Switch Blade Romance

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Juanita Anthony's office looked like a bomb had gone off in a paper factory. Case files sprawled across the desk, the floor, even the windowsill where the afternoon light slanted in like a tired accusation. She hadn't slept worth a damn since January 17th, the night Andrew Grant vanished into thin air—or worse, into the company of Charles Grady. Her eyes burned, the kind of burn that comes from staring too long at shadows and seeing nothing but more shadows.
There's something I'm missing, she thought, rubbing her temples. Has to be. Grady's pattern is clean as a whistle—kill, vanish, no souvenirs, no witnesses, no repeats. But now he's hauling a live one around like a trophy. Why Andrew? What makes this kid special enough to break his own rules?
A knock rattled the door. Juanita looked up. Sheriff Henry stood there, hat in hand, with Rachel Edison beside him. Rachel's eyes were red-rimmed, swollen, the way eyes get when they've cried themselves raw and still can't stop.
"Come on in," Juanita said, forcing a smile that felt like lifting lead. "Excuse the war zone."
Henry tipped his hat. "No trouble at all, Dr. Anthony."
Rachel didn't speak. She just stood there, arms wrapped around herself like she might fly apart if she let go.
"Detective Edison," Juanita said gently, "you all right?"
Rachel nodded once, jerky. "I'm okay. Just... haven't slept since Wednesday morning. Not really."
Juanita felt a pang of fellow feeling. "I get it. Neither have I. How's Captain Mills's boy? Max?"
"Still in the hospital," Rachel said. "Bad concussion, some swelling on the brain. But the docs say he'll pull through."
Juanita nodded. "Any word on Grady?"
Henry shook his head. "Same as before. From age eight to fifteen, he and his mama drop off the map. Along with a fella named Earl Rodmoore. No trace. We're digging for school records now, but it's slow. APBs are out, highway patrol's got the description of Andrew's car. FBI's rolling in tomorrow."
Rachel let out a breath that sounded like it hurt. "Tomorrow," she echoed. "And in the meantime, God knows what that bastard's doing to Andrew."
Juanita didn't answer. She didn't have to. The silence said it all.
2:40 p.m., Lanker, Arkansas—550 miles from Annabelle, Texas, as the crow flies, but crows don't ride in stolen station wagons with killers.
Andrew sat shotgun in the Greenwoods' Buick, the one that still smelled faintly of Ramona's lavender hand lotion and Burt's pipe tobacco. Charles lounged beside him, tearing into a stick of beef jerky with small, contented bites. He glanced over.
"Baby, have some. It's good stuff. Real peppery."
Andrew shook his head. "Not hungry."
Charles frowned, the way a man frowns when his dog won't eat. "Why not? You gotta keep your strength up."
Andrew turned to him, slow, deliberate. The words came out flat, like stones dropping into deep water. "Let's see. Twelve hours ago you butchered a nice old couple who gave us a ride. I can still hear Ramona screaming while you sawed through her throat. The snap of tendons. The copper stink of blood. It made me puke then. It's about to make me puke now."
Charles chewed thoughtfully, eyes on the road. His voice stayed calm, patient, the way you'd explain the rules of a game to someone who just didn't get it. "I didn't have a choice, baby. We needed the car. I only kill when I have to."
Andrew laughed—a short, bitter bark. "So you had to kill my aunt Paula? Casey? Peter? Felipe? All those others?"
Charles sighed, like a man explaining gravity to a child. "They would've broken us up. They were threats. To me. To you."
Andrew stared straight ahead, the highway blurring. "And when I become a threat? When I cross some invisible line in your head? Do I get the knife? A brick to the skull? Tossed out a window like trash? What's my endgame, Charles?"
Charles's hand shot out fast—flat smack across Andrew's cheek. The sound was loud in the quiet car, like a book slammed shut. Andrew's hand flew to his face, stinging.
"You son of a—"
Charles hit him again, this time splitting his lip. Blood bloomed warm and salty in Andrew's mouth.
"We're gonna have to do something about that mouth of yours," Charles said, eyes never leaving the road. "Once we get home, I'm gonna train you. You'll learn obedience. Respect. And once you do, there won't be any need for... unpleasantness. You'll know better than to cross me."
He raised an eyebrow. "Understand?"
Andrew nodded, tasting blood.
"Good boy."
Charles reached over and clicked on the radio. Country twang filled the car—some old song about lost love and dusty roads.
Andrew turned his face to the window. The world outside looked ordinary: fields, telephone poles, a hawk circling lazy overhead. Then his eyes dropped to the floorboard.
A composite notebook. A pencil tucked in the spiral.
His heart kicked hard.
He picked it up slow, careful, like it might bite. Charles was humming along to the radio, lost in the music.
Andrew opened the cover. Scratched quick, small letters:
Nobody on the road
Nobody on the beach
I feel it in the air
The summer's out of reach
The Boys of Summer. Their song. The one that had played on Andrew's car radio the night of their first date, back when Charles was still Aiden and the world felt full of promise instead of teeth.
Andrew dropped the notebook under the seat. Charles hadn't noticed.
He stared out the window again, the Arkansas countryside sliding by like a bad dream you can't wake from.
I just hope I live long enough to see another summer, he thought. To see Rachel again. To tell her I'm sorry. To tell her I still...
The thought trailed off. He settled deeper into the seat, exhaustion pulling him under like black water.
As he drifted, one last clear thought surfaced, cold and certain:
Monsters are real. And sometimes, they don't just win.
Sometimes they make you love them first.