Blood Red Summer: A Thriller Page 2

  Ring, ring! The ceramic chimes as it scrapes, and my muscles twitch. I’m not in my right mind. Something’s very wrong.

  My black socks wear a path in the carpet as I pace the bedroom. Am I supposed to call the cops and tell them there’s a bloody ring in my room, and I don’t remember how it got there? I seat myself on the gray comforter again. If I’m going to tell the police, I’ll have to do it soon. The longer I wait, the worse it will be. I hug my torso. Carol might know what to do. Or maybe she can at least help me understand what happened.

  But then my stomach plunges. I can’t tell Carol. I can’t tell anyone.

  With my body shaking hard and a cold sweat misting my face and chest, I lie on my side. I focus on my breathing, drawing air into my lungs deeply and letting it out slowly. I need to get hold of myself. I need to think. There’s an answer here somewhere, and I’ve got to find it.

  Tomorrow I’ll have to face Korey. The police must have notified him, but he’ll still need to hear from me about Ayden’s death, whether I can remember or not. But how will I explain forgetting? I curl into the fetal position and squeeze my eyes closed.

  As I rack my mind, trying to piece together the scattered, snapshot images of this broken day, all I find are more questions. And one is more important than all the others. Am I a murderer?

  2

  Breathless, I gulp air, sit bolt upright, and blink at the first morning light that filters through the sheer taupe curtains of my room. Deep drowsiness pulls at me, threatening to knock me unconscious again if I don’t fight it. I inhale a few more deep breaths. My gut twists, and I hurl myself out of bed. I stumble across the floor in a trance. My big toe snags on the carpet, and I catch myself on the footboard but knock my elbow. It smarts.

  I scan my recent memory for what happened, but it’s all hazy gray or blank. A few images spring up that don’t seem to fit anywhere or mean anything. Did I fall asleep? Disorientation grips me, and I don’t know what day it is. I glance down to see my dusty jeans, slightly faded, blue shirt—my favorite fitted blouse that I’ve worn too many times—and the soft, comfortable dress socks still on my feet. A few impressions come to me slowly.

  The police. There was a fire in the backyard—a dead man. A man died in our utility shed, a man whose name meant something to me when he said it. Yes, he was my boyfriend Korey’s brother, Ayden Nemeth. He burned to death on our property. The police told me it wasn’t my fault, but there’s some reason I don’t believe that. An icy fear floods my bones.

  The ring. There was a bloody ring with a blue eye stone in my cotton ball dish. Ayden’s ring. Ayden’s blood.

  Tears nip at my cheeks as reality starts to invade my addled senses. This can’t be real. It just can’t. I creep up on the nightstand like I don’t want to lift the metaphorical shoe and see the giant, crushed spider swimming in its juices.

  Please, God, don’t let it be there. Don’t let it be there.

  The knot in my abdomen threatens to tear me apart as more dizziness rushes into my skull. I hold my breath. For an instant, only the sound of my hammering heart fills the room. My unsteady fingers get a limp grasp on the gold ball. I yank it off.

  But as my gaze devours the contents of the small, shiny container, I find nothing but clean, off-white lacquer. Empty. No blood. I draw air noisily and stand up straighter. My hand flies to my heart. Unfortunately, my relief doesn’t last long.

  “Where is it?” I say to the walls.

  With a loud exhale, I shudder as more tension flows out of my stiffened back and limbs. There’s no souvenir. That’s good. It’s what I want but allowing myself to believe it entirely is a luxury I can’t afford.

  “Where the hell is it?”

  “Aria, are you up?” Carol calls.

  Her voice springs from the hallway and constricts my chest like she’s already discovered my secret, and it’s time for me to answer up. But my secret isn’t here. There’s no trophy. There’s no dried blood or even an oozy smell—strange how I remember that odor from last night, though I can’t recall much else.

  I don’t answer my stepmom. I pick up the dish and put it to my nose, expecting the iron-tinged reek of a used Band-Aid, but all I inhale is a mild scent of soap or cleaner. As I try to swallow the lump in my throat, I only cough.

