Switch Blade Romance

What We Do In The Shadow's

February, 23rd 2015.

Sneedville Tennessee.

Andrew Grant sat on the edge of the narrow bed in the basement—his basement, his prison—and watched television. The set was old, black, the kind that still used a thick cable cord instead of anything sleek or modern. Charles had dragged it down there weeks ago, grinning like a man presenting a gift. Andrew had been surprised it worked at all, more surprised it could pull a signal through all that dirt and concrete.
A soap opera flickered on the screen. Men with perfect hair argued in soft voices. Women cried beautifully. It was the sort of thing his grandmother might have watched, or Aunt Paula. The thought of Paula struck him like a sudden chill.
Paula was dead.
He knew that. Charles had told him—no, his father had told him, back in Fort Wayne, when Andrew was still in the hospital. Martin Grant hadn’t looked at him while he spoke. He’d stared somewhere just over Andrew’s shoulder, as if his son were a stain on the wall rather than a living thing. And it hit Andrew now, sitting in the dim basement with the TV humming: his father hadn’t looked him in the eye since.
Not once.
Martin Grant wasn’t disgusted by who Andrew loved. Andrew understood that now. No, the shame ran deeper. Andrew had brought a murderer into their lives. Into their home. And someone had died because of it. Even if Paula had been a devout, sharp-edged woman who wrapped her faith around herself like armor—she had still been family.
The soap opera dissolved into static, then snapped to a news bulletin.
“WAKOT News.”
Andrew leaned forward.
A Black woman stood in front of a police station, microphone steady in her hand. “This is Lochelyn Murphy. I’m standing outside the Adler County Police Department with new information regarding the abandoned vehicle discovered yesterday afternoon in the woods off I-55.”
Andrew’s stomach tightened.
“Police have confirmed the bodies found inside belong to Burton and Ramona Greenwood of Dolan, Mississippi.”
The room felt smaller.
“The Greenwoods’ late-model Buick station wagon was discovered by a local hunter. The couple had been reported missing by their daughter, Tammy Lake, after failing to return from a family visit in Texas.”
Texas.
“Authorities are now linking these murders to those of twelve individuals in southeastern Texas—specifically Annabelle, Texas.”
Andrew sucked in a sharp breath.
“The suspected killer is Charles Edward Grady, twenty-six, originally from Manatachie Falls, Arkansas. Grady was previously suspected in connection with a series of unsolved murders in Arkansas dating back to 2008.”
The anchor’s voice remained calm. Professional. Deadly.
“Grady is also wanted for questioning in the disappearance of twenty-three-year-old University of Texas student Andrew Grant.”
Andrew’s yearbook photo filled the screen. Younger. Smiling. Still free.
“Authorities believe Grady abducted Grant. It is unknown at this time whether Grant is still alive. Grady is considered well-armed and extremely dangerous. The public is urged not to approach—”
“Well, shit.”
Andrew jerked his head toward the stairs.
Charles stood there, arms folded across his chest, smiling.
“They put your picture up but not mine,” Charles said. “Don’t you feel special?”
“How long—” Andrew’s voice cracked. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Since the news started. I was gonna surprise you.” Charles shrugged. “Guess that ship sailed.”
“You killed all those people,” Andrew said. The words felt unreal. “How could you? Why?”
Charles’s smile widened. “Because I can. And because it’s fun. You know that.”
“How is any of this fun?” Andrew shot back. “People are dead. Families are ruined forever.”
“Who cares?” Charles barked. “Who the fuck cares? They weren’t going to do anything worthwhile with their lives anyway.”
Andrew thought of Casey—how she talked about becoming a special education teacher, how she meant it. He thought of Peter, who wanted to work in music therapy with kids. Good people. Trying. Striving.
“It’s not always like that,” Andrew said quietly. “It’s not all black and white.”
Charles snorted. “Yeah? What’s next—you’re gonna tell me if I stopped killing, or stopped worshipping Satan, I might actually be a better person?”
Andrew hesitated. “After years of intensive therapy,” he said, “maybe. Yes.”
Charles moved.
He charged down the steps, fast and sudden. Andrew barely had time to stand before Charles slammed him back onto the bed. A hand clamped around his face, forcing him to look up.
“I’ve already told you,” Charles hissed, eyes bright and fevered. “The only cure for me is probably a bullet between the eyes. You just better pray I don’t take you with me when that day comes.”
His grip tightened. “Or your sisters. Or your parents. Or your niece and nephew. Or Rachel. Or Lacey. Or Max.”
Andrew recoiled, bile rising in his throat.
Charles laughed softly, pleased with himself. “Anyway. You’ve been down here long enough. I’m bringing you back upstairs.”
Andrew stared. “You mean… I can come out?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Charles reached down and unlocked the cuffs around Andrew’s ankles. Click. Click. Just like that, the chains were gone.
“Don’t try to run,” Charles added mildly. “Or do anything stupid.”
“Yes,” Andrew whispered.
“Good boy.” Charles smiled. “Let’s get you a shower and some clean clothes.”
They climbed the stairs together.
As they reached the top, Charles said casually, “We’re going hunting later.”
Andrew stopped. “Wait—what?”
But Charles kept walking, as if he hadn’t heard him at all.