This is my time capsule, Casey thinks. Just like the one buried in Mundy’s Landing.
Just short of a century ago, during the sestercentennial celebration, even as a madman raged through the village leaving young women’s corpses in -people’s homes, the residents of Mundy’s Landing sealed a chest filled with artifacts and buried it in a vault beneath the marble floor of Village Hall. It’s designated to be unearthed on July sixteenth next year.
Reading about it last summer, Casey first grasped the importance of assembling a tangible record that will outlive these precious, fleeting moments—-something that announces, “This is what it was like in my own personal here and now. This is what happened.”
The scrapbook was a labor of love. But when Casey leafs through the pages, pleasant memories aren’t all that come rushing back.
Blood . . .
When Casey thinks back to that ghastly day, that’s one of the things that stands out more than anything else. There was so much blood. It was everywhere, glistening puddles and delicate smears of crimson: on the floor, on her white nightgown, in her hair . . .
Her blond hair was soaked with so much blood that it appeared red. The irony wasn’t lost on Casey.
All that blood, all that red . . .
She was more beautiful, somehow, in death than she ever was in life. Her face had finally released its perpetually constricted expression. It hadn’t even been noticeable until it was no longer there. Now, at last, she was at peace.
But I wasn’t. My ordeal was just beginning.
Casey closes the first scrapbook abruptly and pushes it aside, frustrated.
It didn’t have to happen that way. It’s all because of Rowan.
Damn her.
Damn her!
It had been obvious even years ago that Rowan was to blame for everything that had gone wrong. Faced with the undeniable truth on that bloody Sunday, Casey felt something snap inside.
She has to pay.
That was how—-that was when—-the quest for vengeance had begun: unexpectedly and yet not, on that dreadful morning just over a year ago when Vanessa De Forrest died a horrible, lonely death. For Casey, restraint gave way at last, and wrath spewed like a swarm of lethal hornets.
That was the beginning and I’ll decide when and where it will end.
Only the how has been predetermined: Rowan will die a tortured, bloody death.
What about the kid?
The question of Mick has weighed heavily ever since Casey connected with him at Marrana’s Trattoria last Monday night.
If Mick were to die, there would be no frightened feminine whimpers, no long, lovely hair to caress, no sweet--scented skin to nuzzle or scattering of freckles on feminine curves, or hidden tattoos in provocative places . . .
Casey thinks of the girl last night, Rapunzel—-also known as Julia Sexton, according to her identification.
Casey had cleverly stolen her wallet, just like all the others. Their deaths appear to be the result of a mugging, making it harder for the cops to identify their bodies. It’s such fun to create little stumbling blocks like that for the so--called authorities; such a pleasure to watch the police and media and family members try to make sense of a seemingly random homicide.
Until now, Casey has had to follow those proceedings from afar.
This front row seat promises to be much more satisfying, although there are certain risks involved with a victim found closer to home. For that reason, Julia Sexton must be the last of them.
Except, of course, for Rowan.
Setting the scrapbook aside, Casey paces over to the window. The church steeple rises against a steel gray sky, its bell tower having fallen silent.