Page 58 of Corpse Roads

Hunter drops his suit jacket and keys on the desk, seeming at ease. On the console next to him, I can see several framed photographs of him, Enzo, and even Leighton, smiling and posing.

“Hey, Hunt?” Leighton inspects the room. “Did you feng shui this place with a bloody ruler? This is some obsessive shit.”

Hunter glares at him while straightening the stack of papers on his desk so they sit at a perfect right angle. Snorting, Leighton pulls out a chair at a long, dark-wood conference table.

Before I can sit down next to him, I glance around the rest of the spacious office. My heart immediately plummets as my extremities go numb with the wave of shock.

This can’t be real.

Every inch of the back wall is plastered in thick layers of paperwork. There are more sheets of paper than I can count, typed lines of ink and endless photographs stuck on top with little pins.

Strands of red cord are wrapped around the pins, connecting different sections. Every inch of wall space is covered in a chaotic contrast to the ruthlessly organised office.

My feet carry me without thinking. I’m numb, helpless, pulled back into the embrace of detachment. Studying the walls, an awful weight curls in the pit of my stomach.

I count every photograph pinned in place. Altogether, there are eighteen girls staring back at me. I’m sickened as I check the various profiles. I recognise every single one of them—some made it on to my list.

Others could be complete strangers, but their faces resonate in the back of my mind. I know that I watched them die, even if I can’t remember it.

“This c-can’t be h-happening,” I stammer.

“Sit back down, little one.”

Enzo’s hand lands on my arm. I jump so fast, I end up crashing into the wall in my haste to get away from him. Papers rain on my head as my healing arm flares with pain.

Panting hard, I stare up at the towering, black-haired beast above me. I don’t recognise him anymore. The numbness has infected every part of me, metastasising, taking over everything.

“Stay away from me!”

“Harlow?” he asks, frowning. “It’s me.”

“N-No… I c-can’t… stay back!”

His next words are drowned out by screaming, echoing on repeat in my head. Countless voices. Different tenors. Soft. Raspy. Feminine. Scratchy. Desperate. Pained. Hopeful. Pleading. Dying. Gone.

I’m drowning in glimpses of memories I’d compartmentalised. Their bloodstained words slide down my throat like swallowing bullets. Voices and faces are disjointed.

Please, just let me go.

I want to go home.

What do you want from me?

Let me out.

Don’t touch me!

Scrambling up despite my throbbing body, I touch the nearest photograph. It’s Tia. I remember her well. She has a beautiful, confident smile in the picture, with another woman’s purple-painted lips sealed on her cheek.

Pastor Michaels had a special word for her, one that I refuse to repeat. Something to do with her kissing other girls. God doesn’t like that. I can’t imagine being capable of such mindless hatred.

God is supposed to love all of his creations. Why should it matter who kisses who? She talked about Kara, her girlfriend, a lot. The happiness she radiated, even in the basement, was heartwarming.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, pulling the photograph down.

The strange men around me are deathly silent, watching me unravel while cataloguing every clue I give away. Pressing my lips to Tia’s pixelated face, I reattach her to the wall.

Every other girl that I watched die waits for me to acknowledge them, all accusing me with their printed eyes. I wouldn’t call them my friends, not in the conventional sense.

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