The Scars That Remain

By Lynette DeVries

Everybody has scars. Some people are just better at hiding them.

Adam Radcliff is a college freshman on a caffeinated crusade to fend off the evil that has haunted his dreams since childhood.

Zoey Peterson is a psych major who uses peculiar strategies—tracking moon phases and club-hopping—to escape her unwanted legacy.

At first, it seems the only thing Adam and Zoey share is a downtown Chicago campus. But as their lives intersect, a mysterious stalker unearths long-buried secrets that suggest their lives are deeply connected.

Will their desperate search for the truth and healing destroy them—or can they conquer the demons of their past to build a new life together?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynette DeVries
• Release date: Feb 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005779030

Lynette DeVries

Lynette DeVries spent countless childhood hours at her manual typewriter creating choose-your-own-adventure stories and mysteries inspired by the Nancy Drew series.After college, she began writing scripts for various shows on Americana Television Network, and later she wrote episodes of the nationally syndicated Could It Be a Miracle, hosted by Robert Culp. She also wrote for print news and magazines, radio and advertising, but her first love is fiction. Her published novels include The Geminae Duology (Book One: Synchronicity and Book Two: Salvation), OtherLife, The Scars That Remain, Bygones, Grift, and her newest release, Punchline.

Book preview

1

The first time it happened, Adam was one week shy of his thirteenth birthday.

He and his buddy Joel had spent the past six hours on typical Friday afternoon fare: mastering the kickflip on their skateboards until sundown, then reclining in the glare of Joel’s computer, where they shouted obscenities at the glowing monitor.

Joel’s parents were freshly divorced, and the new video game―Diablo II, the most talked-about release of 2000―was a consolation prize. It was a gnarly game, a real hack-and-slashfest, something Adam’s mom would have never allowed in the house. The jealousy seething within Adam had faded within two minutes of trying the game. Having a best friend with Diablo II was almost as good as owning a copy―minus the hassle of divorced parents.

Sometime after midnight, Adam sprawled on the floor of Joel’s room, his sleeping bag the only barrier between his body and the Doritos shards littering the shag carpet. He had fallen asleep on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped over his eyes to block the flickering light of the TV. He and Joel had eaten their weight in frozen pizza and Swedish Fish, but neither of them could muster the energy to stop the endless loop of Doctor Who reruns.

Adam’s mind drifted back to the game, where he was the hero in pursuit of the Dark Wanderer, his thumbs poised to slay the seven great evils. Joel’s cackles and spontaneous outbursts―die, demon, die!―looped through his sleepy thoughts.

At some point, the soundtrack of the Diablo II hellscape morphed into a sickening hum. The inhuman chorus escalated to a roar, all other sounds drowned out.

The buzzing seemed to vibrate inside his skull, but then it ushered something else in―a dark presence just outside the peripheral vision of his mind’s eye. The presence hovered beside his left ear, close enough to turn his skin to gooseflesh.

Adam couldn’t turn his head to look at it―he couldn’t even twitch a finger―but he felt the intention behind that demonic roar. It felt like forever before he was finally able to wrestle free of the weight on his chest, before he could suck air into his frozen lungs.

The sinister presence retreated as quickly as it had come, but Adam’s arms tingled with adrenaline as he lay staring at the ceiling, trembling.

He would find out later that there was a scientific term for the phenomenon―it was called sleep paralysis―but he came up with his own name for it that unforgettable Friday night. He called it the Buzzies. The nickname implied a soft, teddy-bear innocence, but there was nothing cute about the faceless intruder hell-bent on suffocating him while he slept. It made the forces of Diablo II look like child’s play.

He sat up and elbowed Joel, who groaned. Huh?

You’re snoring, Adam lied. He needed to hear his friend’s voice, to know that he was reachable, just in case.

Blow me, Joel muttered. He turned over and was heavy-breathing again in seconds.

Sleep was impossible for Adam until he convinced himself that it was a brain glitch, a one-off induced by an overload of sugar and screen time.

It wasn’t a glitch.

The Buzzies would come again, as unpredictable as his math teacher’s famous pop quizzes and a zillion times worse. Adam didn’t know what was behind these episodes, but one thing was clear.

Whatever it was, it wanted him dead.

2

In the weeks since the beginning of fall term, Zoey Peterson had taken her shirt off in front of at least a half dozen guys.

It was one thing to strip down, breathless and buzzed, by the warm glow of a car dashboard or in a candlelit apartment. Baring everything for a roomful of college coeds by the harsh light of day was something else entirely.

Zoey blamed her cerebrum for this current predicament. It had spoken to her in a logical voice―one that sounded suspiciously like Spock from Star Trek―about how posing nude was a contribution to higher education, a clinical experience, even. Now her limbic system, where emotion reigned supreme, shrieked in protest.

As a junior at University of Illinois Chicago, she was two years ahead of the students tasked with drawing her, but she would be outnumbered, twenty-five to one.

