them without tearing apart the egg. He liked them smooth and shaped to look pretty like his mama made.
He was crazy.
Tears blurred her eyes as she carefully chopped the pickles into tiny bits as his mother instructed. The ropes around her wrists had been loosened just enough for her to work in the kitchen.
She considered cutting them with the knife she was using to chop the ingredients for the salad, but it wasn’t sharp enough.
Even if she did free her hands, he’d bound her ankle to the floor with a thick chain so it clanked against the wood as she walked, and it wasn’t long enough for her to reach the door to escape.
Hopelessness welled inside her, threatening to bring her to her knees. All day she’d tried to get free, but she’d only managed to rub her skin raw and wear herself out.
He moved over to the fire with his mother and sipped his whiskey.
Then he leaned toward his mother and whispered something in her ear.
Constance’s hand was shaking so badly she dropped the knife and knocked the platter onto the floor. The glass shattered, and eggs, mayonnaise, and sweet pickles splattered the kitchen rug, an old braided monstrosity that should have been thrown out years ago.
Will shot up from his perch on the hearth. “Yes, Mama, she made a big mess.” He stomped over to her, and she instinctively cowered.
“I’ll clean it up. I can do better.”
“Mama says you’re just like the other little liars, pretending to be something you’re not.”
She screamed as he closed his hands around her neck.
She was young, had her whole life in front of her. She wanted to finish her degree, get a job. Have a family.
“Please don’t,” she begged.
But a cold rage flashed in his eyes, and he threw her down and forced her lips apart, then jammed a thorny rose stem in her mouth.
“Shh, bite down now, sweetheart. We don’t want to disturb Mama.”
She gagged as thorns stabbed her tongue and blood filled her throat.
He carefully buttoned the wedding gown his mother had stitched for Constance, her beautiful scream still echoing in his ears.
He slipped the garter around her neck, then removed her locket.
It would look so pretty on Mama.
The photo she’d taken of him and Constance lay on the table waiting for the frame. Although it wouldn’t go in the frame.
He’d put it in his Bride’s Book, the scrapbook Mama had made for him to show off pictures of the ceremony. She’d glued lace to the front in the shape of a heart so he could place his wedding photo in the center.
Tears leaked from his eyes. “Mama, I’m sorry, she wasn’t right.”
“I’m sorry, too, son. Come here.” She motioned for him to sit with her, and he dropped to his knees and laid his head in her lap. She stroked his hair gently, her voice a soothing murmur.
“I have to take her to the falls,” he said, choking on the words. “But tell me the story about the little liars first.”
He’d been infatuated with the story ever since his mother had first told him she’d known the Thorn Ripper and the girls he’d lured to the falls.
Pretty girls who’d acted like Goody Two-shoes but were whores instead. They’d all expected to get the rose from their lover as an invitation to prom.
But none of them were worthy. That was the reason they had to die.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Carol Little hated this podunk town. Outside the Falls Inn, wind battered the window and icicles dangled like sharp knives along the awning.
She scrolled through all the articles on the area with a grimace.
The name Graveyard Falls gave her the heebie-jeebies and reminded her of growing up in New Orleans, where floods had once uprooted graves. Where gators swarmed the bayous, the sound of their gnashing teeth echoing in the eerie silence as they floated, hidden predators in the murky water.
She’d been in the city when Katrina hit and seen such horrors that she’d never be able to erase them from her mind.
Later, she’d had a bad breakup with her boyfriend,
He was crazy.
Tears blurred her eyes as she carefully chopped the pickles into tiny bits as his mother instructed. The ropes around her wrists had been loosened just enough for her to work in the kitchen.
She considered cutting them with the knife she was using to chop the ingredients for the salad, but it wasn’t sharp enough.
Even if she did free her hands, he’d bound her ankle to the floor with a thick chain so it clanked against the wood as she walked, and it wasn’t long enough for her to reach the door to escape.
Hopelessness welled inside her, threatening to bring her to her knees. All day she’d tried to get free, but she’d only managed to rub her skin raw and wear herself out.
He moved over to the fire with his mother and sipped his whiskey.
Then he leaned toward his mother and whispered something in her ear.
Constance’s hand was shaking so badly she dropped the knife and knocked the platter onto the floor. The glass shattered, and eggs, mayonnaise, and sweet pickles splattered the kitchen rug, an old braided monstrosity that should have been thrown out years ago.
Will shot up from his perch on the hearth. “Yes, Mama, she made a big mess.” He stomped over to her, and she instinctively cowered.
“I’ll clean it up. I can do better.”
“Mama says you’re just like the other little liars, pretending to be something you’re not.”
She screamed as he closed his hands around her neck.
She was young, had her whole life in front of her. She wanted to finish her degree, get a job. Have a family.
“Please don’t,” she begged.
But a cold rage flashed in his eyes, and he threw her down and forced her lips apart, then jammed a thorny rose stem in her mouth.
“Shh, bite down now, sweetheart. We don’t want to disturb Mama.”
She gagged as thorns stabbed her tongue and blood filled her throat.
He carefully buttoned the wedding gown his mother had stitched for Constance, her beautiful scream still echoing in his ears.
He slipped the garter around her neck, then removed her locket.
It would look so pretty on Mama.
The photo she’d taken of him and Constance lay on the table waiting for the frame. Although it wouldn’t go in the frame.
He’d put it in his Bride’s Book, the scrapbook Mama had made for him to show off pictures of the ceremony. She’d glued lace to the front in the shape of a heart so he could place his wedding photo in the center.
Tears leaked from his eyes. “Mama, I’m sorry, she wasn’t right.”
“I’m sorry, too, son. Come here.” She motioned for him to sit with her, and he dropped to his knees and laid his head in her lap. She stroked his hair gently, her voice a soothing murmur.
“I have to take her to the falls,” he said, choking on the words. “But tell me the story about the little liars first.”
He’d been infatuated with the story ever since his mother had first told him she’d known the Thorn Ripper and the girls he’d lured to the falls.
Pretty girls who’d acted like Goody Two-shoes but were whores instead. They’d all expected to get the rose from their lover as an invitation to prom.
But none of them were worthy. That was the reason they had to die.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Carol Little hated this podunk town. Outside the Falls Inn, wind battered the window and icicles dangled like sharp knives along the awning.
She scrolled through all the articles on the area with a grimace.
The name Graveyard Falls gave her the heebie-jeebies and reminded her of growing up in New Orleans, where floods had once uprooted graves. Where gators swarmed the bayous, the sound of their gnashing teeth echoing in the eerie silence as they floated, hidden predators in the murky water.
She’d been in the city when Katrina hit and seen such horrors that she’d never be able to erase them from her mind.
Later, she’d had a bad breakup with her boyfriend,
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