The Afton Morrison Series (Afton Morrison, #1-4)

By Brent Jones

Together for the first time, experience all four books in THE AFTON MORRISON SERIES as one complete serial novel.

Afton Morrison, twenty-six, is a small-town children’s librarian by day, on a murderous mission to make the world a better place by night. From the hunt for a violent sexual predator to the last stand against her tormentor, THE AFTON MORRISON SERIES delves into a world of moral ambiguity, told in four thrilling parts:

· GO HOME, AFTON
· SEE YOU SOON, AFTON
· NICE TRY, AFTON
· TIME'S UP, AFTON

Packed with suspense, grit, and action, THE AFTON MORRISON SERIES delivers audiences an unlikely heroine in the form of a disturbed vigilante murderess.

This edition also features a bonus short story, A BOOK WITH NO PICTURES, the first published title from author Brent Jones to have featured Afton Morrison as a character.

GO HOME, AFTON:
Afton Morrison, twenty-six, is a small-town children’s librarian. She’s also a disturbed vigilante murderess, in pursuit of a violent sexual predator.

SEE YOU SOON, AFTON:
Suspected of a murder she didn’t commit, Afton searches for an abducted teenage girl, leading her to unravel dark secrets from her own past.

NICE TRY, AFTON:
With the town on lockdown and her companions in danger, Afton attempts to establish an improbable truce, leading her into a deadly trap.

TIME'S UP, AFTON:
Afton contends with unwanted notoriety as she plots to kill vicious drug dealers and prepares for the last stand against her tormentor.

A BOOK WITH NO PICTURES:
A loser, pushing forty, struggles to raise his gifted nephew, in this short and comedic tale of dysfunction.

Praise for THE AFTON MORRISON SERIES:

“...thrilling...”
—The Nerdy Girl Express

“...a delightfully dark read...”
—Reedsy

“...it hooks you in immediately...”
—Geeks of Doom

“...gripping...”
—Feathered Quill

“...a uniquely gritty style...”
—Reads & Reels

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brent Jones
• Release date: Oct 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463941669

Brent Jones

Brent Jones is the global manager for land records and cadastre at Esri. His is responsible for strategic industry planning, business development, risk analysis and marketing, focusing on high accuracy GIS, advanced surveying data management, civil engineering, cadastre, land records, and land registration in the developing world. Brent Jones is president-elect for the Urban and Regional Information Systems Association (URISA) and past president of the Geospatial Information & Technology Association (GITA). He graduated from the University of Maine with a Bachelor of Science degree in survey engineering (1987).

Book preview

The Afton Morrison SeriesThe Afton Morrison Series

THE AFTON MORRISON SERIES: BOOKS 1 2 3 & 4

GO HOME, AFTON

SEE YOU SOON, AFTON

NICE TRY, AFTON

TIME’S UP, AFTON

A BOOK WITH NO PICTURES

Copyright © 2018 Brent Jones

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for the purposes of review) without the prior permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Visit the author’s website at AuthorBrentJones.com.

Edited by Sarah Burton:

anavidreader.com

Cover design by Humble Nations:

goonwrite.com

ISBN (EPUB): 9780463941669

ASIN (MOBI): B07G5TQ5TC

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Go Home, Afton

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

See You Soon, Afton

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Nice Try, Afton

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Time’s Up, Afton

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Afterword

A Book With No Pictures

· 1 ·

· 2 ·

· 3 ·

· 4 ·

· 5 ·

About the Author

Also by the Author

To Mackenzie . . . thanks for the inspiration.

Acknowledgments

A lot of people had a hand, both big and small, in creating Afton Morrison.

After watching a rerun of Forensic Files—rest in peace, Peter Thomas—I got the idea to write a serial novel about a vigilante murderess, who’s just arrogant enough to think she can kill a man in cold blood without getting caught. The question was, who in a small town would be the last person suspected of committing a violent crime? A children’s librarian, that’s who.

It’s with that sentiment in mind that I want to thank Karissa Fast at Fort Erie Public Library. Karissa gave me a detailed tour of her office and allowed me to shadow her on the job. And, alongside library technician Laura Rudynski, Karissa spent hours answering pages worth of questions I had about her role as a children’s librarian. I learned a bundle, including just how much she loves kids and her job.

It is also to Karissa’s credit that, through helping out with a workshop for young writers, I met an eleven-year-old girl named Mackenzie. After sharing some of her fiction, Mackenzie presented me with a gift—a sketch of a human eyeball in pencil, intended to inspire a future book I might write. Yes, Mackenzie, it worked. And when your parents think you’re old enough, I hope you’ll consider reading Go Home, Afton.

The first iteration of Afton Morrison, however, didn’t impress some beta readers. I want to thank Nicole Campbell, Suzanna Linton, and Cat Skinner for giving me a dose of hard truth. Your feedback helped me to create a heroine—albeit a flawed and unlikely heroine—that readers could root for.

Sarah Burton, who edited this series, as well as several short stories of mine, provided tremendous insight and research. She went above the call of duty to ensure that the manuscripts we worked on together not only read as one coherent serial novel, but that the characters were as strong as the plot was compelling.