She hesitated by the classroom doorway, her heart thumping in her chest. Thirty minutes ago, she’d strode into the Wilcott Building feeling confident, borderline superhuman, but now she fought the urge to escape down the hallway to the elevator.

Most of her clothes were wadded up and stuffed into a rusty locker upstairs, secured with a padlock. Her thoughts were starting to scatter the way they always did when she panicked, but she’d made the padlock combination unforgettable: her own initials, Z-I-P, Zoey Isabel Peterson.

ZIP.

There was a thought. Maybe she could zip right up to the locker room before class even got started. Running was out of the question―her fuzzy socks were slippery on the polished linoleum―but if she went now, she could retrieve her clothes, get dressed and be out on the campus commons within five minutes.

Dr. Sanders, the female teacher of Life Figures Drawing II, had come across as pleasantly passive, at least through their email correspondence. She would probably excuse Zoey with a simple claim of illness or family emergency.

Letting herself off the hook wouldn’t be so easy. Signing up to model for the class had been a half-assed impulse―classic Zoey―but only flakes backed away from their commitments at the last minute.

Ah! There she is. A woman, presumably Dr. Sanders, appeared in the doorway. She beamed at Zoey and opened the door wider, revealing a packed classroom. I was starting to worry that we’d be drawing an invisible woman today.

Zoey forced a smile while Dr. Sanders let her eyes wander to her hair, which was dyed a deep burgundy and gathered into a haphazard twist. Her eyelids and lips were darkened with a matching burgundy, and she suspected her face was now flushing to match.

She dropped her eyes and studied her fuzzy socks, which she had no intention of taking off. Sorry I’m late.

The professor clucked her tongue. "Shame the students are working with black charcoal today―your hair color is gorgeous."

Zoey was used to this kind of open scrutiny―a part of her craved it, actually―but enduring the gazes of twenty-five pairs of eyes would test her limits. She gripped the ties on her robe and tugged, vaguely aware that she was tightening the knot, which would only make it harder to disrobe.

She followed the professor into the classroom, head down, abdomen tight. She was suddenly aware of her bladder, which felt full-to-bursting. Why hadn’t she taken a minute to use the locker room toilet?

What the hell had she been thinking?

The coffee shop flyer seeking semi-nude subjects listed two prerequisites: that volunteers be at least eighteen and have modeling experience. To Zoey, it had felt like a personal invitation from the Universe. She was twenty years old, accustomed to striking a variety of poses in next to nothing. Sure, those were phone selfies curated using artistic filters, but what was the difference? This was the perfect opportunity to face her fear of judgment, to prove she had nothing to hide.

Just a little exposure therapy on a Wednesday morning, she whispered.

Dr. Sanders glanced over her shoulder. What’s that?

Nothing.

Zoey longed to go back in time―back before she’d torn the email address from that flyer, before she’d reached out to Dr. Sanders. She’d made plenty of rash decisions in the last year, most of them involving tattoo pens and hair dye. Somehow, this felt like the worst one yet.

Class, remember, we’ll be using charcoal only today. Dr. Sanders clasped her hands and faced the desks arranged in a semicircle around the stool in the center of the classroom. Soft or hard or a combination, it’s up to you. Our focus will be on the rhythms of the body and the natural flow of the feminine form . . . while capturing the nuances of gesture, contour and tone.

Zoey hesitated beside the stool, her arms pinned to her ribcage. Her knees wobbled as she situated herself on the circular, wooden seat. It took her a moment to find her balance without using her hands, which were devoted to the pointless task of holding her robe closed.

She shut her eyes and concentrated on breathing through her nose―in and out, in and out―and waited for her galloping heart to slow down.

You are not on trial, she reminded herself. You are not in danger. This is art.

The stool sat in the warm glow of an easel lamp, a set-up meant to mimic a sun-dappled room. Spring was just around the corner, but the Chicago streets outside were still rimmed with stubborn, grey slush.

Dr. Sanders had placed two portable space heaters nearby, their grills glowing orange, but Zoey couldn’t quiet the trembling in her arms and legs.

She listened to the whisper of sketchbook pages flipping, the shuffling of art supplies on desks, the clearing of throats. Outside, a siren wailed, building to a crescendo as it passed by, then fading into the distance. The worst of Zoey’s panic disappeared with it; she’d always found sirens calming.

Dr. Sanders spoke beside her. If you’re ready, Miss Peterson?

Zoey opened her eyes and nodded.

Feel free to assume any pose that’s comfortable. The professor offered a warm smile. You’ll be holding still for twenty minutes, and it’s easier for a subject to maintain a pose if it isn’t forced or unnatural.

Right. As if there was anything natural about this situation. She concentrated on the knot holding her robe closed, heat flaring in her face again. One sec.

Zoey’s fingernails were useless―a nervous nibbling habit kept them short―but she finally managed to jam her index finger inside the knot. She worked it loose with a soft grunt.

Your socks, dear?

Zoey blinked at her, then swallowed hard. I’d rather not.

The professor smiled again, then gave her knee a gentle pat before she retreated into the shadows.

