Page 7 of Vicious Hearts

The Farraday house stands empty, a battered realtor's board face-down on the unkempt lawn. No one is trying to sell it anymore.

The neighbor to the right has moved their fence closer to their own property, as though to put more distance between their peaceful home and the murder house next door. Scavengers have stolen the garden ornaments, but the windows are boarded up.

The front door to the Farraday house is cracked an inch. Maybe some hobo is sheltering there.

Usually, I avoid walking this way, but today I'm too cold and tired to care. I take a left, heading toward the park's top entrance. I quicken my pace as I pass below the wrought-iron arch and into the park.

The wind seems louder, as though it's being funneled. I clutch my collar, holding it closed to keep my neck warm. Along the path to the south side, and then it's six blocks to my building.

Takeout, TV, early night. Sounds like a plan. I can probably—

A hand claps over my mouth. A sweet, suffocating smell engulfs my nose and mouth, and I try to kick out behind me, but my legs are already failing.

My thoughts are racing. My pulse hammers painfully hard as my body's stress response floods my system.

It's chloroform it's too strong oh Jesus it'll kill me I'm having a heart attack –

I don't know whether my attacker isn't well enough prepared or just watches too much true crime, but as he tries to pull me to the ground, he realizes I'm not going to lose consciousness after all. I catch a glimpse of a completely blank face, and it takes me a moment to understand that it's a mask.

Pain explodes at the base of my skull, and I know nothing more.

* * *

I cough into something—a tight band around my face, covering my mouth. I'm lying on my side, a scratchy carpet beneath my cheek, and I’m zip-tied at the wrists and ankles.

The chloroform stung my eyes, but I suspect the blow to the head is responsible for my blurred vision. The nausea could be anything.

I push my legs straight and meet resistance. It's apparent that I'm inside something, and as I come around, I realize it's the trunk of a car. A car that is moving.

A bubble works its way up from my stomach, and I belch, wincing at the sour taste.

Keep calm. Keep it together and think.

The rolling sensation in my gut subsides for now. I turn onto my back, wincing as the back of my head hits the carpet. There's an open wound, but I don't know how bad it is or how much blood I've lost. My breath hitches in my chest, my head spinning as the carbon dioxide level in my blood rises.

I roll onto my side, trying to get in a safe position in case I throw up. As I move, the car hits a bump, and my injured head hits the side of the trunk. My vision swims, and I blink hard, trying to stay awake.

Gravel under the tires. A door opens and closes, footsteps crunching over loose stones as my abductor retreats. Where is he going?

I hear nothing except vehicles passing, and after a minute or so, I decide to risk pulling the trunk release lever. If Idon'ttry it, I'll die for sure.

I scramble around with my bound hands and find the lever. The trunk pops open, a splash of light dazzling me.

The night air is cold but welcome. I breathe deeply through my nose, and with some effort, I roll onto my back and sit up, my abdominal muscles burning with the exertion.

I’m in a small parking lot beside a derelict diner, set back from a road I don't recognize.

I raise my hands to my face, feeling the gag. It's only tape, and I pick the edge with my nail until I can tear it away. My head is pounding, but a revelation breaks through, skewering me with terror.

Chloroform. Zip ties. Duct tape.

The Dollmaker used them all.

When Simon Farraday was arrested, I was allocated as a family liaison volunteer, spending time with his wife and helping her navigate the circus around the killings. From what she said about him, I started to wonder.

Farraday is mentally ill. Shortly after his conviction, he started talking to his feet and getting into arguments with people that weren't there. He’s extremely paranoid and distrustful, said to be features of his illness.

He talks tome, though. I'm the only one he trusts because I looked after his family. His medication does nothing to stabilize him, and most people think he's a sick man who did sick things.