To all who received and reviewed an advance reading copy, you have my gratitude. Without initial readers and reviewers to spread the word, finding an audience can be an exhausting uphill battle. You are the unsung heroes behind every successful fictional release.

I want to thank my mom and dad for not only taking an interest in my writing from a young age, but offering me encouragement in endless supply. It means the world to have you believe in me.

And last but not least, my wife, Andréa, deserves to be recognized. Oh, sure, I could go on about how she, in fact, is always my first beta reader, not to mention my most outspoken fan. I could highlight how she, without complaint, took over running our home-based business, so that I could write fiction full-time. I could even describe how she sits, for hours on end, listening to me talk through ideas for stories. And while all of those points are both valid and admirable, I’d rather just say this: I love you, Andréa. Forever and always.

Go Home, Afton

Chapter 1

He chose that same damn bar stool every night, ordering one tall glass after another of what looked like horse piss. Colt 45, probably, or whatever it is small-town lowlifes like to drink. I watched from my car, slouched in the driver’s seat and buried in shadows. The dim interior of The Corridor was visible through a bay window facing the sidewalk, its amber glow contrasting against the night. It was hot out, still and muggy, and the air inside the car was beginning to turn stale and moist.

He kept his head down, staring a hole through his empty glass, looking up only as the bartender approached. She was a girl about my age, but unlike me, she had silky hair streaked with highlights, sensual curves, and bronze skin. Becca was her name, I think, although I couldn’t be certain. She had just moved to Wakefield from Portsmouth, according to local gossip, and she had no idea how dangerous this man was.

He handed his empty glass to Becca, and I could tell he had ordered another pint. And as she took it, his fingers lingered around hers for a little too long. It was a gesture she seemed to dismiss as harmless flirting, but I knew better.

His name was Kenneth Pritchard. He was forty-four, a construction worker, and a reclusive type. He’d stop at The Corridor on his way home from work, and venture out on Saturday mornings to buy groceries and fill his truck with gas. He had no friends in town to speak of, no known family, and no hobbies, either. Not so much as a pet cat. He kept the shades drawn at all hours, and no one seemed to know where he’d come from, although some thought he was hiding out from a past life.

Becca, a smile painted across her naive face, flounced her way back to Kenneth and handed him his newest beer. He said something to her, and she listened for a second, all the while batting her eyes. She laughed—a fake laugh, of course—heaving her substantial chest in his direction. She tilted her head back with each chuckle, placing one hand over her falsely modest heart and the other on his forearm.

Then the laughter stopped, with just as little warning as it had started, and Becca busied herself with wiping down the bar. A futile effort, given what a rundown hellhole The Corridor was. Its main entrance was hidden in an alley that stretched between two old brick buildings. That’s where it got its name, I imagine, a reference to its own relative obscurity. Its windows were caked in filth, its chairs and stools were mismatched and uneven, and a number of its overhead lights flickered or appeared to be missing a bulb altogether. A mirror behind the bar had a large crack running through it. Seven years of bad luck, but no one in Wakefield seemed to notice or care.

My face was beginning to bead with sweat, despite the window being cracked, and the thick rims of my glasses slid down my nose. I exhaled a thin stream of hot air, trying to keep my breathing slow and even, my body motionless. And as I stared at the back of Kenneth’s head, I couldn’t help but picture his face—those thin, dry lips, flanked by patches of graying stubble. The heavy bags beneath his bloodshot eyes. He was average height, five-foot-nine or so, and lean, except for the slight belly that spilled over the top of his pants.

He’d glance at Becca every so often, and I was sure she was consuming all of his mental resources. That, in itself, was innocent enough. There were plenty of men in Wakefield that would have liked to take her home for a night. But that wasn’t all that was on Kenneth’s mind. He was imagining her pinned beneath him, I was sure of it, her face streaked in tears, a blade pressed to her throat. Unresponsive to her cries for help and getting off to her shrill whimpers. He’d be almost silent, though, notwithstanding a few depraved whispers, and a low grunt at the last second. At least that’s how other women had described the ordeal.

Kenneth had been accused of assaulting at least three different women in the area, but never convicted. Never formally charged, for that matter. Insufficient evidence, the Wakefield police claimed. A small police force comprised of all men, by the way, who found it easier to believe that three women had been lying than to accept that they had a serial rapist on their hands. I knew it would only be a matter of time before he would strike again.

It was with that thought in mind that something else caught my eye, something indiscernible at first. Movement, I thought, a figure tall and lanky outside the passenger window, traveling in slow motion. Someone was creeping in the shadows. A man, perhaps, watching me while standing next to a wooden bench at the edge of the street, concealed in part by a decorative lamppost. And all at once, I could feel it. The prying eyes of a fellow voyeur, keen to assess my intentions as much as observe my actions. But as I gave my head a soft shake, the figure disappeared, and I was almost alone again.

