Page 56 of In Her Wake
He leaned back, studying his work with critical eyes.The mask was nearly finished, capturing not just her features but her essence—the slight asymmetry of her smile, the faint laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, the unique way her left eyebrow arched when she made a point she was passionate about.He mixed a slightly darker shade of pigment and began adding the subtle variations in her skin tone—the almost imperceptible freckles across her nose, the slight flush to her cheeks.
Sarah’s voice continued to wash over him as he worked, her words blending into a comforting background texture.What mattered was not what she said but how she said it—the cadence of her speech, the enthusiasm that animated her features.These were the qualities he sought to preserve, to capture forever in his creation.
The clock on the wall showed 4:17 a.m.He had been working through the night, losing himself in the meticulous process of creation.Outside, the world slept on, unaware of the act of preservation taking place within these walls.He would rest for a few hours, then he would find Sarah Fleming and deliver her from the inevitable disappointments that awaited her.
Dean Alcox had been the first, and in many ways, his most meaningful act of salvation.The reclusive author’s nihilistic worldview had resonated deeply with him.When they met, he had recognized a kindred spirit—another soul who understood the cruelty of existence, the futility of human striving.Their conversation in Alcox’s cabin had lasted hours, ranging from philosophy to literature to the nature of happiness itself.
“The greatest blessing,” Alcox had said that day, quoting some ancient philosopher, “is never to have been born at all.”The author’s latest book,The Devil’s Ledger,had just been completed—his magnum opus, his swan song.He had reached his creative peak.Everything after would be lesser, diminished.
The injection had been quick, the explanation gentle.Alcox had understood, in those final moments—he was sure of it.And now the author sat eternally at his typewriter, preserved in the marvelous moment of creative fulfillment, spared the indignity of decline.
He carefully stretched his arms above his head, feeling the satisfying pull of tired muscles stiff from hours of detailed work.The silicone needed time to cure properly before the final touches could be applied.
Moving to his computer, he pulled up the files for an earlier subject.The photographs showed Marjory Powell in her navy blue blazer—her “power suit,” her husband had called it in the interview.The real estate agent had just sold the Thurman estate after it had languished on the market for years.Her colleagues had called her a miracle worker.
He remembered watching her from across the street as she unlocked the door to the Blackwell cottage, all alone and checking her watch to confirm she was early for her 3:00 p.m.appointment.The needle had slipped into her neck so smoothly, his whispered reassurances calm and soothing as the muscle relaxant took effect.Later, in his van, as helium displaced the oxygen in her lungs, he had explained everything to her—why this was necessary, why this was kind.
“You’ve reached your peak,” he had told her.“Everything after this would be diminishment.I’m preserving you as you are now—successful, accomplished, admired.This is my gift to you.”
Her mannequin had looked wonderful at her kitchen table, caught in that moment of quiet satisfaction that comes with achievement.Harry Powell would remember his wife at her best, not as someone fading from her prime.
Kevin Torres had been different—younger, more physically vital.The fitness trainer’s photograph in PowerCore Magazine had captured him in his element, his body a testament to discipline and commitment.The article had called him a “fitness visionary,” transforming bodies and lives in small-town America.
Torres had been leaving his studio late, locking up after the last of his clients had gone.He had seemed surprised to see someone in the parking lot at that hour, but had smiled nonetheless—always the professional, always friendly to potential clients.
“I was hoping to sign up,” he had said, approaching Torres casually.“I know it’s late, but I saw the lights were still on.”
The conversation had been brief, the injection quick.In the van, Torres had listened with wide eyes as he explained about preserving him at his peak, about the kindness of sparing him the inevitable physical decline that awaited even the most disciplined body.Age comes for everyone.The silicone mask had captured Torres flawlessly—the strong jaw, the close-cropped hair, even the small scar above his left eyebrow.
He turned back to Sarah’s mask, touching it gently.Nearly complete.In his mind, he could already see her finished mannequin—seated at a desk with a microphone before her, caught forever in the moment of her greatest achievement.
“You don’t see it now,” he murmured to her image on the screen, “but there’s only one direction from the summit.And the descent is always harder than the climb.”
This was mercy.This was kindness.Preservation, not destruction.Creation, not ending.
He picked up a fine brush and added the subtle hint of blue veins visible beneath the translucent skin of her temples.It looked good.The eyelashes would come next—individually punched into the silicone one by one with a needle, a painstaking process that could take hours.
The podcast episode had ended, and Sarah’s face froze on the final frame.He started it again, finding comfort in the familiar cadence of her voice as she recounted her journey from amateur podcaster to network professional.Her enthusiasm was infectious, her joy in her achievement genuine.Soon, that joy would be preserved forever, caught in amber like an ancient insect—beautiful, unchanging.
His own eyelids grew heavy as the first gray light of dawn seeped through the blinds of his workshop.He had been working too long; fatigue would make his hands less steady, his judgement less precise.The mask was nearly finished anyway—just the eyelashes and some final detailing remained.A few hours of sleep, and then he would complete his work on both the mask and Sarah herself.
He carefully covered the mask with a cloth to protect it from dust, then washed his hands thoroughly in the workshop sink.The ritual of cleaning up always calmed him—the methodical storing of tools, the wiping down of surfaces, the return of order.Like the rest of his life, the workshop reflected his belief in structure, in the importance of care and precision.
As he prepared for sleep, he allowed himself a moment of pride in what he had accomplished.Most people drifted through life without purpose, without truly helping others.But he had found his calling—preserving people at their best moment, sparing them the indignity of decline.It was a gift few understood, but that didn’t diminish its value.
Tomorrow, Sarah Fleming would join those who had been preserved.Another act of mercy.Another moment of perfection captured forever.
He turned out the lights and left the workshop, casting one last glance at the covered mask and the waiting mannequin.In the soft glow of dawn, they seemed to watch him go, patient for his return and the completion of his vision.
Sleep would come easily now, his mind at peace with the knowledge that his work continued to give meaning to an otherwise meaningless existence.He would wake refreshed, ready to bring Sarah Fleming the gift of eternal preservation at the height of her success—before disappointment, before decline, before the inevitable fall that awaited everyone who reached their peak.
It was, after all, the kindest thing he could do.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The eastern sky turned pink and gold as Jenna guided her cruiser along the winding country road.Jake sat beside her, thumbing through notes on his phone, the blue glow illuminating the tired lines around his eyes.Neither had spoken much during the drive—what was there to say?If Jenna’s suspicions proved correct, they were heading toward yet another grotesque setting, another victim preserved in an unnatural perfection while his actual body lay discarded somewhere else.
“Anything more on Alcox?”she asked, breaking the heavy silence.