Zoey considered the worst-case scenario―a toss-up between being dismissed for poor pose control and peeing herself―until Dr. Sanders cleared her throat.

This was happening.

Zoey crossed her legs―anti-pee measure and modesty move rolled into one―then shrugged the robe from her shoulders, her forearms glued to her chest. The robe dangled from the stool, the skirt of it pinned beneath her.

No turning back now, she told herself. Pick your pose wisely.

Zoey relaxed her shoulders and pressed her hands together, her elbows folded over her breasts. She wove her shaking fingers together and turned her head to the side. She closed her eyes and lowered her chin. The perfect drawing caption floated into her mind―Girl Praying to the Patron Saint of Bladder Control―and she fought the improbable urge to smile.

See? This isn’t so bad. You’ve got this.

A contradictory thought struck her: it would be impossible to use her arms as nipple shields when it was time to pull her robe on again.

It is freaking cold in here, which guarantees your nipples will be standing at attention. What if they aren’t on the same page―one pointy, one flat?

She’d never given her nipples this much thought before.

Nipples―such a fitting word for them.

Nipples, nipples, nipples.

Zoey’s eyes popped open and settled on a face in the front row. It belonged to a dark-haired guy wearing a turtleneck sweater. He stared back at her, wide-eyed, his jaws clenched with some impossible-to-read emotion.

Was it disgust?

Oh, God―did he feel sorry for her?

She dropped her gaze to her right forearm, the length of it emblazoned with her newest tattoo: the dark moon, known by the Hindus as amavasya. She’d learned the Sanskrit word from her mother’s journals ages ago, but she hadn’t delved into the meaning or mystical aspects of the dark moon until recently.

The tattoo artist had been nervous about her design choice―a night sky etched by a ray-armed spiral moon, the glowing face of it rendered from her own pale skin. The artist had worried it would come out looking like an amorphous blob, but the effect―stark contrast, light versus dark―gave Zoey a charge every time she looked at it. If it looked like an ink blot from a distance, so be it.

She’d sat through the inking completely sober for a change, determined to offer the pain up as a kind of sacrifice. The ritual offerings she’d begun since then, performed on the eve of every new moon, were even less conspicuous than the almost-invisible moon.

She blinked at the dark-haired guy in the front row, her lips set in a defiant pout. She’d second-guessed her tattoo choice after it was done, but she resented the thought of anyone else judging her choices.

He stared back, his sketchbook forgotten. She refused to break eye contact, even after her foot twitched involuntarily. Her full bladder had retreated into numb submission, but now her heart was thumping again, threatening mutiny. If she didn’t get her nerves under control, she’d be hyperventilating within moments, her nostrils flared, her limbs forced to choose between fight or flight.

The urge to soften her focus was strong, but she fought it. She bit the inside of her cheek, her praying mantis pose intact. She let her eyes drop to his desk for a moment and saw his charcoals lined up like good little soldiers. His blank sketchbook page mirrored the innocence on his face.

Mr. Open Book. Zero pretense; what you see is what you get.

He sat there, hunched over his desk, his fists clenched as if he had no intention of sketching anything.

When Zoey met his eyes again, she felt a stab of guilt. Staring Guy wasn’t a threat; she could see that now. It wasn’t judgment or repulsion she saw in his eyes. It was shock―the kind that accompanies recognition.

She blinked at him three times, then felt foolish. She’d hoped to send him a silent message―it’s all good, dude―but he couldn’t see that from this distance any more than he could make out the details of her tattoo.

She was considering taking drastic measures, daring the flicker of a smile, when Staring Guy swept his charcoals and sketchbook into his messenger bag and heaved himself from his desk. Before she could draw another breath, he crossed the classroom and disappeared through the door.

Zoey sat there, smarting, even after Dr. Sanders told the class their twenty minutes were up. The professor produced a folding cardboard partition and set it between the stool and the semicircle of students. That partition was the answer to Zoey’s prayers, but she was too distracted to care. She pulled the robe up and tied it, then wandered down the hall toward the elevator.

She was still thinking about Staring Guy, whose sudden departure had left her deeply rattled, and who had looked at her differently than anyone had in her entire life.

3

Adam made a half-assed attempt to blot the espresso he’d spilled down the front of himself with a crumpled napkin.

He wanted to blame his shaking hands on his excessive caffeine habit, but he knew better. The reason was her.

He yanked his sweater’s turtleneck down and fanned himself with the cardboard menu advertising Daily Grind’s specialty lattes. He’d fast-walked the three blocks from campus with his coat tucked under his arm, his breath punctuating the cold air with white puffs, but he was soaked with sweat.

The prospect of drawing a naked female model hadn’t shaken him; he’d actually been looking forward to that for weeks. What had thrown him was her face, and the challenge in those familiar, dark-lined eyes.

He knew her, he was sure of it.

He just didn’t know how he knew her.

Adam closed his eyes and willed himself to remember where he’d seen her before, but the possibilities