It was well after ten o’clock when Kenneth got up from his stool. He tossed some cash on the bar, gave Becca one last look up and down, and headed for the door. It was tough to tell if he was stumbling, because he always walked with a limp. He sort of shuffled to his truck, where he sat for a moment, rubbing his gaunt face with calloused hands before starting the engine.

I was about to tail him home when I felt it again. An onlooker lurking outside my car, peering at me from the shadows. I scanned over my shoulder, left and right, but saw no sign of activity, nothing material.

A familiar voice spoke to me from the backseat. He’s getting away, Afton.

I ignored her remark and narrowed my eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of this man in shadows. But again, my senses deceived me. I could feel his presence, just as I had several nights before, but I couldn’t find him. There was nothing out of the ordinary on the street, just a commercial block devoid of pedestrians, near silent, and dwarfed by an expanse of red brick buildings.

The voice spoke again, this time harsher, lower, and breathier. Like a lifelong smoker with throat cancer. "What are we waiting for? Let’s go. Follow him, before . . . it’s too late."

Kenneth had already rounded the corner. I made quick work of catching up, though, making sure to keep my vehicle at least fifty yards behind his. After a few blocks, he turned. That was all I needed to know. That he had gone home, and no one was in danger for the night.

She spoke again. When, Afton? How much . . . longer now?

Soon.

I hadn’t experienced true autonomy over my consciousness since adolescence. Well, seventeen or so, to be exact. A second Afton emerged that year. A twin sister of sorts, a manifestation of my darkest desires. A relentless cheerleader, in a manner of speaking, who appeared only to me, urging me to obey impulses that most good people can suppress or ignore. I had named her Animus Afton, and the time to give in to her was drawing nearer.

She leaned forward from the backseat, her cold breath fanning across the back of my neck, but said nothing. That’s because she didn’t have to. After a second passed, I glanced in the rearview and the backseat was empty. Animus was gone, but she would be back.

Kenneth Pritchard had to die, you see—she and I agreed on that much—but it would be me who would have to kill him. He would be my first, and his death had to be just right.

Chapter 2

The walls and trim of my apartment were painted white, just for the simplicity of it, and I had a few odd things hung up in case I ever had visitors. There was a photo of me with my brother, Chris. There was a dreamcatcher I’d bought at a farmer’s market of all places, and The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost. All stuff that made me look normal. My dresser, desk, coffee table, bed frame, and television stand—all of my furniture, to be frank—had come from Ikea. They were the same matching shade of flat black, a gentle luster on their surfaces only because I wiped them down out of compulsive habit. A guest would have been hard-pressed to find a speck of dust anywhere.

The one frivolity I had in my living space was a colorful twenty-gallon aquarium, home to Twinkie, my beloved goldfish. We had so much in common, Twinkie and I—our devotion to solitude, for instance, and our appreciation for solemn introspection. We were both predators of sorts, too. A goldfish seems passive enough, until it encounters a cichlid in its waters. And a small-town librarian seems innocent enough, until she’s given an opportunity to take a man’s life in cold blood.

I had already showered, which meant it was feeding time, and Twinkie knew it. He left his favorite thinking spot—a ceramic bookshelf resting atop the turquoise gravel at the base of his tank—and rose to the surface, eager to snatch up the pellets I had soaked in a mug for his breakfast. It was routine, sure, what some might call mundane, but there was a familiar comfort in routine.

Animus had already seated herself at a small kitchen table with two chairs. There was once a time when she made her presence scarce, but these days she clung to me like an insecure lover. And even though I grew tired of her existential banter, I was powerless to put an end to it.

She looked just like me. The same thick, shoulder-length hair—dyed black to hide the natural rust color—with bangs pinned to the side. She had on the same cherry-red lipstick I did—the only makeup we ever wore—a shade that looked particularly rich contrasted against our milk-white complexion. Her skin was somehow colder than mine, though, almost bluish, as though she had been asphyxiated. And her eyes—a light teal, like mine—were near translucent, peering at me from behind the same thick-rimmed black glasses as those on my face.

Animus stared at me for a while before speaking. How was your run?

She, of course, knew the answer. My morning runs were never a modest jog or a short saunter through the park, but a hard run. It had to be the kind of run that turned my face beet red, that got my heart hammering against my ribcage. I had, after all, first taken up running as a coping mechanism, but no matter how hard I ran, or how fast, Animus would be waiting for me at the finish line.

It was fine.

Do you feel . . . stronger, now? Energized? More capable?

I was small in stature—just five-foot-two and a hundred and fifteen pounds—but strong. I had always been that way. Playing baseball with Chris and his friends as a kid, for instance, the only girl they’d allow to join them. I was as tough as any of the boys, and I’d made sure they knew it. Yeah, I’m just fucking dandy, Animus.

Are you strong enough to kill Kenneth now?

I fed the last morsel to Twinkie and made my way to the kitchen counter. I’ll kill him when I’m ready to kill him. And I’ll do it according to the plan. I readied a breakfast of peach and apple slices, and placed them on a plate next to a steaming bowl of oatmeal.

What? No bacon and eggs this morning?

Is that supposed to be a joke?