  “Are you all right?” my stepmom asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. My voice comes out in a harsh croak. I fling open the door. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  Her too-wide smile fades. Her mousy hair is down and frizzing around her face, and she’s wearing her pink robe and gray slippers. She grips the handle of her coffee mug tightly. Her gaze traces my fully dressed body. “When? Last night? I did. I helped walk you to bed.”

  “When? Did you come into my room again?” I ask.

  She frowns. “Are you feeling worse? I can call the doctor—”

  “No. No, it’s not that.” I lean on the doorframe and put my other hand to the lump on my scalp. It’s sore but bearable. The dizziness is the worst.

  Carol says, “Tell me what you need. Are you hungry?”

  I shake my head. “When? When did you wake me?”

  She pulls back. “Last night after you fell asleep on the couch. Aria, you don’t look well, and you’re not making sense. It’s going to be okay. Like we talked about yesterday, if this happens, we just need to keep you calm. You need to be resting until you feel better.”

  Stop freaking out, is what she’s trying to say. I ask, “When did we talk last night?

  “After we got back from the hospital,” says Carol.

  I never went to the hospital. Of that, I’m certain. After the paramedics administered first aid and I spoke with the police, I fell asleep on the couch, and Carol woke me. I remember that much. All of this bothers me. And I can’t keep the guilt from my voice. Does she know about my little souvenir? Did she see?

  “Are you sure I went to the hospital?” I ask.

  “I’m sure. I went to visit, but they made me stay in the waiting room.” A wrinkle pinches between Carol’s eyebrows. She steps back, extends an arm, and I reluctantly take the cue to follow her into the kitchen. She pours me a coffee and hands it over with a gentle, motherly motion—not her usual style. I take the mug, watching her facial creases multiply.

  I shake my head. “What was I in for?”

  “Oh, Aria.” She stops and wrings her hands. “For what Ayden did. You have a head wound and some bruises. The doctor said it’s nothing serious, but it may take a while for the headache and dizziness to go away. You don’t remember any of it?”

  “No.” I hold my coffee cup in a tight fist. “What did I say when you woke me?”

  “What?” Carol asks. Her rubber slipper bottoms swish against the tile as she goes to the pantry.

  “What did I say last night when you woke me?” I finally press the mug to my lips and take a drink. The coffee is overly bitter like the pot’s been on the burner too long.

  “Aria, are you sure you don’t want me to call the doctor?” Carol pulls the cereal box from the shelf. She takes out two bowls and places them on the counter.

  “No. Carol, please. Just answer the question.” I’ve always called my stepmom by her first name. She doesn’t even blink—not about that, anyway.

  Carol breaks the seal on the new box top. “Let’s see. You asked why I didn’t wake you sooner. And you took the porcelain dish that you left on the coffee table.”

  I die inside. “Did you come into my room last night?”

  “I did.” The granola clinks against the glass bowl as she pours.

  I wince. My nervous tone betrays me again as I ask, “And?”

  Her gaze darts back and forth between her task and my face. “And you were out cold. I left you alone.”

  “And what else?” I ask.

  “Aria, is there something you need to tell me? You can, you know. I know we must have talked for three hours last night, but after what happened, that’s understandable. I’ll get breakfast ready, and we c
an talk some more.” She opens the fridge and produces a half-gallon of milk.

  A hospital trip. A three-hour conversation. A missing ring in a mostly missing day. I shift my feet and stare at the floor, hoping my stepmom won’t notice my reddening ears. “No, I just—only that I can’t remember what happened. It’s… it’s making me feel crazy.”

  Carol nods. She gives me a sad smile. “It’s okay—the doctor said that could happen, and it’s not uncommon with head injuries.”

  My eyes ache. This must be a crueler form of shadow boxing because I guess the original kind isn’t bad enough. “But what happened? What did I do? Or what did I tell you, or what did the police say I did?”

  The full coffee mug slips from my hand. It shatters on the tile, splattering my jeans and socks with hot liquid. I swear and go for a towel, but Carol beats me to it. While she cleans it up, I peel off my socks, lean against the counter, and cover my face with my hands.

