GRAYSON
The buzz signals the cell door closing. I stand with my hands linked behind my back until the guards’ footsteps retreat down the hall. Moving toward my cot, I inhale deeply, taking in the lingering scent of lilac. The flowers dried up. Dead petals frame my puzzles.
I’m patient, but even I have my breaking point.
A year in prison was easier than the torturous seconds spent touching her.
It’s not time.
The lights dim, giving me my regulated privacy. I lift my tongue and dig out the object I lodged there in London’s therapy room. Only two inches in size, the metal catch of her belt buckle wasn’t easy to obtain, but it was an enjoyable challenge.
I smile as I wedge the silver prong beneath a flap of cardboard on my puzzle box. I’m running out of hiding places.
Soon.
I scrape aside puzzle pieces on the table and unfold the ancient article, smooth out the creases. I’ve read it many times already, but each time I do, I get another piece. Just like piecing together my puzzles, London has left little details, tiny clues, for me to uncover and fit together.
Hollows, Mississippi doesn’t exist. But Sullivan’s Hollow does, although it’s not printed on any proper map. I don’t blame her or any of the residents within Mize for wanting to forget the past. New names and new histories. That’s all that’s needed to create a different identity.
How much does she remember? I wonder if she’s completely rewritten it, her memories some distant nightmare she dreamed long ago.
Nine young women from the ages of sixteen to nineteen went missing over the course of twelve years. That might not seem like a lot, but to a small population like Mize, it’s a terrifying thing. Most were chalked up to runaways, the article claims. The teens known to be promiscuous. And in a small town, judgment outweighs truth. It’s easier to swallow. The article is full of suspicion and outdated thinking. They didn’t even have a detective on the case.
But there’s one significant piece that’s niggled me for months. Not what’s in the article, not what’s mentioned…but what’s omitted.
The date the disappearances suddenly stopped.
I tuck the article beneath my most recent puzzle. It’s only half completed, but it’s already revealing so much of the picture. I scrape a jagged piece off the table and twirl it around my fingers, envisioning the golden flecks in her eyes.
She’s been living two lives for far too long. My objective is to tease them apart. Like the puzzle I stare at now, the woman I need hides in the details. She’s buried beneath the lies.
Buried. I like that. And so I uncover the three-dimensional model on the table. I’ve been adding layers for months. It’s a poor substitution for my welding tools and model kits at the house, but I almost appreciate the challenge to create out of practically nothing. Layered paper and formed cardboard. A makeshift trap construction that has yet to be realized.
Like a child playing with a dollhouse, the 3D model allows me to feed my obsession. I tear a corner from one of my puzzle boxes and fold the cardboard into a rectangle. It’s not ideal, but the crude box will do. I slip the little box onto the model with a smile.
It’s only a matter of time until all the pieces align, and the picture is complete.
I recover the model and slide it under the table, then return to the jigsaw puzzle. A portrait of London I skillfully cut to seamlessly align on top of the puzzle. The piece finds its home, easily sliding into place to reveal those eyes that captivate me. I graze my knuckles over London’s features, aroused by the tantalizing feel of the beveled edges of the linked puzzle pieces.
She’s almost complete.
She’s almost mine.
The lights go out, leaving me in my dark void to dream of her until morning.