You’re about to carve a man to bits, and you still won’t eat meat?

I sat across from her and shrugged. "I like animals. People, not so much."

She nodded and grinned, watching me shovel in a spoonful of sustenance at a time. I might have found it uncomfortable if it had been a real, living person sitting across from me. But Animus was a bit like the mole on my left boob. Harmless, albeit irritating, only because I knew she wasn’t supposed to be there. A mole, even if abnormal, is most often benign, but that makes it no less unwanted.

Stop it.

I looked up from my fruit. Stop what?

You’re . . . doing it again. Animus had this indirect, fragmented way of speaking. Her words were peppered with unusual pauses, and wild fluctuations in her expression and tone. "You’re thinking that I’m . . . different from you. That I’m some kind of unwanted skin growth."

I’m thinking that I’m bat-shit crazy and you’re a figment of my imagination.

That’s how you think of me?

"You’re a scapegoat for the worst parts of me."

Oh, Afton. That . . . hurts.

How else should I think of you? Like you’re my long lost twin or something? The sister I never had?

She shook her head, keeping her vacant eyes locked on mine. "I am you, Afton Morrison. You’re just not ready to admit it yet."

I studied her between chews. No matter what I wore each day, she would have on the same exact thing. A long, flowing skirt with pleats today, a floral top with long sleeves despite the heat, sensible flat shoes, and no jewelry, aside from a pair of diamond studs that used to be Mom’s. It was a look that paired well with the library dress code, I guess. Cleavage was supposed to be kept to a minimum at work, too, but we didn’t have much to worry about there. And no visible tattoos, per policy. Being plain on the outside was a good aesthetic for a woman planning to commit homicide. It was a style that I liked to call thrift-shop fabulous. It made me a bit of an odd duck, sure, but it kept the human race at a distance, which is just how I liked it.

Do you deny it? She had her lips pressed tight, waiting for a thoughtful response.

I chewed another mouthful without answering. There’s an old psychology joke about a psychopath lying awake at night, wondering—worrying—that he might be a psychopath. But it’s in our nature to ponder the stuff we’re made of, the same as all sentient beings. A lion doesn’t hunt a gazelle for sport. It hunts the gazelle because everything in its nature compels it to. It’s what the lion was born to do.

You still think you’re some kind of nut? A psychopath?

I considered the idea while finishing my oatmeal. "I’m sitting here talking to me, aren’t I?"

A female psychopathic vegetarian librarian with a pet goldfish. She laughed, which sounded more like a toad’s croak. What’s that they say? That truth is stranger than fiction?

I carried my dishes to the kitchen. Sure, something like that.

He was . . . watching you again last night.

Who?

The Man in Shadows.

You saw him? He’s real?

You think so. That’s really all that matters, isn’t it? She drifted to the spot next to me. "You know somebody’s been watching you the last few nights."

I don’t know it for sure.

He’s coming for you, Afton.

My back stiffened, and I stopped rinsing out the bowl. Give it a rest.

He’s coming because we’re close to killing Kenneth.

I held my breath without realizing I was doing it. Stop it. I had no way of knowing if The Man in Shadows was real. It was more of a gut feeling, to be frank, or a trick of the mind. Then again, I was conversing with an imaginary version of myself. Wasn’t it possible that I had made him up, too?

He’s watching you, Afton. Watching . . . and waiting.

How—I snapped—could you possibly know that? I grabbed Animus by the shoulders and shook her. Her body felt rigid and cold like ice. You don’t know a goddamn thing unless I thought of it first.

"There’s a reason he chose us."

I softened my grip and gave my head a quizzical tilt. Us?

She rubbed her hands together and narrowed her eyes. You’ve never told anyone about your ‘twin sister,’ have you? She made slow air quotes as she said it. Not even Chris.

Of course not.

Guess I’m your dirty little secret then.

I’d been watching Kenneth for months. Had someone really been watching me, too? Oh, God, what a depressing thought. Terrifying, too. I was far too invested in this kill to turn back now. But I had to leave for work, which meant I had to push The Man in Shadows from my thoughts for the time being. A challenging task, given that Animus would be sure to remind me.

You can’t . . . put it off forever, you know.

I have no intention to.

When?

Soon.

Admit it.

"Admit what?"

She licked her bloodless lips. "You want to kill Kenneth. You . . . want him bad. She wasn’t wrong, and she knew it. You can blame it on me, if you want. You can make me your little anthropomorphic scapegoat and all that. You can pretend you’re possessed or whatever you call it. But your thirst for blood is real, Afton. You can act like those violent fantasies of yours are all my doing, but in the end, you want to slit his throat. You want to watch him bleed."

I hung my head. Not so much in shame, but defeat. As the years passed, I only found myself more consumed with the thought of killing, and more determined. The thought of my hands coated in spurts of thick, warm blood. The tingle of that final gasp of shallow, wet, and ragged breath on my cheek. The spark fading from two round eyes, engorged with terror. I learned over time that the murderess without blood on her hands has a lot in common with a heroin-addicted streetwalker. Both crave a fix, and both are willing to do just about anything to get one. And the longer she has to wait, the more dangerous and erratic her behavior becomes.