  “You really can’t remember any of it?” She rinses the towel and sets her hands on her hips.

  “No, not really.” I sigh. “Please, just tell me what I said—exactly what I said.”

  Carol draws a deep breath. “Well, you said pretty much the same things the police said. Ayden Nemeth attacked you, and when you fought back, it somehow started a fire with gasoline. Ayden burned to death, but you got out. He claimed to be Korey’s brother, and per the police, that checked out. When I met you in the waiting room of the ER, you told me the doctor said it was nothing serious—a scalp wound that will heal on its own. You said Ayden hit you, but you stopped him from going further.”

  I nod and rub my arms to stem the chill. “Okay. I do remember a little of that. So… how exactly did I stop him?”

  Carol whisks two clean, burgundy placements from the drawer and puts them in place. She sets down utensils one at a time before locking her gaze on me and answering. “You stabbed him.”

  After getting Carol to explain her understanding of what happened, I sit at the kitchen table numbly. She wasn’t here when the altercation occurred, but the police told her that Ayden trespassed on our property, attacked me in the shed and that during the struggle, I stabbed him. And that I told her a similar story last night when she and I talked. My speech was impaired, and I didn’t give specifics other than that while I fought back, the building caught fire and took Ayden with it.

  “What did I stab him with?” I ask. I stir my cereal, releasing aromas of apple and cinnamon, but I can’t bring myself to eat.

  “I don’t know. They didn’t tell me that,” Carol says. “But most of what they told me, you supposedly told them. You can’t remember any of that now?”

  “I vaguely remember talking to them. I just can’t remember what I said. The same with Ayden. I can see him in the shed with me and recall some of the feelings and images, but nothing specific.” I set down my spoon and get up to refill our coffee mugs. “Did the police say that stabbing him is what killed him?”

  Carol shakes her head. Her cereal bowl empty, she drags her knife across the butter and spreads it over warm, brown toast. Glad one of us is hungry. “They said no—that you defending yourself just stunned him. They thought it was the fire that got him.”

  I can’t understand how the shed caught fire at all, let alone how it overtook a large man quickly enough to kill him, but I don’t mention that. I sigh. I give my stepmom my untouched cereal. “Well, okay. I guess I can call the police department and ask if I can get whatever reports were filed.”

  When I rise, Carol stands too. She reaches out and touches my arm. “You can if you want. But it’s also okay if you just want to rest now, and I really think you should. Whether you can remember or not, you haven’t done anything wrong.”

  My stomach dips as I pad out of the kitchen. Sure. A man is dead, and I’ve done nothing at all besides retaining a memento of my victim, which then mysteriously vanishes. Did I hide it in some secret, covetous place while delirium smothered my conscience?

  I pace the hallway, dial Korey’s number, and press the phone to my ear. I press so hard my ear aches. Korey’s line rings five times before going to voicemail.

  “Hi, Korey, it’s me. Hey, please give me a call. We had a fire in our backyard yesterday. I’m okay, but, um, something terrible happened. I don’t have all the details… it’s hard to explain. Please call me right away,” I say in a tremulous tone.

  I’m supposed to add, “I love you.” I know that. But I don’t love him now. I haven’t loved him in a long time, so I don’t say it. After pressing the red icon to hang up, I set the phone on the bathroom counter and get in the shower.

  Twenty minutes later, I emerge with my hair wrapped in a towel and check my mobile. One new call—Detective Wallak from Round Rock wants me to contact him to schedule an in-person interview at the police department. Nothing from Korey, not even a text.

  My insides squirm. I breathe in the steamy, coconut-body-wash scented air and lean against the damp wall. Although Korey is all I can think about, I force myself to phone the detective. We schedule for later today. Although I’ve been working with my stepmom as a real estate assistant for several years now, she won’t hear of me going to work after what happened. That’s a shame, really, because I can’t even fully grasp what “what happened” means. When I go see Wallak, I’ll make sure to request a copy of the police report. Everything I need to know should be in there.

