didn’t make sense.

The first time The Skinner had ever dumped a body was the summer of 1983. I remembered watching the story on the news before Dad changed the channel. A scream tore up from the basement, and I flinched so violently, the photos slipped in my grip. One fell loose, drifting down into my lap.

I barely noticed at first.

My ears were ringing, and my heart was racing too fast. Because what was I doing? I needed to find the keys. I shoved the polaroids back into the drawer and picked up the one that had landed in my lap when the world…stopped.

My breath caught somewhere in my throat.

No.

No, no, no.

My father’s face stared back at me, his bushy eyebrows furrowed in anger as he glared down the camera lens. The room tilted as the walls pressed in too close. I clamped a hand over my mouth, a broken sound forcing its way out anyway.

“No…”

My eyes squeezed shut, but it didn’t help. The image was burned there now. Oh, God. I missed him. I missed him so much that it made me physically ill. The grief hit all at once—years of it crashing through me like it had been waiting for this exact moment. I was used to burying it, pushing it down, forcing myself not to think about it, not to feel it.

Not while I was trapped here.

Not while I was living in the same house where he…

My stomach lurched. I’d been breathing the same air. Walking the same floors. Living with the man who killed my…

“The fuck did you just say to me?!” Wayne bellowed from the basement, and I shot to my feet. The scream that Jackson let out sent a spike of urgency straight through me. I crossed the room in a blur, grabbing Wayne’s jacket from the back of the door and yanking it open with shaking hands. I shoved my fingers into the pockets, my heart dropping as I felt nothing but fabric graze my fingertips.

“Come on…come on,” I pleaded, abandoning the jacket and dropping to my knees by his boots. I shoved my hands inside one. “No!” I cried out in despair as I pulled nothing but dirty socks out. My breath was coming too fast now as I stood, spinning in circles, trying to think, trying to see past the panic.

Then I stopped.

The dresser.

I opened the doors and sifted through his flannels, sticking my hand in more pockets than I could count. I was frantic now, my heart beating so fast, my whole body was shaking. “Come on!” I cried, pulling open more drawers with no keys in sight.

“Get off me!”

Jackson’s muffled bellow rang from beneath me as I stood on my tippy toes and reached as high as I could, scraping dust with my fingers as I felt for the keys. “Please,” I breathed. “Please.” I pressed my face against the wood, straining upward, reaching higher, higher, when…my fingertips brushed something cold.

Metal.