You crave the thought of . . . taking a human life.

She was right about that, too. I’d been young the first time I’d ever thought about killing. Right around the time Mom lost the battle to cancer, I think. I’d been fifteen or so back then, four years after she’d first been diagnosed. I could never explain it, not that I had ever tried. And when, ah, the incident happened in my late teens, well, let’s just say it intensified. It coursed through my veins, taking control a little at a time, the way an addict describes the nagging torment of withdrawal. The helplessness of it all, the despair, and the eventual defeat. And Animus played the role of my dealer.

Forget her.

I looked up from the sink. Huh?

Mom. She’s dead, Afton. Just forget about her.

Her last words to Chris and I were to spend our lives doing good for others. I wiped away the moisture pooling beneath my eyes. And then she was gone.

I know.

The memory of Mom in her final moments flickered on the backs of my eyelids, weak in her hospice bed, skeletal, her voice addressing us in a hoarse whisper. Chris was the oldest and became my legal guardian until I left for college. I was never certain if he had internalized Mom’s final words the same way I had.

My first kill had to be someone no one would miss, someone the world would be better off without. Animus would have preferred indiscriminate mass murder, I think, so I had to set boundaries with her. It would only work, I had reasoned, if each murder was planned with care, and if our targets were selected with purpose. That was our compromise, Animus and I. Finding a way to do good in the world by putting an end to those who did evil, even if that sort of moral justification was dubious at best.

Fine. I gave her a subtle nod. I admit it. It’s all I can think about.

You’re like a teenage boy . . . that hasn’t rubbed one out in, like, two hours. She placed a frigid hand on my neck. You know—her nostrils flared, and I could tell she was choosing her words with care—there’s nothing stopping you from taking out one of those little brats at the library.

No.

"You could probably lead one of them back to your office for a gold star or a sticker or a pencil topper or some shit, and kill him . . . or her with your bare hands. You could choke the life out of her tiny little throat and—"

Never. I shook my head in defiance. "I could never hurt a child. I pointed to the bubbling aquarium. I couldn’t even hurt Twinkie if I wanted to."

The world is full of goldfish and children, Afton. Most kids grow up to be assholes anyway.

No.

"Besides, you hate children."

I disliked kids, sure, but at least they aren’t two-faced, which was one of the few things I appreciated about them. It makes my career choice a bit strange, I guess. When I moved back to Wakefield after college, it was the only librarian opening for miles. So I lied to management and told them that children are precious, and, oh, how I loved arts and crafts and singing and stuffed animal sleepover parties and prize wheels for summer reading clubs. There was nothing as important as laying the foundation early for a lifetime of literacy.

I wasn’t great at my job, but at least it had security. After all, where else were they going to find someone with a master’s degree within a hundred miles of Wakefield? Plus, being a child and teen librarian in a town of ten thousand had its benefits. Who would ever suspect me of murder?

"That’s my compromise, Animus. That’s the deal. I, ah, we’ll kill together, but it has to be someone the world’s better off without."

That’s a slippery slope.

How’s that?

Well, after you kill Kenneth, then what? You’ll want to kill again. And . . . again. And before you know it, you’ll be killing anyone and anything you can get your deranged little hands on.

"You know that isn’t true."

Stray dogs, first-graders, seniors, drunks, door-to-door salespeople . . .

Nope.

She tapped her foot with incredulity, pretending to contemplate the absurdity of my arbitrary standards. Then she relented, winking and parting her lips for a crooked smile. "I know. You’re too . . . good, I guess, but I’ll keep working on you."

Whatever. I blew Twinkie a kiss and headed for the door, only to find Animus blocking my path.

You’re not a psychopath, Afton.

What makes you say that?

"Not a true psychopath, anyway. You have a conscience, and it bugs the hell out of me."

Thanks?

"You know the difference between right and wrong, even if you do draw the line in a different place than most other people. She shuffled to the side, allowing me through. You’re still trying to do good for others. At least for now."

Chapter 3

Is that what I think it is?

Kim surveyed the contents of the wet drop box. The books—especially the paperbacks—were sopping and smelled sour, having absorbed most of the fluid from an empty Gatorade bottle. She shifted her weight to one foot and put slender hands on her narrow hips, trying to figure out what to do next.

I’m afraid so, Kim. I said afraid, but what I really meant was entertained.

I’d been a volunteer at the library once, too, and back then it was me who had to clean up the messes left in the drop box overnight. I’d never had a bottle of piss dumped in, though. Bags of dog shit, sure. Even a dead pigeon once, next to a pair of bloody scissors labeled: Property Of Wakefield Public Library. The bastard had actually borrowed our scissors, used them to gut a live animal, and donated his handiwork back to us. Part of me had been angry when that happened—I had to clean it up, after all—but part of me had been intrigued, too. Blood and gore were so seldom part of my daily routine.

So . . . Kim tried to stall by whistling, but it sounded more like hissing between closed teeth. What happens now, Afton? Do we check the security cameras or something? Call the police?

