Kiss Me Deadly: Tales of a Paranormal Romance

Not likely. But staring out the car window wasn’t much better. All I could see was the building—long, low, and squat with tall windows arranged in pairs. Better than correctional custody, but not by much.

The brick-backed sign to the right of the sidewalk read “Holser House,” but that was a lie. “This isn’t a house.”

“Sabine...”

“Houses have yards. This is a parking lot.”

May as well have a barbed wire fence or a metal detector at the door; the effect would have been the same. Everyone knew about Holser House, and the Holser girls. Whores, junkies, and thieves in training, biding their time till they turned eighteen and were officially booted from the Texas Youth Commission with a sealed record and a prayer.

“It’s only for six months.” Navarro insisted, and I rolled my eyes at his optimism. Six months was the minimum stay, the maximum to be determined by the director. “Better than the alternative, right? You can wear your own clothes and go to public school when the semester starts. And when you turn sixteen, they’ll let you get a job, if you’ve been playing nice.”

But I would only be there when I turned sixteen if I decided not to play nice. So much for optimism.

Finally, I turned to look at him, my fingers curling around the door handle. “Can I go in alone, or am I still under escort?”

He gave me a strict, parole officer frown. “There’s paper work...”

There was always paperwork. You know you don’t really exist when you’re known by a case number, instead of a name.

“Sabine, do not run away from Holser. This isn’t prison, but you’re still in state custody. Running away is considered escape, and you do not need an escape charge. Next time it’ll be Ron Jackson.”

The Ron Jackson State Juvenile Correctional Complex. Navarro says it makes the detention center look like kindergarten, and four days in juvenile detention was plenty of time for me to remember that I hated orange jumpsuits and institutional food.

“I didn’t run away.” I’d just missed curfew. By seven hours. Evidently a grievous violation of my parole, even without the additional status offense—underage drinking.

“David reported you missing.”

That’s because David was a dick. “Whatever.”

Navarro sighed. “Look, Sabine, I’m trying to help you. I had to call in a favor to get you placed here. They don’t usually take violent offenders.”

“I’m not violent.” But Navarro only frowned. We’d agreed to disagree on that one.

“If you don’t take this seriously, there’s nothing else I can do for you.”

He wanted to help me. He might even have believed me if I’d explained about missing curfew. That Jenny was out of town, and I didn’t want to be alone with David because he might decide to do more than look, and if that happened, I’d have to hurt him. Then I’d be in Ron Jackson for sure. With the actual violent offenders.

Because even if Navarro believed me, the rest of the system wouldn’t. They’d never take the word of the troubled teen parolee over the upstanding foster father.

“Promise me you’ll stay here. Just ride it out for a few months, then you can go home.”

Assuming the Harpers would take me back. Not that I cared about them, but a new foster home meant a new school, and then I couldn’t see Nash. But I refused to follow that line of thought.

“Promise me, Sabine.”

I looked up, meeting his dark-eyed gaze, studying him for the millionth time. “Why do you care? For real. You’ll still draw a paycheck even if I puke up my well-balanced, state-mandated group dinner.”

Navarro sighed again, and the weight of the world slipped a bit on his shoulders. “I don’t want to see you waste your life.”

It was a lie, yet very close to the truth. He wasn’t afraid I’d never reach my full potential, but that he would fail me. Or one of his other girls. That he would drop the ball, and one of us would wind up dead.

Oddly enough, his was a fear I’d never felt the need to exploit. At least, not while I was the one benefiting from his efforts.

“You ready?” Navarro asked.

I opened the door and stepped out of the car. Fort Worth was sweltering, even at ten a.m. on an early June morning. Navarro slammed his door and circled to the back of the car, where he popped the trunk and lifted out my two suitcases. I took one, then followed him inside.

Holser House felt sterile and blessedly cool after the blinding heat outside, and my sweat quickly gave way to chill bumps. When my eyes adjusted, a long white hallway came into focus, the tight throat of the beast that had swallowed me whole.

It would choke on me, sooner or later. Just like the holding houses, foster homes, and the detention center. I was indigestible by the Texas Youth Commission and social services. Eventually, they all realized something was off about me. Fortunately most humans lacked the ability to interpret that feeling of wrongness.

At the end of the hall, I saw a waiting room-style couch, and the corner of a chair. The room flashed with the bluish white glow of a TV screen. Though if anyone was actually watching it, I couldn’t tell.

“In here.” Navarro extended one arm toward a door on the left. He led the way without touching me, like all well-trained employees of the state. Care from a distance. From across that vast gulf where lawsuits breed.

The office was lit by fluorescents and the glow of a computer screen, while the window was tightly covered against the Texas heat. A large woman sat behind the desk, but she stood when we entered. The nameplate on her desk read, “Anna-Rosa Gomez, Director.”

“Cristofer, you’re early!”

Navarro smiled and shook her hand. “We could come back later, if you want...”

“Of course not. This must be Ms. Campbell?”

Good guess. Might have something to do with the edge of my file, which was sticking out from under the pile on her desk, where she’d probably slid it as we’d walked in the door.

Navarro nodded and gestured for me to shake the plump hand the director held out.

I studied Gomez first, taking in dark eyes, the firm line of her jaw, and the patient, steady hand waiting to grip mine. She looked decent enough. But you can never really know a person until you’ve seen what scares them.

I set my bag down and took her hand reluctantly, bracing myself for the sensory onslaught.

A white wall. A tall amorphous shadow. The darkness coalesces as I cower, lost in her terror. The silhouette becomes a man with a tightly clenched fist. The shadow arm rises, and I recoil. I know this horror. It has dozens of variations, and I’ve felt them all.

The fist swings, and I flinch. Shadows have no substance, yet the first blow breaks my rib. I scream, awash in pain. The second blow fractures my skull. The hits keep coming, bruising and breaking me, but there are no words. No explanation, because I don’t deserve one. He is mad, and I am there. That’s all the logic there is.

Then there is only darkness.

Time moved forward again, but I could only stare at the director with her hand clenched in mine, her fingers warm against my suddenly chilled skin. “Sabine, are you okay?” she asked, wariness peeking from beneath her mask of concern. I’d made her uncomfortable two minutes into our relationship. Might be a new record but probably not for long.

The things that make most people’s blood run cold make mine burn with anticipation. They light a fire deep in my soul, which can only be quenched by a deep drink of their fear, left vulnerable during the dream phase of sleep. But Gomez wouldn’t want to know that. She couldn’t understand it, even if I told her.

“Yeah. I’m good.” But she wasn’t. She was terrified he’d beat her to death next time, if he ever got paroled. She was right.