Switch Blade Romance

No Return

Juanita Anthony's hotel room smelled of old coffee grounds and the faint, sour tang of fear-sweat that no amount of cheap air freshener could cover. Outside the window, the night over Manatachie Falls pressed against the glass like a cold, wet hand, the kind that leaves fingerprints you can feel even after it's gone.
Andrew stood there, staring out into the dark, his reflection a pale ghost superimposed over the sodium-lit parking lot. Allen Fredericks Deputy Fredericks, though nobody called him that anymore, not since the business with the Raggedy Man started bleeding into everything—leaned against the wall beside him, arms folded tight across his chest like he was holding his own ribs together.
"Andrew, you don't even know if they're still breathing," Allen said. His voice was low, the Southern Tennessee accent thick enough to cut, the way folks here talked when the stakes got high. "He could've done 'em already. Could've snapped their necks and stuffed 'em in some root cellar, and now he's just dangling the bait to drag you out there so he can finish the job on you too."
Andrew didn't turn. He kept looking at the dark, at the way the streetlights made oily rainbows on the wet asphalt. "No," he said. "He would've been bragging. Sending me close-ups. Pictures of their eyes gone glassy, maybe a little note saying 'Wish you were here.' That's his style. The son of a bitch likes an audience."
Across the room, Juanita sat at the desk under the weak yellow lamp, her finger tracing lines on a crumpled map of Manatachie Falls like she could will the streets to rearrange themselves into something safer. John Henry perched on the edge of the bed, scrolling through Andrew's phone with the careful touch of a man handling a live grenade. Four hours since the call. Four hours since Aiden Pierce—Charles Grady, the Raggedy Man, whatever name the devil was wearing this week—had sent the photo from Rachael's phone. A basement somewhere, dim and damp-looking, concrete walls weeping moisture. His mom, his sister, his friends, all trussed up like Thanksgiving turkeys. Grady leaning in the frame, casual as a man waiting for a bus, grinning that wide, white grin that never quite reached the black holes where his eyes should be.
Allen pushed off the wall. "That picture could've been taken hours before he even dialed you. They could be gone already, Andrew. I'm begging you—don't go out there by yourself. It's suicide wrapped in a pretty bow."
Juanita looked up. Her voice was calm, the way a doctor's voice gets when she's delivering bad news she's delivered too many times before. "Andrew's right, though. Predators like Grady... they crow. They strut. Remember the Omega house back in Annabelle? Bodies arranged like some sick art installation, arms and legs positioned just so. That takes vanity. Narcissism on a scale most folks can't even imagine. Every kill he's done, he's put on display. If he hasn't killed them yet, it's because he's sticking to his word—for now. But we can't let Andrew walk into that alone."
John Henry nodded slowly. "You're right about that, Doc."
Andrew finally turned from the window. His face was all hard lines and shadows. "You guys don't have a choice. He's got my mom. My sister. My friends. I've been putting the people I love in the line of fire since this started, and every time I think I've paid enough, the bill comes due again. It's cost me friends, my body, my goddamn peace of mind. Maybe even my soul. But that stops tomorrow night. If he wants me to come to him, fine. I'll come. And when I do, it'll be hell. Because that's exactly where I'm sending him."
He walked past them without another word, out the door, letting it bang shut behind him like the lid on a coffin.
Juanita looked at the two men left in the room. "Go after him," she said quietly. "Talk to him. We'll figure out backup for tomorrow night. Something. Anything."
Allen snatched his jacket off the chair and followed.
Outside, the air was cold and damp, the kind that seeped into your bones and stayed there. Andrew stood in the parking lot, hands jammed in his pockets, breath fogging in front of his face. He was thinking of Texas—the thick, humid air that wrapped around you like a damp towel, the way it smelled of barbecue smoke and cut grass even in winter. If he ever saw Texas again. Who'd look after Laurie? Max, maybe. Or his dad. His mom. Hell, maybe even Rachael, if she made it through this. He didn't know. Didn't want to know. Thinking about it felt like prying at a loose tooth.
Allen came up behind him, quiet, and put a hand on his shoulder.
Andrew spun, fist already moving. It connected with a wet smack. Blood bloomed on Allen's lip.
"Oh shit," Andrew said, stepping back. "Allen—Jesus, I'm sorry. I didn't—"
"It's okay." Allen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting copper. "I startled you. My fault."
Andrew looked at him then—really looked. The brown eyes, steady even with pain in them. The worry lines carved deep in his forehead. The scatter of freckles across his cheeks, like someone had flicked a brush of cinnamon there. Something moved in Andrew's chest, small and warm and terrifying. I feel something for him, he thought. I don't know what it is yet, but it's there, and it's real.
"I like you," Andrew said. The words came out rough. "I really do. I wish things were different. In some other life, I finish my degree, move up here for a residency at the state hospital. We meet at some dive bar with sticky floors and bad beer. We talk. We laugh. We become... something good. No Grady. No Raggedy Man. Just two guys figuring it out."
Allen stepped closer. "But that's not this life."
"No. In this one, I met the monster first. He took almost everything. Now I have to finish it."
"Not by yourself." Allen's voice was soft, insistent. "We'll do it together. Find a way to end him. Then maybe we go to that bar anyway. Have a beer. See what happens."
He closed the distance and kissed Andrew. The taste of blood was there, hot and metallic, but underneath it something else—something alive. Andrew pulled back for a second, then leaned in again, letting himself fall into it.
"Come back to my place," Allen murmured against his mouth. "We can talk. Or not talk. Whatever you need."
They went.
Later, in the small bedroom with the crooked blinds letting in slivers of streetlight, they made love for the first time. Andrew waited for the flashbacks—the cold hands, the laughter like breaking glass, the smell of mildew and old blood—but they didn't come. Grady stayed outside, locked out for once.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, Andrew felt the faint, fragile stirrings of something worth living for. Not hope, exactly. Not yet. But a spark. A small, stubborn light in the dark.
And outside, the night over Manitachie Falls kept pressing, patient as cancer, waiting for tomorrow.