I shook my head and fought like hell not to laugh. The cameras don’t work. Not the one pointed at the drop box, anyway.

They don’t? She wrinkled her forehead in surprise.

Not for the past few months, they haven’t. That was a lie, but I enjoyed making Kim squirm. She was so gullible. No budget. You know how it is.

Kim was seventeen—she would be a high school senior in the fall—and was almost too easy to rattle. As a volunteer, she could have quit at any time, but she seemed to like it here. As I understood it, she liked it better than being at home with her conservative Chinese parents.

I tilted my head to the side, hoping she would take the hint. Come on, Kim. Get to it. Bag up everything and, for the love of God, please wear gloves.

Yes, ma’am. She thought that, at twenty-six years old, I was eligible to be called ma’am.

You’ll find disinfectant in the back. Scrub everything down quick, too, because I’ve got storytime starting in an hour. If you can, make a note of what’s in there. We’ll try and replace some of it.

Only some?

I pressed my hands together in a sort of emblematic prayer, pleading with Kim to ask fewer questions and just get the job done. Budget, Kim. There’s no budget for it. Remember?

She nodded.

"That’s why you’re a volunteer. If we could afford to pay someone . . . Her face lit up at the very mention of a pay check. Poor kid. She was always so hopeful. Well, we can’t afford to pay someone, so never mind. Just clean this shit up, okay?"

Kim always flinched a little when I swore, but it usually got her moving. Yes, ma’am. She began her disheartened trudge to the back for supplies, dragging one Converse-adorned foot after the other.

And, ah, one more thing.

Yeah? She turned around, offering me a clear look at her long face.

How about I take you out to lunch one day this week? I regretted making the offer as soon as the words had come out of my mouth. It would mean an entire hour of listening to Kim prattle on about boys, gossip in Seventeen magazine, and the latest trends in bubblegum lip balm.

Really?

I let out a deep breath before answering. My little way of saying thanks, I guess.

* * *

Parents—stay-at-home moms, mostly—brought in their toddlers once a week so I could read them a story. And I use the word toddlers loosely. Kids as old as six or seven sometimes attended during the summer. And the stories we would read were made up of fewer than fifty words, for the most part. A lot of the mothers in Wakefield were too lazy to read to their own children, I guess.

Oh, and crafts, too. After reading a story together, we’d break out glitter and colored pencils and paste and other nonsense, but that wasn’t the real reason a dozen women turned out with their little monsters each week. Storytime was an excuse for the mothers to gather and gossip. It always took a little while to get the children to settle down, sure. I’d press my finger to my lips and wait. Five or ten seconds at most, although I would have been happy to wait longer. Their mothers, on the other hand, were so much worse. Getting them to shut their fucking traps was a whole separate exercise in endurance.

But as much as I disliked children, there was something magical about them. It was their inability to see gray, I think. Their entire worlds existed in black and white, right and wrong, good and evil. You could see it in their faces as a story unfolded, rife with nervous energy at every inconsequential turn.

And she just doesn’t know—I read to the room, pointing to each gigantic word—should she stay, should she go?

I caught a boy’s expression, who sat just inches from me. The hippopotamus in our story was faced with a dilemma, and this boy was transfixed. His eyes were wide, his hands were cupped over his mouth, and he was vibrating with anticipation to see what the hippo would do next.

I flipped to the last page. "But yes the hippopotamus."

The boy relaxed a little, making a deliberate show of letting his shoulders drop. A talented drama queen in the making. He was new to storytime and looked to be about five or six years old. He had dark hair, a tan complexion, and a missing front tooth. He’d attended just once before and he’d sat close that day, as well. I’d never really been big on learning children’s names, to be honest, but I knew his was Neil only because he’d come to the library alone both times. It sounds strange, I’m sure, but having a parent use the library as a free babysitting service happens more often than most people would guess.

I continued on, reading the final words of the story. "But not the armadillo."

Neil was stressed all over again, and his tiny hand shot up. Miss Afton?

Yes, ah, Neil? What is it, little man?

How come not the arma-darma?

Armadillo. A woman in baggy gray sweatpants corrected him from the back of the room. She was a few years older than me, had bleach-blonde hair in a ponytail, and her voice resembled a seagull getting crushed by a car.

I shut the book and set it on my lap. That’s a good question, Neil. I bit my lower lip, deciding how much to share. "Well, let’s see. Ah, no one likes armadillos, for starters. They’re bullet-proof, if you can believe it, and ugly as sin. They carry leprosy, too, but they don’t bite children too often."

The woman at the back of the room—Sweatpants, let’s call her—looked horrified. Her stained teeth chattered and she blinked in rapid succession. She placed her palms over her daughter’s ears, a girl around three or four in age.

Neil scratched his head. What’s a lepra-she?

It’s—

Sweatpants raised her hand to silence me—not that I minded—and looked to a few of the other mothers in the room for support, most of whom were checked out or occupied with their phones. She looked back at me again, then at her daughter. It’s when good little boys and girls get ice cream. That wasn’t how I might have defined the word, however. You want to stop for ice cream on the way home, Jessi?

