Let Me In by Adam Nicholls (books under 200 pages .TXT) đź“•
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- Author: Adam Nicholls
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“Well, in that case.” Morgan swept it up and swallowed it in one gulp, the hot liquid flushing down his otherwise dry throat. It burned his insides, falling into his stomach where it settled with comforting warmth. It was a pleasant sensation, but not enough to make him crave more. If he were telling the truth, all he really wanted was to head home and slide into bed, sleeping off the day’s grief until he awoke with a clearer head. “To Dusty.”
Gary nodded. “To Dusty.”
“So, are you going to tell me what happened?”
“To your cousin?”
“Who else?”
“Are you sure you’re ready to know?”
Morgan was unsure, but there was only one way to find out. He agreed to listen, ignoring his gut feeling and slumping back with his arms folded across his chest while Gary explained what’d happened. It started off bad—his body washed up on a dirty riverbank—but the more Gary explained, the more Morgan wanted to hurl the table across the room and storm out. The questioning, judgmental stares from his distant family didn’t help either.
By the time he was caught up, Morgan had no energy left. Gary let the last of the facts settle in the silence, and Morgan only noticed the clink of glasses and hissed murmurs from the people around him. He didn’t feel much like having company; he only wanted to know what could have driven a man to hurt Dusty, especially as savagely as he had.
“It was personal,” he said.
Gary knocked his head to one side. “What makes you say that?”
“Duct tape, a sanitized vehicle, and a remote location. It takes a lot of effort to go through all that, and I can’t see why anyone would bother unless they wanted to prove a point. You’re human, right?”
“Last I checked.”
“Then imagine you’re the killer. Surely you’d need some sort of grudge.”
Gary shrugged. “I suppose.”
“Supposition is for the lazy. Come on, Detective. You’re better than this.”
“I’m trying my best.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Morgan said, lowering his tone when he realized he was talking a little too loud. He didn’t want it being mistaken for bitterness—he felt a lot of things for Gary, but anger wasn’t one of them. “I’m just saying, it’s worth looking into his past.”
“Don’t worry, we’re on it.”
Morgan nodded, saying nothing more. He glanced around the room at all the faces. All the expressions of hurt. There were a lot of memories in this room, but for now he didn’t want to think about any of the trouble caused over the years. He only wished he could heal their pain. Nothing he did would bring Dusty back from the dead, but if he could get to the bottom of why this happened, then maybe he had a shot at easing their anguish, even if just a little.
“I know that look,” Gary said, burping into a closed fist. “You want to investigate.”
“Are you going to stand in my way?”
“Would it stop you if I did?”
“Not really.”
Gary sighed. “Then I guess I’m here for anything you need.”
“That’s good,” Morgan said, sliding off the stool and paying no mind to the eyes he felt crawling all over him like ants, “because I need a ride home.”
The Young family weren’t the only ones in mourning. On the other side of the city, the killer stood in the open cemetery, the fierce wind howling at him and throwing his open coat behind him like a flapping flag. It didn’t bother him in the slightest—freezing temperatures were a mere discomfort compared to the internal agony he was enduring.
Gawking down at the fresh marble headstones, a horrifying image of his loved ones crept into his mind. Lifeless bodies, bugs eating away at what used to be fun, lovable smiles with soft skin and bright, wonder-filled eyes. It winded him, feeling like someone had reached into his stomach and grabbed his innards, squeezing and twisting until he couldn’t take it anymore. He collapsed to his knees, reached out for the largest headstone, and ran his fingertips across the etchings:
BELOVED MOTHER AND WIFE
The pain was unbearable, to the point he no longer felt like himself. He hadn’t always been a murderer—that was still new to him, but he wasn’t able to stop. The people who’d done this had to pay, no matter what people thought of him. He only prayed the departed were looking down on him with love and understanding, rather than judging him for his somewhat inhumane behavior.
It wasn’t like before, however, and the killer knew that like he knew his own reflection. The woman rotting beneath him would’ve understood him in life, and she would’ve been at his side telling him as much. She would also be asking him to stop, trying to convince him this was the wrong thing to do. But did that mean she was always right? In some ways she was lucky; she didn’t have to experience the sheer agony he was currently unable to escape, and it felt as though that perspective was necessary before being able to judge.
But vengeance wasn’t the point.
It was more like a funnel. He simply had to vent his anger, and if it wasn’t directed at the people responsible, then who else would suffer? Ever since the ordeal—after spending an extended period of time in bed without sleeping—the killer had discovered his need for revenge. It was like a part of him he’d uncovered in the long, winding trails of his mind where his calm, collected persona once resided. There was once a man whose biggest concern was paying the bills on time, maybe even finding thirty minutes to rearrange his DVD collection into a newer, more discernable order.
Now there was only rage.
Hot, unrelenting rage.
And for what he was about to do, he could only hope that his loved ones—the kind, beautiful, innocent people who’d died for no reason other than the ignorance of others—would look down on him with just a touch of forgiveness.
Because he wasn’t done yet.
Not by a long shot.
Sleep didn’t come for him. Morgan spent countless hours awake in bed, watching the shadows crawl across the ceiling like dark monsters reaching out for unsuspecting victims. It drove him wild, shooting him into the deepest areas of his imagination where nobody and nothing was safe. Was this where Dusty had been a few nights ago, he wondered? Had he known his demise was so close, or had it been as big a surprise to him as is had been to everyone else?
There was no way to know.
After hours of pointless staring, Morgan finally gave in and slipped quietly into his clothes, careful not to wake Rachel. With that accomplished, he snuck downstairs in the dark, made a coffee, and took it with him in one of the Styrofoam cups Rachel had bought for those last-minute journeys. Creeping through the dark and watching over his shoulder the entire time, he found the garage and slipped into the car, started the engine, and left the neighborhood in the dark of night, the smell of hot coffee working its magic on his heavy eyes.
When he was far enough away from the house and able to make all the noise he wanted, he turned on the radio and slipped into the trance of ’70s soul music. Al Green sang through the speakers about staying together, and although he’d love to get thinking about the days he and his wife first fell for each other, all he could think about was Dusty.
Dusty had been a person—a living, breathing person. His favorite movie was The Goonies. His favorite rock band was AC/DC. He’d loved strawberry Pop-Tarts and always started by nibbling around the crust before tucking into the icing. He’d had dreams of becoming an actor, fears of moths and the monster under his bed. The man he’d grown into—although Morgan had been deprived of the opportunity to know him—surely had dreams of his own, but all that had been taken away from him.
Why?
Morgan stayed deep in thought, lingering on that question until he arrived at his destination. It wasn’t a place he’d planned on heading, but something in his subconscious must have directed him there. He climbed out, stepping from the warm safety of his car and into the freezing wind beside the river. His boots squelched into the dirt as he locked his car and pulled up the flashlight app on his phone, navigating his way toward the abandoned building that stood in the dark like
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