  An image of Ayden’s bloody ring flashes. Victims don’t keep souvenirs. Only murderers do. I’m a monster. And Korey will know. He’ll find out.

  I wrap a bathrobe around me and pace the hall again, trying Korey’s number three more times. I text him twice. Surely the police notified Ayden’s family last night, and Korey would have heard by now. The hours tick by, but he never calls me back.

  Dressed and ready for the day, my head spins as I cross the threshold to the front porch. I linger outside the door for a moment as if reality and everything in it are in question. For me, I guess they are.

  Behind the houses in our modest suburban neighborhood, the sun crawls over the horizon. A golden dawn breaks in smudgy tones of rose yellow like every other day before this one. I inhale the scent of fresh, dewy grass—something normal and pleasant. Then the smell of charred, smoky wood fills my nostrils, and my insides twist like a pile of worms. It’s back there. Evidence of the thing I did, or what remains of it. Our blackened shed is just behind the house at the end of our long yard. I should go have a look, but I don’t want to. I can’t bring myself to face it, as though I won’t find haphazard stacks of burned cinders and debris but a vision of myself goring a stranger and walking off with a trophy.

  A gust of warm wind brings goosebumps instead of sweat, and I shudder. I go down the porch steps and shuffle across the grass toward the mailbox. My gaze sweeps all the nearby yards, the street, and the sidewalk. The idea of someone seeing me and wanting to chat makes me cringe.

  Something shiny near the opposite curb draws my eye. I squint and make out the rectangular outline of a cell phone. Great. Freaking spectacular. A mental tug of war ensues with the dark side of my conscience screaming at me to leave it—it’s not my problem. Not today. Unfortunately, the human side wins. I walk across the pavement and pick up the mobile. One of the latest iPhone models, it’s wrapped in a glittery, pink case. Maybe it’s Sarah’s. She lives at the white two-story across from us.

  When I glance at her door, I learn I won’t even have to bother knocking. Sarah’s already emerged, and she waves at me from the stoop. I groan under my breath. I don’t know her that well, only that she lives with her husband and their two middle-school-age children, and she’s chatty. Chatty was okay until now.

  Sarah smiles and starts walking over to me. “Aria!”

  I stiffen. I wonder what she’ll see when she looks at me. A burgeoning discomfort lodges in my throat, and I wish I could go back inside. It’s too late now.

  “Hi, Sarah,” I say.

  I stand by the mailbox with the phone i
n my hand. With the other, I adjust the little red flag more than necessary. The moisture from the grass seeps into my shoes. While I wait for Sarah to reach me, I stare at another neighbor’s crape myrtle tree. The heat of the summer days is shriveling its vivid, pink blossoms—rare for such a hardy plant.

  “Hey,” Sarah says. She flashes me a smile as she floats over with her blonde ponytail swishing back and forth. Tight workout clothes hug her trim body—mauve shorts, a matching Adidas top, and white sneakers.

  “Hey. Did you lose your phone?” I ask. I hold it up, the pink, sparkly bling catching the swelling light.

  Sarah puts her hand on her heart. “Oh my gosh, yes! I’ve been looking for it all morning. Thank you!”

  “You bet. Happy to help,” I say as I hand it over.

  A lady Carol’s age approaches on the sidewalk, walking her boxer. I back into the yard and remain there until they pass.

  “Are you afraid of dogs?” Sarah asks.

  I suppress the image of Korey’s bulldog Xero sinking his teeth into my leg—and other body parts. “Something like that.”

  Sarah and I get past a couple of pleasantries, and Sarah dives right into what I was dreading. “Dave and I saw smoke and police cars when we got home from work last night. Are you and Carol okay?”

  I nod, gritting my teeth as I internally recoil. I wonder if she saw them removing Ayden in a body bag, but if so, she probably would have mentioned that. “Yeah, we’re both fine. There was a fire in the shed yesterday afternoon, so I had to call the fire department. I guess even though it wasn’t in the house, they sent the police and paramedics too, just in case.”

  “Oh.” Sarah frowns, squinting at me as she studies my face. “Well, you’re really okay? Were you hurt?”