It was hard enough getting these little turds to sit still for all fourteen pages of But Not the Hippopotamus. Why on earth would this woman want to stuff her daughter’s face with sugar before lunch? But the girl jumped up and squealed at the mention of sweets, and soon, other kids joined in, as did their mothers.

I peeked down at Neil to see him cradling his head in his hands, masking a look of disappointment by staring at the floor. It appeared he had forgotten all about armadillos and leprosy and storytime, and now sulked, wishing he had a parent present to take him for ice cream like the other children.

The mothers talked amongst themselves, and their toddlers fed on the elevated energy levels. The room was alive with discourse, and I wondered if the local Dairy Queen might consider paying me a small commission. Well, that’s it for storytime, boys and girls. Thanks for coming.

Sweatpants spoke up at the back of the room, the self-elected leader of Wakefield’s fattest and frumpiest. But it’s only quarter past, Afton. Isn’t storytime supposed to be a full hour?

Just figured you were all on your way to get a double-scoop of leprosy.

Very funny.

I raised my hands in a gesture of mock uncertainty. We’ve got crafts we can do. I pointed to three short tables covered in plastic, adorned with supplies that Kim had set up for us. Should we get to it?

That won’t take long. Couldn’t you read them another story first?

Couldn’t I read them another story? It’d been her idea to squeeze out one of these little nightmares. Why was I being punished for it? Not this week, I’m afraid. Sorry.

But she just wouldn’t give up. Afton, do you know where Jessi’s daddy is right now?

My first thought was that her husband was probably fucking her sister at some roadside motel with hourly rates, bed bugs, and a one-star rating on Trip Advisor. I couldn’t say that out loud, of course, and so I fought like hell to keep a smirk off my face. It helped to keep my sights trained on Jessi, who had sat back down, cross-legged in a checkered dress. She was drawing on the floor with one small finger.

Sweatpants answered her own question. He’s at work, Afton. And he works hard, by the way, and we pay more than our share of taxes in this town. Taxes that pay your salary.

Oh, the salary card. How I loved it when disgruntled parents brought up my salary, as if any one of them wanted to trade places with me. Yes, her taxes paid me a small fortune. That’s why I rented a one-bedroom apartment in a triplex. And it’s the same reason I drove a seven-year-old Corolla. I was so grateful—indebted, even—to Sweatpants and her husband that I just couldn’t wait to read another story.

Sure thing. I grabbed a second book off the pile next to me. One more story, coming right up.

Sweatpants smiled. It was a flat, fake smile, of course, the kind where the mouth curls tight but the eyes are dormant. It was about the best I could have hoped for, and it seemed to have a calming effect on the other mothers. They quieted down, eager to return to their various text message conversations.

I pointed my finger to more jumbo text on a colorful page. A story about an overweight and diabetic caterpillar with impulse control issues, who was always so very very fucking hungry. In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf . . .

And I couldn’t help but lose myself in thought. I was that little egg on a leaf, glimmering in the moonlight, and about to hatch. Soon after, the morning would come. And my hunger would be satiated at last, because Kenneth Pritchard would be dead.

And with any luck, Animus would be satiated, too.

Chapter 4

The lighting in our back offices was fluorescent and plentiful. Almost too much, really, a bit harsh on the retinas. The walls were made up of concrete blocks painted a pastel blue. It was meant to be a workspace as much tranquil as functional, but the disarray of it all made my skin crawl. People have this idea that librarians are meticulous creatures, but that’s only because they never get a peek behind closed doors. Just because we understand the Dewey decimal system doesn’t mean we’re tidy by nature.

I led Neil by the hand, maneuvering us between an assortment of beige book carts. Most of them housed nothing but dust, except for one labeled processing, which had a stack of new movies on it. A break in the book carts brought us to a lunch room on the right. There was a round table at the far end, large enough to accommodate only two adults at a time. It sat next to an old fridge with a menacing hum, and it was plastered with crumbs and grease.

Animus waited for us at the table, leaning on her forearms with anticipation. You’ve changed your mind. She licked her parted lips, examining Neil with a nod. He’ll do. She dashed to a cutting board on the counter, grabbing a long knife with a serrated edge. Nobody’ll hear . . . a thing, Afton. The softest hint of a giggle escaped her mouth. Do it right now.

I shook my head. No! I shouted the word in my mind, channeling my inner thoughts loud enough for her to hear. Fuck off!

Animus slithered farther down the counter to a double sink, where a large cast iron skillet soaked in cold and soapy water. Then use this instead. She jutted out her chin in Neil’s direction. Walk right up behind him and bash his tiny—

I tried to ignore her, leading Neil to the chair where she had just been seated. I swung open the freezer door of the refrigerator. Chocolate or vanilla?

He looked up at me with contemplative lines spread across his face, much too deep for his age. Chocolate, please.

Coming right up, little man. I unwrapped the first few inches of an ice cream sandwich and looked over my shoulder. Animus had left us in peace. Here you are.

Thank you, Miss Afton.

Can I ask you something, Neil?

