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“Morning,” Violet said, ignoring the burn in her eyes from the smoke as she strode past the woman.
“Yeah, what’s so great about it?” She snarled and snatched her newspaper off a welcome mat with a sunflower.
Violet paused, turned and studied her. Nothing flowery about her. A woman hardened by life. By disappointment. Failures. Same face Violet would peer into three doors down. “You’re breathing, aren’t you?” she asked. Why was she even engaging with the woman?
“Barely.” She huffed and pointed to Violet’s face. “I remember when I was young and pretty.”
Violet had heard that one before. But surface-lookers didn’t stick around long enough to go past skin-deep, or they’d see what she saw when gazing long enough in the mirror. None of it would be defined as pretty.
Pushing thirty-five, she’d experienced more than any person should in a lifetime, and that was before becoming a forensic psychologist and an FBI agent with the Strange Crimes Unit. It was only natural.
Strange crimes were in her DNA.
“We’re all worm food eventually,” she quipped and carried on down the hall for her Monday morning ritual. She’d been enduring it for the past two years, since she’d transferred into the SCU from the Violent Crimes unit out of Jackson, Mississippi. The Mondays they were out of town on a case were a reprieve. She’d rather be hunting killers with the SCU than doing this.
The SCU South Division covered the Southern states, and there were more bizarre crimes—many with strange religious undertones—than one might imagine, which kept their specialized task force traveling often. Only three months had passed since they’d finally closed the Nursery Rhyme Killer case—a local Memphis cold case—and they hadn’t traveled since. Didn’t mean there wasn’t work to do like review open cases and process mountains of abominable paperwork.
Violet shuddered remembering that hot July night the Nursery Rhyme Killer had gotten the jump on her. Her colleague Fiona Kelly had been staying at her home, cramping her style, and she’d assumed the noise had been her. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been ambushed.
As he’d trained a gun on her, staring her down, he’d seen the same thing Violet had quickly recognized.
Glaring, undeniable and shocking familial traits. She’d understood the possibility of having half-siblings out there from wild rants or incoherent patches of information muttered while her mom fitfully slept, but this had confirmed it along with a brief conversation about their moms and the circumstances surrounding their births.
He’d shown her mercy and let her live.
She hadn’t returned the favor.
Violet reached apartment twelve at the end of the hall; her chest constricted and the ball in her gut tightened. Why did she do this to herself? Why did she keep coming back knowing it would never change?
Grandmother had made it crystal clear that she only tolerated Violet, and most days Mom wouldn’t even speak to or look at her. She rapped on the golden knocker hidden underneath the rag wreath with a welcome sign hanging in the middle.
Violet had never been welcomed here. Not in the apartment or in the lives behind the door.
But they kept letting her in, knowing she’d have money to give them like she did each and every month. Penance for being born and a strain on their lives. She swallowed hard and touched the hollow of her neck as her skin flushed hot. This feeling never changed either.
She could psychoanalyze it all day long and give herself a clinical pep talk along with a rational plan of action, but the heart could care less about psychology and a glossary of terms. Even her own therapist concurred with her mind’s counsel. But her heart said something else, and it led her up this gnarly path almost every single start to the week.
Grandmother opened the door, her hair recently set and her nails painted light pink. Neither Grandmother nor Mom made it past five feet. Violet towered over them at five foot nine. Got her height from dear old Dad too.
“Hello, Violet,” she said, her voice identical to the late Olympia Dukakis.
“Grandmother.” She entered the too warm, cramped apartment and set the Gibson’s old-fashioned donuts on the counter. Mom’s favorite. Plucking a white envelope from her purse, she laid the money on top of the breakfast box.
Mom sat by the window in her recliner. She was petite and frail, and her dark brown hair hung in a loose braid down her back and needed a shampoo. Mom had never taken care of herself. Had gone weeks without bathing and days in the same old sweatpants and T-shirt.
Growing up, Violet hadn’t understood what depression meant and all that it entailed. Part of her motivation for pursuing a psychology degree was to understand her mom. And to figure out what might be wrong with herself.
“Hello, Mom,” Violet said softly and sat on the burnt orange sofa across from her. “You having a good week?” Violet cocked her head and studied her. Nails gnawed to the quick. Pale cheeks sunken like craters and dark half-moons under her silver eyes. Sleep had eluded her for some time. Violet remembered the screams emanating from Mom’s room and Grandmother’s calm and steadying voice helping her chase the nightmares away.
A nightmare named Adam who had abducted Mom at only fifteen and held her in a place she’d called the baby basement. Then he’d set her free. But Mom reminded her for years after Violet hit puberty that she not only looked like the monster who had created her, but she acted like him in some ways too.
She wasn’t sure if Mom was repulsed by her or feared her.
Maybe both.
Either way, Adam releasing her hadn’t actually freed her.
Mom finally responded to her voice.