Yes.

Where’s your mom?

She had to go talk to Dad.

Ah, so it was baby-mama drama keeping Neil here. Just another reason why I never wanted kids of my own, even if I could ever find a decent sperm donor in this Godforsaken town. And she said she’d be right back?

Yes. She told me to wait here.

I handed Neil his frozen treat. Do you have any brothers or sisters?

He took a big bite, despite his missing front tooth. It’s just me and Mom.

It made me think of my own mother. Dad died when I was only five—a workplace accident, decapitated by a forklift. Mom raised Chris and I alone until she got sick, and being a single mother in a town this size meant certain judgment from close-minded locals. I’ll let you enjoy that, little man. I just need to go check on something, okay? Wait right here. I’ll be back.

My desk sat adjacent to a large cork board on the wall, showcasing outdated memos, program schedules, and a fire escape plan. It was also near the only functioning staff photocopier in the building, and shelf after shelf of craft supplies—glitter, ribbons, beads, foil, and the like. These were materials I was supposed to make regular use of, but I tried to save the library money however I could.

The desk next to mine belonged to Pete Albright, the adult services librarian. He had dual computer monitors set up, for those times when ordering new materials necessitated extreme performance, I guess. Both were lined at the bottom with a collection of vibrant blue and pink sticky notes. Scattered across the surface of his desk was a haul that could have rivaled the aisles of Office Depot. Pens, paper clips, mechanical pencils, a ball of rubber bands, a three-hole punch, and even a roll of paper-hole reinforcements. What in Pete’s job description, exactly, warranted him punching holes in paper, let alone needing to reinforce them?

I dropped to my office chair, and it greeted me with a familiar creak. There was nothing on my desk but a plastic canister of Lysol wipes. Not a framed photograph, not a placard, not a pen or a pencil, not so much as an artificial fucking ficus. My belongings, sparse as they were—lens cleaner for my glasses, an extra cable to charge my phone—were filed away in a two-drawer cabinet next to my feet. I took a moment, as my single computer monitor flickered on, to savor the beautiful synthetic scent of lemon disinfectant. No, not all librarians were meticulous creatures, but I was, and it felt soothing, reassuring.

I intended to review the security footage from the night before to find out who had dropped off the Gatorade bottle of piss. I liked Kim, believe it or not, and she didn’t deserve having to clean up after delinquents. She was a good girl, true to her word, diligent, polite, clever, and eager to please. A rarity in Wakefield, and I’d get even on her behalf. Because if I had actually had a friend in the entire world, I would have wanted it to be someone like her.

I began by watching a live video stream of Kim out on the library floor. Creepy, I know, but surveillance was nothing new to me. And I wished, just for one heartbeat, that I could have had a system like this installed in Kenneth’s house. Then again, odds were fair to good that I really didn’t want to know what else he got up to in his spare time.

Kim was restocking books and, I swear to God, she was taking ten times longer than needed. It wasn’t because she liked to slack off or sit idle, but because she was so damned afraid of making a mistake, the living embodiment of perfectionism. I watched her bend down and examine the books on a low shelf, wanting to be certain she was replacing each title exactly where it belonged.

She tapped her fingers on the shelf nearest her head, a habit that both annoyed and intrigued me. As I understood it, she was an accomplished pianist. Not that she volunteered that information. Bragging wasn’t her thing. But in moments of concentration, she’d tap out an arpeggio on whatever flat surface was within reach. I found it intriguing only because human behavior fascinated me. Habits and tics and mannerisms and gestures and quirks, the very things that make us human. We carry out these brainless functions without ever knowing why.

I clicked play on the security video from the night before. It faded in and out of focus, making it tough to decipher much of what I was seeing. I let it play at high speed, starting after the library closed at nine o’clock. While I waited for the action to unfold, I pulled open the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet and retrieved a small pile of books I had stashed there earlier. Morning Star and The Queen of Blood for Chris, who had loved science fiction and fantasy novels since we were kids, and Columbine and The Psychopath Test for myself.

We were both avid readers, Chris and I. It wasn’t that I didn’t love binge-watching television or the odd movie. Even romantic comedies, I admit, were an occasional guilty pleasure of mine. But there was something special about the written word. It was like having an out-of-body experience, transporting our consciousness to new worlds, fueled by nothing more than the power of our minds. It also meant experiencing places where Animus didn’t exist.

Chris, having grown to be what some might call a man’s man, kept his enthusiasm for literature under wraps. As a teenager, other boys at school had bullied him for reading, calling him all sorts of colorful names, even going so far as to stomp his reading glasses to pieces on more than one occasion. To this day, now almost thirty years old, he kept his favorite pastime a secret, and I’d sneak books out the back of the library for him. It was silly, I thought, but most traditional ideas of masculinity were. To be ashamed to be seen as an intellectual? But I obliged nonetheless. After all, who was I to judge? We all wear masks.

My own book selection, however, was not rooted in the fantastic. At least not for today. I’d picked out two titles related to true crime. With the advent of forensic science, I could gorge myself on all the death, decay, and gore I could